Page 53 of De-Witched

He lifted his eyebrows. Patient as ever. Like a cat with a mouse.

Careful. “I can’t remember.”

Liar, his eyes seemed to mock.

She bit down on a shiver, swinging to his housekeeper like a life raft. “So. Tell me all about the early Goodnight years.”

Gabriel’s sigh punctuated Mrs. Q’s wink.

They had the most amazing pork chops Leah had ever tasted. Bursting with questions about whether Mrs. Q used witchery in her cooking, Leah added them to her ever-evolving list to ask Emma and Tia. Maybe this time they’d open up and answer.

Mrs. Q was a font of information otherwise, keeping them entertained with stories from Gabriel’s childhood in England. He’d apparently gotten into one scrape after another, right up until a definite point neither overtly mentioned, but which Leah knew had to be when his parents had died. Before and after. There’d been a line drawn.

She couldn’t help but feel for him, for the boy of eighteen who’d suddenly lost everything, including his childhood. How had they died? She had a feeling that detail was significant, but it wasn’t like she could blurt out the question. She’d prodded that sore area without thinking too many times.

Part of her also noted that while Mrs. Q featured in the stories, his parents always seemed to have been away on some trip. Great humanitarians etc., but hadn’t they spent any time with their son? Maybe that was selective storytelling—and it was none of her business. But still...

Anyway, she was happy to keep the conversation light, enjoying the dynamic between housekeeper and employee, which ran more like aunt to nephew. It was a new side to Gabriel, one that unfortunately was devastatingly attractive to her.

When the housekeeper “left for her flight,” she pulled Leah into a hug. “You don’t be a stranger,” she announced, squeezing the breath out of Leah’s body. “Gabriel, when you’re next in New Orleans, you bring this one and I’ll give her a cooking lesson in our kitchen.”

Leah glowed under the unsaid compliment, the inclusion in that invitation. At least until Gabriel flatly stated, “She won’t be coming to New Orleans. We’re only working together.”

Well. The happy drained from Leah as effectively as if he’d stabbed her with a needle. So much for friendly acquaintances.

She kept up the front until Mrs. Q left. The minute the door closed behind the older woman, though, Gabriel pounced. “You’re annoyed. With me.”

She tried to play it off. “I’m always annoyed with you, Gabe.”

A muscle moved in his jaw as he stopped in front of her. “I told you, I’m not good at this. People. If you don’t tell me what I did, I can’t be sure I won’t do it again.”

“Why would that bother you?”

“We’re...friends.” The way he struggled with the word both amused and frustrated her.

Okay. Fine. She busied herself by getting her wine from the counter, nudging Rosie away from the plates. “You didn’t say that to Mrs. Q.”

Inside, the old insecurities shivered to life. Not good enough to be invited in.

It was childish to still feel like this, she knew, especially as she also knew the line she walked was a dangerous one. Witch and human, never the twain shall meet. She shouldn’t feel pushed out because he’d reinforced that. But she did.

“It’s not you.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smooth a hand down the center of his chest, where his tie usually was. “Mrs. Q is a matchmaker. If I’d claimed a friendship with you, she’d have been searching for a wedding gift before the end of the week.”

Leah shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t have many...friends.” His accent hit the last word hard, locks of black hair slipping across his forehead as he shook it in annoyance. “She’d have taken that as a sign.”

The silence was short but tense, all but pounding in her ears. “Which it’s not,” she confirmed. His gaze returned to weigh heavy on her face.

Rosie bounced in, spinning in a circle and plopping her butt on the floor at Gabriel’s feet. Despite his apparent disinterest, her dogs seemed to have fallen under his spell in a finger snap. A recurring theme.

She gave in. “I’ve got some chews in my purse. Let me get them and we can get down to business.”

13

Part of Leah had questioned how much the entitled warlock could know about organizing a charity dinner, but as an hour spun away under the finer details of planning, she had to readjust her expectations.

She should’ve known better; Gabriel was all about organization. He insisted they make a plan, a list of things they had to do now—approaching sponsors, vendors, venues—before moving on to how much money she wanted to raise and when by. She could see him as CEO of his company now, at the helm, moving the chess pieces as he willed.

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