Page 18 of Obsession

“You seriously need to work on your people skills.” Chris gives me an intimidating look and I try my best not to be intimidated. Dang, it’s hard. “So, does this conclude your business in Memphis?” I ask.

“You’d better hope not,” he scoffs. "Somebody needs to be here to save your ass.”

“For your information, it was Charlotte who technically saved my ass.” My friend lured Eiael out of his protective magic circle, which allowed Chris to use his magic sword to capture the rogue angel.

“I believe the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you, Chris.’” He turns on his heel and swaggers out with the cookies.

“Suddenly the angel of few words is a freakin’ wordsmith!” I shout after him.

Elvis hops up on the counter, pretending he didn’t just witness that whole exchange. “Don’t say a word.”

He responds by hissing, which technically isn’t a word.

The day winds down and I get ready for dinner. First things first, I spend five minutes shoring up my aura. Seated on my yoga mat, I envision Nora’s negativity bouncing off my protective shield of white light.

Walking to my closet, I choose a casual blue-and-white floral print sundress that might be a tad on the short side, but since Damion’s mother doesn’t like me, I doubt a longer hemline is going to change her mind. I pull my long golden-brown hair into a high ponytail and apply light makeup and pink gloss. There, good to go. Most people would not look at me and think witch. I don’t have any witchy tattoos, nor do I gravitate toward all things black. I’m a girlie girl witch, so what? We all don’t have to scream goth.

I jump about a mile high when Damion materializes behind me. “Am I going to have to ward you out of here?”

“I’d like to see you try,” he says, his phantom touch roaming under my dress.

Escaping his phantom clutches, I walk out of the bathroom. “Let’s go. We missed the last dinner with your mother. I won’t be late to this one.” We missed the last dinner on account of me being kidnapped by a crazed angel, but I’m sure that’s no excuse where Nora is concerned.

Damion’s mother lives in Oxford, Mississippi, about an hour’s drive from Memphis. Traffic is brutal this time of day, and let’s just say Damion does not take it in stride. He’s laid on the horn more times than I’ve honked my entire driving career.

We arrive at Nora’s beautiful Federal-style house and walk to the front door. She greets us, and I hand her a bottle of wine that she pays no attention to as she fusses over Damion. Even though she’s a Yankee, she plays the role of the overbearing southern mama to her precious baby boy well. A little too well. Like Oscar-winning performance well. Nora looks lovely as always in a sophisticated pantsuit and her blonde curly hair pulled back in a knot.

She escorts us to the sitting room, and I laugh softly as I spot Sonia perched on the arm of an uncomfortable-looking wing-backed chair, drinking a glass of white wine. So Nora has escalated our cold war to an active military engagement by playing matchmaker right in front of me.

“I hope you two don’t mind—Sonia and I have been working on a project together and I invited her to stay for dinner,” Nora announces. She pulls Damion to the side for a conversation and I approach Sonia.

“Hello, little witch,” she whispers.

“Hello, little succubus,” I whisper back.

“You’ll be happy to hear I close on my Oxford home this weekend,” she says primly.

Why yes, I am happy to hear it. “Congratulations. I’d be glad to throw you a housewarming party.” The invitation slips out of my mouth before my brain can catch up. Blame the southern in me.

“A housewarming party?” she eyes me suspiciously.

“A casual get-together of friends.” Now she’s giving me a confused look. “You show off your new home, friends bring gifts,” I explain. Still confused. “You know what, I’ll just take care of everything.”

“Is this a trick?”

“Have you chosen friends or enemies?”

“Friends, I suppose,” she says, as if saying the word is painful.

“Then this is what friends do.”

And then she surprises the shit out of me. Not by kissing me—we’ve already been there, done that—but by hugging me.

Nora clears her throat and announces dinner is ready with a tight smile. I try not to laugh as we’re escorted to the dining room. Aubry one; Nora zero.

She passes around a spinach and strawberry salad, followed by a platter of carved roast chicken, and a yellow squash casserole. “Nora, these strawberries are delicious,” I say as I take a bite of my salad, but not until I’ve discreetly held my hands over my plate, diffusing any of her negativity.

“Yes, they are good. I picked them up from the farmers’ market the other day. Tell me, Aubry, what have you been up to?”

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