Page 49 of De-Witched

“I’ll help.” The words were so out of character that both she and he blinked in unison.

“You want to help me organize a charity gala?” Disbelief soaked through the words. “Why?”

He masked his uneasiness. “Goodnights happen to be excellent at organizing functions.”

“Naturally.” A smile played over her lips as she switched brush for sponge, only to fiddle with it. “You’d really help?”

He could assess, implement, better. That was what he did, what he’d done for years as he’d worked his way up through the departments at Goodnight’s Remedies. If he were to apply logic to this, it made sense to demonstrate to the board how he’d gone above and beyond while he was here. It really benefited him in the end.

“I’ll have to.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact, someone superior granting a favor. “You clearly don’t know what you’re doing.”

Her eyes narrowed. That was the only warning he got before the sponge she’d been toying with smacked him in the stomach. Water soaked through his waistcoat, then his shirt, as the weapon plopped to the ground.

His mouth parted in disbelief.

Teeth flashed, unrepentant. “Whoops.”

She retrieved her brush, spun to the wall.

He didn’t plan it. He didn’t think. He simply levitated the sponge, dunked it and lobbed it at her back. Only she unexpectedly turned at the last minute. The wet sponge slopped against her chest, her squeal instant and shocked.

He absorbed the feedback as he watched the wet material cling to her skin. A hint of bra showed through the white tee. Black again. His head went fuzzy. Her breasts weren’t big but they’d fit his hands.

“You—I—what the...” she spluttered.

“Your sponge,” he said through the gravel in his throat. “You’re welcome.”

12

It wasn’t easy corralling three dogs, two of which hated leashes with a passion, but Leah was a veteran. Rosie and Delilah stared at her as they waited outside Gabriel’s apartment, Rosie’s eyes soft pools of distressed brown, and Delilah’s expressing a cold seething lick of betrayal. Louie merely sat at her feet, easygoing as always and pleased to be somewhere new.

They were all here and ready to plan a gala.

She and Gabriel had decided it was best kept a secret for now. Better to present the idea fully formed to Sonny, less likely then he’d protest it was too much trouble or too big a risk.

As if she didn’t have a stake in the place, too. When she’d been young and burned out from caring for her mom, the animals had saved her. When she’d needed to feel accepted, like she was a part of something, it had been there. It was her place in a way nowhere else was, even the bar. She wasn’t about to lose it without a fight.

She was lying low with her friends, as well. Not not telling them but steering clear. If they knew she was spending time with Gabriel outside of her regular shelter shifts, they’d play cockblockers.

Figure of speech, of course. She and Gabriel were only “friendly acquaintances.”

Why was she smiling? He wasn’t charming.

Case in point, when she’d suggested her place to start planning, Gabriel had overridden her, stating it’d be too small and his apartment much more suitable. This guy...

Still, she’d got the last laugh when she’d opted not to clarify her “place” was a house and instead insisted on bringing her dogs along. All of them.

The door opened on that note and the warlock himself made an appearance. And not in a suit.

She gaped. “You’re in jeans.”

Sardonic, he focused on her dogs. “Three.”

“Very good. You get a gold star.”

“You didn’t say there were three.”

“Didn’t I?”

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