“Mmh.” His gaze travels slowly—too slowly—down my body and back up. “You look delicious when you’re flustered.”
I nearly throw a candle at him.
Customers begin trickling in as the morning settles. Locals, tourists, magic-aware folks, gossipmongers. The usual mix of curious and nosy. I force a smile, answer questions, ring up purchases. All while Slade prowls the shelves like he’s casing the joint—or, worse, like he’s guarding it. And me.
Every time I glance over, he’s there. Like smoke, or fucking gravity. Like he’s incapable of not orbiting me.
And the customers notice.
Two older witches by the incense rack whisper loudly. “He’s still here,” one mutters.
“He’s following her like a storm cloud,” the other notes.
“A handsome storm cloud,” the first says.
“I heardhe carried her home,” a third newcomer says, eyeing me with curiosity. I pretend not to notice that, too.
“I heard he claimed her,” the second says in a near whisper.
Slade smirks, and I want to scream. I force my focus onto a cauldron-shaped wax warmer someone is purchasing. “Did you need this gift-wrapped?”
“Yes, please,” the woman says sweetly—but her eyes keep darting to Slade. “Is that your… um…boyfriend?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Not yet,” Slade offers.
The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my.”
I slam the register shut with unnecessary force. Slade finally drifts closer—close enough that his body heat radiates against mine, close enough that my pulse reacts before my brain catches up. “You’re tense,” he murmurs. Like that thought offends him.
“Gee,” I whisper back, “I WONDER WHY.”
“I could relieve it.”
“Slade,” I hiss, “I am WORKING.”
“That doesn’t change my offer,” he says with a feral grin.
I swear my soul tries to exit my body. I storm away to restock crystals, hoping distance will fix something—anything. Instead he trails me, a silent shadow with too much presence. “Stop following me,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m not,” he argues.
“You are literally breathing down my neck.”
“I like the way you smell.”
I choke, sputtering as I try to regain my composure. A jar of rose quartz rattles. That damn curse is listening again. “Goaway,” I plead.
“No.”
“Why?”
He steps in front of me, cutting off my escape route. “Because the moment you walked out ofthat bar last night, you decided you hate me more than you actually do.”
My breath catches. “I don’t hate you.”
“Correct,” he says softly.
