[04] Some Enchanted Eclair by Bailey Cates

Author:Bailey Cates
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2014-06-10T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

We left Jaida and Ursula talking about tarot layouts and walked out to the street with Mimsey and Bianca, Lucy, and Ben. Steve followed close behind, heading for his Land Rover. I wanted to ask him about Althea’s ridiculous display, but my priority was getting Declan home. We called good night to each other as we made our way to our vehicles, started them up, and went our separate ways.

It was almost eleven by the time we got back to Declan’s. Mungo bounded off the sofa to greet us at the door, and I bent down to pick him up. Nuzzling his dark fur, I murmured, “Boy, did you ever miss an interesting evening.”

He whined and licked my neck.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said, putting him down. I shed my light wrap and laid it over the back of one of the barstools next to the high counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Declan’s laugh sounded tired. “I think he really understands you.”

Yip!

“Of course he does,” I said. “I told you he’s my familiar.”

“Yeah, but what does that . . . ?” He trailed off, staring at me. “Oh, my God. You mean he really does . . . ?” He wagged his head as if trying to dislodge something from his brain.

“Talking with the dead give you a different perspective?” I teased and reached for him.

But Declan turned his shoulder toward me and went into the walk-through kitchen. He stood for a long moment in front of the open refrigerator before selecting a can of soda and closing the door. Still, he didn’t move. The under-cabinet lighting provided the only illumination, casting the strong planes of his face into shadow.

“Oh, hon,” I said softly from the doorway. “Tonight really threw you, didn’t it?”

He looked up, his public poker face melting into the bewildered expression of a child who has been told there is no Santa Claus.

Except in this case it was more like the opposite.

Taking a few tentative steps toward him, I asked, “Are you okay?”

Finally, he spoke. “Honestly, Katie? I’m not sure.”

I crossed the distance and wrapped my arms around his waist. I laid my head on his chest. The crisp fabric of his shirt crinkled against my cheek, and his heartbeat thrummed in my ear. His hand moved to the back of my neck and rested there, but he didn’t return my embrace.

Letting go, I stepped back and looked up into his eyes. “Come on.”

I led him into the living room, pushing aside Mungo’s afghan on the sofa. Sitting, I patted the cushion beside me. “Let’s talk about this.”

Instead of joining me, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He handed me his sweating soda can, walked into the bedroom, and flipped on the light.

Flummoxed, I waited. Took a sip of his drink. Orange, sweet, and tangy. Mungo jumped up on the sofa beside me. We heard a door open and some rattling noises, then a thunk. Silence, then a rustling.

I got up and turned on a couple more lamps.

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