Page 18 of De-Witched

His gaze swung up at the drunken voice. Leah had been caught, clutched by a customer he’d served three neat whiskeys to over the past hour.

Gabriel narrowed in on where the stranger grabbed her. Can’t use magic, his practical side warned as his fingers curled to telekinetically shove the man away. Can’t risk exposure.

But as he should’ve expected, Leah didn’t need rescuing.

“Sir, you need to let go.” Although an easy smile accompanied the friendly warning, Gabriel noted she’d closed her hand into a fist.

“But I wanna talk to you,” the guy slurred, his free hand waving a near-empty glass. “C’mere.”

“And wouldn’t that be fun?” She nodded in Gabriel’s direction, still with that smile. “But you see that brooding tall drink of water at the bar? He’s going to scare all the customers away if I don’t help him.”

When red eyes swung his way, Gabriel stared back without expression.

Leah patted the man’s shoulder, easing her elbow out of his hand. “How about we get you some coffee on the house?”

She got him settled, then walked to the bar and around.

Gabriel argued with himself for several long beats before giving in. “Would you have punched him?”

She didn’t look up from where she was fixing a strong coffee. “Him? No. Can’t own a bar without dealing with frisky drunks.” She let the machine do its thing, glancing over her shoulder at him. Her smile was sweet. “Or other annoyances.”

His jaw set.

“Now, out of the bar,” she mused as the coffee continued to drip. “That’s different. I can throw a punch if I need to.”

Don’t ask, he told himself. “Have you?”

“Punched someone?” The considering expression slid into a wicked smile, an edge to it. “Oh, yeah. And it hurts like a bitch. Another reason for diplomacy. Having said that,” she added, taking the mug when the machine beeped, “I’d do it again if the situation called for it.”

He arched an eyebrow.

She smirked. “Don’t worry your pretty head, Gabe. I won’t hurt you.”

His spine snapped straight. “It’s Gabriel.”

“Uh-huh.” That smirk only grew, lifting his irritation with it. Her sweater slid off one shoulder as she folded her arms. “Luckily,” she continued, “I’m pretty good at talking people into or out of things. And it’d be rude to be punching people all the time.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” he murmured.

“Manners matter,” she quipped, heading past him with the coffee. Her elbow grazed his hip but he barely felt it as the words sunk in.

Manners matter.

The memory fluttered, a butterfly caught in webbing. He watched her lips curve as she handed over the drink.

The balcony. The witch who’d punched that pathetic excuse for a Higher son, Laurence Brochard. She’d said it, too.

It was probably a human saying, one of many he’d not heard before. Other witches that spent time with humans used them all the time.

Still, he sent a wary look at Leah, the profile of her lips and chin recalling another’s, cast in moonlight. Something twisted before he shoved it away. Ridiculous. Ignoring the prickling sensation prowling down his neck, he concentrated on the female customer smiling at him.

It was incredible, but Gabriel was getting worse with every shift.

Leah winced as he served Scotch to a customer who’d ordered vodka on the rocks, giving them an impassive stare at the subsequent complaint. As if he expected them to simply accept the mistake because of who he was.

Newsflash, she felt like saying at least once every hour. Nobody cared he was a Goodnight, a Higher warlock, or about the fussy designer suits that he clung to. They cared about getting their money’s worth.

As the man bristled on the other end of that look, his gestures agitated, she hefted the tray of empties she’d collected with a small sigh and went to play peacemaker for the third time that evening. Her feet ached in her ankle boots and she cursed the decision to wear a heel just so she didn’t feel tiny standing next to Gabriel. If she’d known she’d have to run after him putting out fires, she’d have stuck to flats.

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