This is for the best, I tell myself as I force my gaze to the back of the room and make a beeline toward the stairwell. What would I have told her anyway? That I’m sorry? That I wish we were still friends?
My insides writhe with a discomfort I can’t name, the kind that makes it hard to breathe. I reach for my cravat, loosening it along with the top buttons of my shirt. That only offers meager relief, so I extract a rectangular case from inside my jacket, remove a cigarillo, and place it between my lips. Even without lighting it, the promise of calming lavender, sage, and Moonpetal soothes the fraying edges of my nerves.
Finally, I reach the stairwell, only to pause as an unfamiliar male stomps up the steps. He pays me no heed, his attention fixed on the paper pixie he’s muttering to. “You don’t need to ruin the fucking ending, Reginald. I never asked you to read the last page…”
I arch a brow at the odd but amusing sight, then turn back toward the stairwell?—
That’s when something catches my attention from my periphery.
Short black hair, petite stature, curving hips.
I whirl back around, my eyes locking on the figure. I know it’s her, even with her back to me as she strides down a narrow corridor at the other end of the editorial floor. Even in that body that’s so different from the slinky little pine marten I spent so much time with. Even in flowing slacks, a lace blouse, and a brown waistcoat, so different from the cute yellow dress she wore the last time I let myself get close to her.
When our friendship started to feel real.
Too real.
I shift to the side, one foot ready to bolt down the stairwell, the other drawing me toward the other hall.
I pull the cigarillo from my lips.
Flip it between my fingers.
And take a step in a direction I might regret.
CHAPTER THREE
DAPHNE
Ipress myself close to the wall outside the break room door. Angling my body to the side, I peer through the door’s glass window. Thankfully my target is alone, sipping tea at one of the many tables inside. He’s half turned away from me, his focus locked on the broadsheets he’s reading. I untuck the piece of paper from my waistcoat pocket and unfold it. Holding it out before me, I look from my sketch to the man.
My target is Brad Folger from marketing. He’s tall, I suppose, with expertly styled dark hair, a decent build, and—most importantly—human hands. I haven’t a clue what he looks like naked or if he has a rippling abdomen and excessive sex appeal, all of which are essential for Edwina’s heroes, but at least he’ll look suitable next to the heroine in my sketch. More so than the weasel-man.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “he’ll do.”
“He’ll do?” Araminta echoes, her voice a sharp whisper. “That’s how you refer to your future husband? Remind me how you made the leap from male model to matrimony?”
“I’m doing what the humans callkilling two birds with one stone.” Not that I’ve ever used stones to kill birds, for my teeth have always been sufficient. When I was a pine marten, that is. Now I go to the butcher on Third Avenue. Their smoked chicken breast is delicious.
Araminta’s mouth falls open. “You’re going to kill Brad from marketing? There are easier ways to procure a model without resorting to murder.”
I cut her a glare. “It’s an expression. It means I’m taking care of two problems at once. One being my need for a model.”
“What’s your second problem?”
My second problem is a magically binding ritual I drunkenly participated in last Lughnasadh with a honey badger named Clyde, but Araminta doesn’t need to know about that. All that matters is that marriage will solve both issues. And since Brad is the last man who has asked me out on a date, I might as well start with him.
I tuck the sketch back in my pocket. Then, with a bracing breath, I push open the break room door and stride toward Mr. Folger’s table. In my head, I rehearse the right things to say.
Good morning.
How do you do?
How is your tea?
What do you think of the weather?
Interesting news in the paper today?
