Page 39 of The Royal Street Witch
And now I have no idea where my phone is or what time it is, so I whisper “Sight,” and the room lightens in my vision.
There he is.
Lying on his side, hand under his cheek. Eyes closed so peacefully. I’m tempted to run a finger along his hand, but I bite my lip instead.
“Phone,” I beckon, and from the corner of the room my phone rises and floats to me.
It’s 9:52 in the morning and my shop is supposed to open in eight minutes. This is not who I am. I am organized and I’m never late. I’m letting things fall between the cracks and I need to get my shit together. I consider asking Chantal to open for me, but there would be a text requiring an explanation.Girl, what are you up to?She would text with a crooked eyebrow. No, I will just have to open a little late.
I sit up, but his hand grabs my waist and squeezes.
“Not yet,” he whispers, his chest bare and smooth, his eyes heavy with fatigue.
“I have to open the shop.”
His other arm reaches across to grab me, so I retreat and fall back as he pulls my back to his chest. “Chantal will be there in an hour.”
“Just a little while longer.” And his leg swings across my body, locking me in his embrace, and it feels too good. To be so wanted, so desired. I close my eyes and swallow and let myself feel the moment.
“Call in sick. You can take a bath while I sleep, order food, relax. Have you seen my bathtub?”
“You’re a snob,” I say and entwine my fingers through his, chuckling, because who do you call in sick to if you own the place?
“It’s a great tub.” He shrugs, but his eyes are closed again and now I see why vampires are so vulnerable when they sleep. It’s like he’s drugged as he fights to stay awake, but his body goes limp and I slide out from under him.
I could lie in his arms all day while he sleeps, but there are a thousand reasons why that’s a bad idea, so I grab my clothes and walk to the bathroom.
He’s right. It’s a great tub.
White, all white everywhere—which is odd for a vampire—with a separate standing shower that’s big enough for five people. There’s a round chandelier with dangling crystals and lights so bright my eyes have to squint, but I realize I need to adjust my sight. “Off,” I whisper.
I dress quickly, the offer to stay and soak in the tub enticing, but I need to get to work before Chantal shows up. I splash water on my face, pull my hair into a bun, and hope my breath doesn’t smell too terrible.
He doesn’t hear me walk in the room; my phone’s flashlight shines on his face and I decide that he is careless, no matter how he wants to twist it. Leaving a witch in his room while he sleeps is careless and there’s no way around that. Another mark against this indiscretion, and I say his name more forcefully than I meant to.
Red eyed, his head pops up and he frowns when he sees me dressed. “If you must go,” he says sitting up, resting his elbow on his bent knee.
“The owner can’t call in sick,” I say and plop on the bed next to him, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss because I am just the most inconsistent person. Annoyed one minute, smitten the next. “I am a very important businesswoman,” I whisper into his mouth.
“Indeed,” he says and kisses me harder. “Can I get you an Uber?”
“No, I like the streetcar. Don’t walk me out,” I say and rise. But he gets up and grabs a remote by his bed.
“I’ll call you later.” And with a press of a button, the top of his bed slides to the side, revealing another bed underneath—a vampire’s bed. A modern day coffin.
“Oh, I see. The bed I slept in is just for when you have guests.”
He sneers with a shake of his head. “The living tend to find this a little…claustrophobic. It’s also a fireproof, weatherproof hiding space. Want to try it out?” He hops down on the second bed and pats the mattress.
“Sleep tight,” I say pulling my purse across my chest.
And he starts singingSomebody To Loveas I walk out the door.
“NO PICTURES ALLOWED!” Cherry screams at a couple snapping selfies inside of a cage. Their faces stretch from the embarrassment of being caught and probably from the shock of Cherry’s booming voice coming out of her tiny body. The inside of Caged is known for its “no pictures” policy, and Cherry is a loyal enforcer. She’s a live version of Tinkerbell, with her pixie cut and mouth of a sailor. It seems impossible, the volumes that tiny body can reach.
“Fucking tourists,” she sighs then bites her nail while she waits for my order. I’m distracted because a text came from Bastian asking where I am.
“Ah, a Chastity Belt,” I say, and she turns to the slushie cocktail machine and dispenses my drink.
