Page 20 of De-Witched

And the tray shot out of his hands.

Whether by luck or by magic, the glasses themselves tumbled to the floor, missing the nearest table, a group of chattering women, by inches. The drinks, however, hit the targets dead-on.

Leah winced as they screeched. Chairs scraped back as outrage boiled the air, voices clamoring as everyone zoned in on the culprit. Ruddy color stained Gabriel’s cheeks.

And she knew what she had to do. To make it right.

Leah smoothly dropped her tray behind her and inserted herself in between. “I am so sorry, ladies. My fault entirely. I walked straight into him.” She saw his gaze slide to her, a blink the only indicator of surprise. “Please accept my sincerest apologies,” she said, laying it on thick. “All your drinks are on the house, of course, and another round can be on its way.”

“This is Dolce,” one of the women hissed, pinching the top in question. “Do you know how much it costs?”

Considering she’d been raised in the cradle of wealth before choosing to strike out on her own, Leah could guess down to the cent. But she bowed her head. “I’d be happy to pay for dry cleaning.”

“Forget it.” The woman grabbed her purse, the rest of them following suit. She brushed her hair out of her face, embarrassment flagged in her cheeks. “Bad service and now this. We won’t come here again. Absolute incompetence.” As she shoved her chair out of her way, she pierced Leah with a snooty look she’d seen dozens of times before. It was designed to put Leah in her place, remind her that she was at the bottom of the social ladder.

If there weren’t people watching, Leah might have responded, but the customer was always right, so all she did was keep up the apologetic expression as the four of them sailed out.

There was a beat. Then, “How ’bout you come spill something on me, Leah?” Tommy, a regular, called out. “I could use a free drink.”

Laughter rippled around and Leah sent him a grin before turning to Gabriel.

He was staring at her, eyebrows tugged low. His suit was splattered with pink, remnants of a Cauldron Cosmo if she had to guess.

She nodded toward it. “You should take your shirt off.”

Something flared in his eyes. It was gone before she could question it, leaving her throat dry.

Because of that, her voice was a touch hoarse as she clarified, “The stain. We could run it under water before it sets.” When he still didn’t speak, she avoided that piercing gaze by bending to pick up the broken shards from the dropped glasses. “I have something you could wear. It might be a bit tight, but—” She froze as his hand suddenly touched hers. He removed it instantly but not before the brush of skin to skin had sunk into her bones.

He’d crouched next to her, reeking of alcohol. His hand, the hand that had touched her, fisted in his lap. His eyes bored into her. “Why?”

She didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

“Because,” she said, feeling unsteady, “everyone deserves to have someone in their corner.” And I’m sorry, she wanted to add, but if she did, he’d think she’d done it out of pity. And while she wanted to make up for the line she’d crossed, she didn’t pity him. He just seemed so remote, so alone. She knew how that felt.

“I didn’t need you to intervene.” Although blunt, the words lacked his usual combative air.

She only nodded and continued stacking shards on her tray, saying nothing when he joined her. In fact, neither of them said anything until after shift in the office, where she brought out the oversized hoodie she’d left at the bar a couple of days ago.

Surveying the Cubs sweatshirt, he grimaced. “No.”

Leah chose not to be offended by his dismissal of her beloved team. “You don’t have any other choices.” Unless he wanted to conjure something, but she knew he couldn’t explain that away to a human.

She swore she’d aged ten years by the time his pride finally bent to unbuttoning his shirt. Right there, in front of her. Muscled golden skin revealed inch by slow inch. He’d had to pause, look at her before she came to her senses and rushed out, cheeks burning. The sudden spike of desire unnerved her.

But when he appeared in the sweatshirt, logo straining against his chest, and one hundred percent sulking, she flashed him her first smile since their argument.

“You’re welcome.”

6

Leah patted the couch cushion next to her, gently pushing Delilah, her bossy Dachshund, back so lazy Louie could jump up with them. Blinking his one eye, Louie ignored Delilah’s snort as he curled up on Leah’s bare toes, his squat body barely any weight at all. For a cavalier, he was incredibly laid-back and eventually Delilah gave in and snuggled next to him.

Rosie, Leah’s eight-year-old sprocker spaniel, watched them from her dog bed by the TV cabinet, tail thumping softly as she saw Leah looking. The cats were off somewhere else in the house, likely sunbathing (Sylvie) or poking into dark corners (Ralph).

Leah smiled and said into her cell, “No, Mom, I’m listening. I’m glad you love Tuscany.”

“Oh, it’s so romantic, Leah,” Joyce Miller née Turner babbled on the other end. “George and I took a stroll through the city at twilight and it was like being in a movie. He even pulled me into a dance on our balcony.”

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