The whine of the joints makes me pause, but only for a moment before I walk inside her workshop and shut myself in. My gaze lands on her fish.
All things truly wicked start from something innocent.
Time to murder your innocence.
Chapter Seven
Evie
“Dammit,” I groan. I’m so annoyed as I try and multitask, shooting off a text to the set designer while putting in the fifty-thousand-digit-long numerical sequence that Noah coded for the door.
I hope nobody ever has to pee when they get home because that’s a disaster waiting to happen. But truthfully, I’m less annoyed with the door than I am with the conversation I’m having with this set designer.
Even though it’s not her fault the director is eccentric or that someone moved my damn fish.
I hold my phone to my mouth as I leave a voice note.
“Listen, I’m super excited he’s had a werewolf epiphany, but creating a spring-loaded system for a car takes more time than a day ... especially when it’s for a moon doggie to drive through a human bat. He’s going to have to wait, or his stunt double will be collecting workers’ comp. As well as whoever took my fish, when I find them.”
I know she’s fine. It’s just annoying. I need my baby.
I finally get the door open while pocketing my phone before I stop inside and look down at the tile.
“Goodbye, day,” I exhale, letting all the shit in my hands slide down my arms to the floor, falling into a messy pile before I just leave it there and walk toward the modern Spanish-style great room.
But the further in I walk, the more I realize something’s different. My eyebrows draw together.
Music’s playing faintly in the background. Not just any music—Fleetwood Mac. And the gas fireplace is on. Only in California can you run that at night in the middle of what already feels like summer and have it feel appropriate.
I swear I look like a shifty-eyed villain in a cartoon as I look around, because this vibe is different. A lot like I’ve walked in on someone’s date.
Does Chase have a girl here?
The thought makes me stand straighter until I’m suddenly enveloped by the most delicious aroma, making the thought fade away and my shoulders sag. Like an animal, my head lifts as I take a deep breath, enjoying whatever is cooking.
I turn my head just as the kitchen comes into view.
If I was worried that being nice would put rose-tinted glasses on me, then I was stupid. Because I should’ve been more worried that Chase, under the amber glow of dimly lit lamps and cooking in a kitchen, would make my toes tingle.
Good god.
Or maybemy nervous system is shutting down, like fully tapping out because it’s done with me too. I mean, there’s always room to hope.
Fuck. He’s standing behind the island, chopping something ... onion, maybe, before he adds it to a pan behind him. I walk closer, feeling like I shouldn’t, as it sizzles in the butter. He wraps a cloth around the pan’s handle, lifting it from the fire to swirl the contents.
Oh god, not a veiny forearm.
Why, God? Do you hate me just because I have questions about your validity? Because this seems petty. Even for someone who invented periods.
Although, no more petty than the fact that Chase is wearing a white T-shirt that saysTip Your Waiterand a loose pair of jeans.
And he’s barefoot ... actually ... that’s a con. I take the drool back. Men shouldn’t have feet. They’re either gross, smelly, or hairy—usually all three.
I nod to myself as I think,This is good.I just need to remind myself that what I’m seeing is smoke and mirrors ... a sexy illusion. He’s just smelly athlete’s foot and an endless string of jackassery.
Yeah, that’ll break the spell.
Chase puts the pan back on the stove, turning down the heat before running his hand through his damp hair. I swear he’s practiced that move, because it was smooth. Too smooth. What kind of whack job has practiced moves other than Elle Woods?
