Page 67 of Sirens
“But what about my drin— Oof! Hey!”
Maggie watched as Kurt’s annoyingly pristine, sockless loafers—which, ew—executed an impressively graceful spin of the kind used to recalibrate body weight after it’d been abruptly and/or violently shoved off its axis.
“I think that table over there needed some waterreally bad,” she heard Darby say, followed by an overly bright “Trent! Hey!”
The golf ball that had lodged itself in Maggie’s throat morphed into a hedgehog.
Made of lava.
“Darby.”
Maggie wasn’t sure what annoyed her more. That the deep, throaty rumble of McGarvey’s voice had the power to make her panties wet even when she was actively hiding from him, or that her gnome-like waddle had wedged said—now-damp—panties firmly against Maggie’s crotch in a way that made her equal parts irritated and aroused.
“I thought you were on duty this afternoon. You playing hooky?” Darby asked in a teasing purr meant to pre-offer collusion. Beneath the slice of door, the slim stems of her vintage, red stiletto peep-toe pumps lifted and pivoted toward the bar.
Darby had turned to face him, offering Maggie cover. Despite the strangeness of her circumstances, she felt a rush of gratitude. That was ride or die shit right there.
Hopefully the former, but?—
“Where is she?” McGarvey’s nearly growled question made gooseflesh rise on Maggie’s forearms, rippling outward like the tide.
“Chris?” Darby asked. “She actually stepped out to go get more Swiss chard from the co-op because they’re already almost sold out of the faux-fish tacos, if you can believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“I know, right?” Darby’s infectious laugh tolled out over the convivial din like a bell. “Why in God’s name would you sell out of bitter leaves pretending to be chicken when battered fries exist? Speaking of, what are you doing for dinner? Ethan’s just got a new smoker, and if I don’t bring home something that used to ambulate, I’m liable to find him looking for the smoke ring on my last pack of part-skim mozzarella sticks. Come to think of it, that doesn’t sound half bad. Five o’clock sound okay to you? I’ll be damned. It’s four forty-five right now. Can we take your car? I biked here and Ethan’s likely to choke me if he has to replace the heels on these vintage Louboutinsagain.”
“Darby.” McGarvey’s voice was low and tense, cutting through her avalanche of words like a hot knife through butter. “I’ll ask again. Where is Maggie?”
Maggie’s heart pounded at the mention of her name, a wild rhythm against the silence that followed. She pressed a hand over her chest, willing it to quiet down.
Darby let out an exaggerated sigh. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”
“Unfortunately,” McGarvey said. “And you know damn well I’m not asking about Chris.”
“Well, you are dead wrong there.” Darby giggled. “I haven’t the faintest idea who else you might have business with in this fine establishment.”
“Margaret fucking Michaels-Wiggins.” Each word was accompanied with a flat slap of a palm on the bar that made Maggie tingle in places that made no damn sense for someone crouched under a counter like a troll beneath a bridge.
And a troll who’d apparently earned back her married name.
“Haven’t seen her.” Maggie heard the shrug in Darby’s voice and found herself holding her breath as she examined the odd patterns in the wood grain.
“I know she’s here,” McGarvey rumbled.
“How’s that?” Darby said breezily.
“I can smell her.”
A jolt of electricity shot straight from Maggie’s toes to the crown of her head.
She quickly lowered her chin to sniff the armpit of her work shirt, but only smelled the earthy fug of the fried food that always clung to her hair and clothes after a shift. Underneath, she detected the faint trace of her own musk, a mix of vanilla-scented body lotion and sweat. Had he really picked up on that?
No sooner had she asked herself the question when it was answered by a deluge of sensory memory. His soft lips and rough stubble against her skin as he dragged his face along her every curve and hollow, breathing her in. His hot breath mingling with hers as he’d whispered filthy words to her in the dark…
“Um, okay, creeper,” Darby drawled, the smokiness in her voice suggesting she’d taken a sip of her bourbon. “But I wouldn’t go around announcing that to people. It’s a little off-putting, if you catch my drift.”
“On the topic of animals with heightened senses,” McGarvey said, his voice dropping low as Maggie watched the soles of his court shoes inch closer to Darby’s heels. “I know she’s here, and you can either tell mewhere, orIcan tell Ethan about the deposit a certain fuchsia-haired coffee proprietress put down on a certain pair of Irish wolfhound pups being fostered by a certain sheriff despite also being in possession of the knowledge that a certain brewery owner has expressly forbidden even the consideration of adoption of any canine companions before he’s had chance to finish the dog run on a certain house.”
