He’s not coming.
I pick up my spoon and dig into my pavlova. The moment I crunch down on a bite of meringue-berry-whipped-cream perfection, I moan and close my eyes.
Oh, sweet goddess, this is good.
“This is a family restaurant, Hallowind.” Wylder arches a dark brow as he slides into the booth opposite me. “You’re not Meg Ryan and I’m sure as shit not Billy Crystal.”
His broody snark hits me so fast I laugh…
And then proceed to choke on my dessert. It’s not a pretty or feminine moment. I sputter and hack, with a hand over my mouth, and tears running down my cheeks.
After what feels like ages, I can breathe well enough to sip from my hot chocolate and settle things down. “Hey, broody, you startled me.”
He’s sitting across from me, wide-eyed and looking unsure. “You had your eyes closed. Things like that can happen.”
Wylder is blessed to be a man of lean muscle, controlled movement, and natural grace. I doubt he’s ever felt like a dork in his life.
Unbothered by my mortification, he shrugs off his leather bomber jacket and tosses it onto the upholstered bench seat beside him. In jeans, wearing a fitted black Precision Turf and Garden t-shirt, and with his dark, shoulder-length hair windblown and slightly messy, he’s just about the hottest guy I’ve ever got up-close and personal with.
Certainly, the hottest guy who’s ever kissed me.
The snap of his fingers in front of my field of vision breaks my mind-wander, and I realize I’m staring. Based on the tension in his jaw, I take it he's bracing for something difficult.
"Sorry about that.” I gesture to the untouched bowl of pavlova in front of him. “Trust me, the moaning was completely warranted. It wasn’t me just being… well, me.”
He picks up the spoon left for him and digs in. If I were a betting woman, I’d say he was glad for something to do so he doesn’t have to focus on me.
Awesome. This is going to be fun.
Marty appears with coffee in hand and sets down a mug for Wylder. His reads,Grumpy is my resting face.He sets it on the table, pours, and vanishes before either of us can speak.
"Thanks for coming," I say.
Wylder swallows and reaches for the handle of his mug. "You said it was important."
Right. Straight to business. I can do that.
"When we came to town today, we noticed half a dozen locals walking around with sigils glowing red on their foreheads. I think they’ve been marked, but I don’t know by whom or for what purpose.”
I open the gallery on my phone and show him the picture. “The only sigils I know are the ones you taught me. Orion thought maybe you could help.”
He takes my phone, tapping the image to enlarge it to get a better look. “Do you know when this started?”
“We asked Izzy at the apothecary, and she said she started noticing them three days ago.”
He studies it for a long time, his scowl growing more stern. “The way it’s glowing, it’s almost as if it's shining through from under the skin rather than on it."
“I hadn’t really thought about it, but yeah.”
“Are all of them nocana?”
“Everyone we saw.”
He hands me back my phone. “Can you forward me the image? I’ll need to do some research to be sure.”
“Do you have a first glance guess?”
He leans back, processing. For a moment, the awkwardness fades into something familiar. It’s nice to know we can still work together when there's a problem to solve.
