Howl at the Moon by Deborah Wilde

Author:Deborah Wilde [Wilde, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Te Da Media Inc.

Chapter 17

M came through. Be there in 10. Yawning, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to soothe my puffy red eyes. There were four minutes left of Gideon’s texted ten, and I hadn’t yet decided which version of the two apologies I’d stayed up most of the night crafting I should go with.

It had to be heartfelt, but not imply fault. Unwilling inclusion at best. Still, I wanted to convey the right notes of empathy and sorrow that I hadn’t shown the compassion his situation deserved. Was it better to lead with my musings on science, ethics, and doing good before getting to Robyn’s death or did I hit the ground running with that?

I patted my skin dry on the stupidly soft towel that was woven from the same angel wings as my sheets. Did Levi have some celestial market hookup? Could I get in on that? Focus, Raisa. Apology now, angel textiles later. I didn’t want to play a guilt card, but I didn’t want to lose Gideon with a philosophic monologue either.

The front intercom phone rang, and I ran downstairs, tamping down my annoyance that he was two minutes early. Levi had gone to work, but he’d given me a key and the code to his place, trusting me to lock up.

Deciding to lead with the “science first” version of the apology, I buzzed Gideon in, dusted a couple of toast crumbs off my shirt, and flung the door open.

“You look like shit.” He clomped past me into the foyer, wiping his shoes off on the mat.

My smile fell. So much for thinking we were friends or whatever.

Closing the front door, I waved a hand around his perfectly shaved jaw, his spicy musky aftershave teasing my senses. His hair was styled like a series of blond waves rippling off his forehead. “I stayed up all night crafting an apology to you, asshole, so sorry if I don’t look like I stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine.”

He tilted his head, sucking his full bottom lip into his mouth as he appraised my black leggings, black-and-navy-plaid miniskirt, and black shirt. “It’s not a bad start. Too much with the dark colors, but you’ve got good calves, nice curves.” He shrugged. “Your clothes fit properly.”

I staggered backward, fanning myself. “No please, stop with the compliments. You’re overwhelming me.” I dropped my hands to my sides. “And FYI, neither my calves nor my curves exist for your perusal.”

“Did I say they did?” Gideon shook his head, a look of bafflement on his face. He wore a tailored shirt in some shiny material—rich shiny not used car salesman—under a cashmere trench coat that brought out the tawny streaks in his hair and hugged his biceps. Nope. Just because he was obsessed with my appearance didn’t mean I had to take note of his.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Well, what?” I peered into the closet. I’d unpacked last night instead of my preferred mode of living out of a suitcase, but my shoe and jacket options weren’t appealing.

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