Page 113 of De-Witched

“It’s nothing. Okay, it’s not nothing,” she expanded after an impatient huff from him. “It should be nothing. It’s not health, it’s not death.” She sank her teeth into her lip, tried to stop another tear from falling. “It’s Sonny.”

Gabriel studied her. When he let go, it was to gently wipe away the next tear. “He’s selling.”

“He got an offer.” Leah impatiently scrubbed at her eyes. “God. I hate crying. It’s pointless.” She breathed out, blinked to quell the next wave.

“Is he going to take it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. And the idea of this place not being his anymore, not being mine in the same way...” She fisted a hand at her heart. “And how selfish is that? He’s getting old, is old. I never see him play with the dogs or cats anymore. He’s stressed, overworked, underpaid, and I’m sad that he’s found a solution?” She snorted. “I’m a terrible person. A terrible, selfish, stupid—”

Gabriel kissed her. Soft, sweet.

Her hands were pressed against his chest, his on her upper arms when he stopped. “You’re not a terrible person.”

“You’re biased,” she murmured.

“Goodnights are nothing if not truthful.” He’d adopted that stuffy tone. She had no idea why it struck her as adorable. Maybe because he was trying to hide the fact that he cared. After all, this, them, was one level, one note and then the song would end. It made her feel like crying all the more.

“If I had the money,” she said, “if I hadn’t invested in my property, the bar...”

Wanting to block it out, she pressed her face into his chest. When he patted her head uncomfortably, she couldn’t stop the faint smile. It didn’t last long, couldn’t when her emotions were fighting for supremacy. They churned and crashed and bruised her insides. To be held like this, to be in his arms where she felt safe, like she could manage anything as long as he was beside her. Her hidden heart screamed into the abyss, desperate to keep it. But she couldn’t and she knew that. She had to stand alone.

“It will be fine.” Gabriel’s voice was uncompromising, as firm as his hand was gentle. “You will be fine. Turners are resilient.”

The truth in his words and her own steadied her just enough. His chest muffled her response. “Damn straight.”

“That’s better.” Still with his hand against her head, he continued, “Tonight.”

She concentrated on breathing, on repairing her cracks. “What’s tonight?”

“Wait and see.”

25

Leah’s gaze wandered across Gabriel’s breakfast bar. An array of ingredients, some she recognized, some she didn’t, in glass jars, pots, paper packages, lay strewn across the counter. She fought not to let her disappointment show. “We’re cooking?”

Across the room, Louie sniffed the new amethyst throw blanket she’d bought to bring some color to Gabriel’s apartment before turning around three and a half times and plopping onto it. Rosie was glued to Gabriel’s leg as he attempted to work the Alexa he bought.

Leah hid a smile. “You need some help?”

“No.” He fiddled with it and then a blue light lit up the device. He sent her a smug look. “Alexa, play music.”

“She’ll need more direction than that.”

“Alexa, play jazz music.”

“You like jazz?”

“I live in New Orleans. You develop an appreciation.”

“But it doesn’t have rules or structure.” Leah pressed a hand to her cheek in mock horror. “They just follow their hearts and instincts.”

He ignored her, stroking a hand down Rosie, then Delilah as she bustled over like a mini dictator, pushing in. When he rose, the sultry sounds of sax mixed with the upbeat percussion.

He’d dressed down, as he often did now, in jeans and a soft shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. A tickle in her belly warmed her as she leaned her hip against the breakfast bar, watching him walk toward her.

“What?” he asked, catching her drooling stare.

“You’re cute.”

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