Page 3 of Boss Witch

Clem swiveled on her stool as Farmer’s Tan mumbled something and darted away like his plaid shirt was on fire. “My hero?” She let her voice drift upward on the last word, making it a question instead of a statement.

“Sorry if I overstepped. He looked to be the handsy sort, and it’s not my nature to overlook a wrong being done.”

“Yeah, that’s hero territory.” With a little sigh, she tucked her phone into her bag. “Looks like I’ve been stood up, but I want to buy you a drink in thanks before I head out.”

“Are you in a hurry?” he asked.

He didn’t take a seat without asking, but he did prop up against the bar like a living pylon dedicated to scaring away weirdos. Clem shook her head, swirling the melting ice in her old-­fashioned, and tilted her head at the seat nearby. “You’re welcome to join me. I need to drink this slowly.” She gestured at the beer he’d abandoned. “Want another one of those?”

“Please, no.” His smile shouldn’t be this charming.

If she didn’t know who and what he was, she might be taken in by the easy humor that didn’t touch his eyes. No, he was still on guard, still skimming the room for goddess knew what, without realizing he was already chatting up the only witch in the place.

Clem firmed her resolve and let out a quiet laugh. “Then what’ll it be?”

“I should take it easy as well, or I’ll be in no state to ride.”

“Was one of the motorcycles I saw outside yours?” she asked, signaling the bartender. “Can I get a sparkling water, please?”

“Right away.”

She turned to the witch hunter with a teasing smile. “Gin and tonic, hold the gin. Will that work? If you hang out a little longer, it should discourage the rest of the populace from messing with me. Tonight, I’m really not in the mood.”

“Something bad happen?”

Clem lowered her gaze so her lashes would hide the triumph that must be sparking in her brown eyes. “You could say that.”

You happened. Now I’m on damage abatement.

“Want to talk about it? Sometimes it’s easier to unload your problems on a stranger.” His voice truly did shocking, possibly unlawful things to her insides.

“You’re moving too fast,” she joked. “Maybe tell me your name first.”

“Gavin.”

“Clementine.” She lifted her glass in a mock toast.

“As in ‘oh, my darling’? Should I sing it?” Teasingly, he hummed a few bars.

“Only if you want a punch in the mouth.”

***

Gavin Rhys thought the woman beside him might not be joking.

“Feisty” was the word some would apply to her, but he loathed that description, best saved for small dogs. He probably shouldn’t have gotten involved, but it seemed obvious that with her date doing a runner, he’d be watching a slow progression of prats pestering her for the remainder of her sojourn. She might think he was an arse as well, but he wouldn’t prevent her from drinking in peace, at least, or put his hands where they weren’t wanted.

He shook his head lazily, sipping the tonic water she’d kindly procured. “Let’s save that for our second date, shall we?”

“Is this supposed to be our first?” she asked.

“I do believe in capitalizing on opportunities as they arise. Why, do you want to see me again?” Flirting was simple, barely distracted him from focusing on the magical eddies.

There was…something in the room, but he couldn’t get a read on it. The whole town registered this way, as if there were lots of witches working low-­key magic behind imperfect warding spells. That trickle of energy—­interspersed with incredible magical spikes—­had drawn him to St. Claire in the first place. He’d just finished a job down in the Florida panhandle, and he was fucking tired.

So far, he’d been unable to tell his father the truth:I hate our legacy and want nothing to do with it. I’d rather go back to teaching.

“Maybe,” she said, surprising him. “I’m a sucker for a good hero complex, and I can’t resist a British accent.”

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