Page 15 of De-Witched

Still, he refrained from speaking beyond what was absolutely necessary the next couple of times he’d served. Cocktails were easy enough to follow since they were essentially potions, but the measurements were strange and he had to remake some. Or all.

Tia finally kicked him out at the end of his four-hour shift and he’d never left a building faster without portalling out. He breathed in the crisp air, so different to New Orleans’ sultry scent, with a measure of relief. That lasted about a minute as he turned his attention to his next task: grocery shopping.

With Mrs. Q in charge of the domestic tasks at home, he’d never done such a thing and found it strange to be surrounded by humans. Stranger still when a woman with a ponytail and jeans with a hole in the knee threatened him as he reached for the last baguette. Not that he’d been intimidated by her or by the purse she’d wielded like a nunchuck, but he’d surrendered the bread without argument.

But it wasn’t just that one woman; the entire atmosphere was discomforting. The knowledge that he wasn’t supposed to be there, that he didn’t belong, had him hustling through the list Mrs. Q had given him. He was congratulating himself on a job well done when one of the paper bags split just outside the store.

Since he was in public and couldn’t use his magic, there was no saving the eggs as they hit the ground like mini grenades, bursting on impact. All over his Ferragamo loafers.

A couple of teenagers loitering nearby on their bikes burst out laughing. Heat crawled up his neck as he tried to scoop the fallen tins and boxes into his remaining bag. And then that split.

He’d finally conjured a folding tote bag inside his pocket. Even that small fetch, something so habitual and easy, piled pressure on the base of his spine. Reminding him that this was his life for the next three months.

One day down, he told himself that night as he lay in his queen-size bed in his empty apartment. His belly grumbled—he’d burned the eggs he’d attempted to fry before settling for a ham sandwich, which, he admitted glumly, would have been better on baguette. He’d work on his cooking tomorrow. After all, tomorrow he’d only have two months, three weeks and six days to go.

Since nobody was around to see, he gave in and pulled the covers over his head.

Leah made it two days. Barely.

She timed it so that Emma would be in the back baking. She’d dressed casually, in worn, comfortable jeans and a sweater close to Gabriel’s eye color. Since it was March in Chicago, her trusty peacoat went over the top, along with a thick scarf. She made sure to tuck her curls beneath her Cubs cap. Left to the wind, she’d look like one of those Raggedy Ann dolls, and that wasn’t the first impression—well, first daylight impression, anyway—she wanted to make on her warlock.

Nerves jangled as she paused inside the double doors and surveyed the early afternoon crowd. There was barely anyone in, a few friend groups meeting for coffee, Emma’s freshly made croissants, and conversation. They didn’t do much of an afternoon trade, an area they wanted to work on at some point, but enough to get by.

Gabriel was at the bar.

Hanging back, she drank him in like a parched woman in the dead of summer.

God, he looked good. A little fancy in his three-piece gray suit and white shirt—or would it be two-piece, since he’d shed the jacket and rolled the shirtsleeves up his forearms?

Her eyes lingered there. She’d always been a sucker for a good pair of arms.

Without his mask, he was beautiful, almost too much so. If the devil could take form and tempt her to one night of sin, he would come dressed as Gabriel Goodnight.

The black waves of his hair were styled tidily, the sharp bones of his face contrasting with his soft lips, the faint shadow on his strong jaw. He still wore his tie, tucked into the shirt, under the silk vest. A fantasy made flesh.

His gaze connected with hers.

The impact was like a bolt of lightning, leaving her jittery. She watched for any recognition as she approached, but considering she’d been wearing a mask and had been glamoured when they’d last met, she knew it wasn’t realistic.

Green eyes examined her as she came forward. That intense regard—no human man had ever looked at her that way. Her pulse fluttered as she drummed up a smile. “Hi.”

She couldn’t say his expression was welcoming, but he hadn’t been all smiles before either. He’d been... Her gaze dropped to his lips, remembered them barely brushing her own.

“What can I get you?”

She bumped up her smile, wide and warm. “I’m Leah.”

He stared at her without reaction.

“Leah. Turner.” She gestured around them. “I own part of this place. I guess...” A small awkward laugh left her. “I’m kind of your boss?”

His gaze—God, so green, so breathtaking—flickered. “I don’t think so.”

What did you say to that?

She shifted her weight. “Well, it’s true. Me and Emma and Tia, we all own a third. I just...wanted to come in, say welcome, make sure you’re settling in okay.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

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