“No, I just think that if I’m a little tipsy, it will even the playing field.”
“Ha!” He brought over glasses, filled them with what turned out to be rather cheap but tolerable whiskey, and set up theboard, placing the white pieces on Amelia’s side. Then slouching against one arm of his chair with his head propped in his hand, he smiled at her twinklingly. Amelia suspected this was not a real word but could think of none more appropriate. He was like a trickster god slumming it in the mortal world—all sparkles and just a hint of dark, dark power beneath his smile. Amelia wondered if now was the right moment to tell him that she’d viewed his memories when stepping into the Hereford teaspoon’s magic yesterday, but before she could summon the courage to do so, he waved at the chessboard.
“You can start first,” he said in a tone either provocative or seductive (Amelia had not yet drunk enough of the whiskey to discern which).
“Hmm,” she murmured, rescuing herself from his glamour so she could strategize with a clear mind as she contemplated the board. Its finely carved wooden pieces were old but not enchanted—always a bonus, since being bitten by one’s king while trying to escape check was distracting, to say the least. She reached out to move a pawn, then changed her mind and moved another instead.
“Interesting,” Caleb said.
Amelia raised her eyebrows at him. “You’re just saying that to make it seem like you’re good at the game.”
“Eh,” he said, shrugging in careless admission of the fact. He drank whiskey and then, still holding the glass, nudged forward a pawn seemingly at random. “How’s the scratch on your hand, by the way?”
“Fine,” Amelia told him while frowning at the board. “You never did bandage it.”
“Well, I was just being charming in the moment. Also, it gave me an excuse to kiss your hand.”
Amelia ruthlessly ignored her flutters. “Miss Tunnicliffe got scratched yesterday when a figurine of Zeus she was packing took wing.”
“Oh?”
Looking up from the board, she aimed her frown at Caleb. He looked back blandly. “I’m not interested in Miss Tunnicliffe,” he said.
“Perhaps you should tell her that.”
“Honestly, our conversations are quite dull. Mostly she just asks about the value of the antiques and what magic they might do. She wants to quit her job, go to university, and she thinks I can help her, so she’s being especially nice toward me.”
“She thinks you can help her withsomething.”
“I know how to handle a crush. Besides,” he muttered a little grumpily, “I don’t flirt with mean girls.”
“You flirt with everyone,” Amelia said, her hand hovering over a knight before withdrawing again. “By the way, have you double-checked that the Hereford teaspoon is secure?”
“Of course,” he answered at once. And when she gave him an Amelia Look™,he rolled his eyes and repeated firmly, “Of course.”
“Hm.” Returning her attention to the chessboard, she trailed her smallest finger back and forth across her lower lip as she debated which piece to employ.
“Fuck.” Caleb abruptly straightened, downing the entirety of his drink. Amelia stared at him with surprise. He almost never swore.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said.
He gave a curt, rather bitter laugh. “I’m not offended.”
“Sorry,” she said, just in case. “You aren’t a flirt, you’re justfriendly—is that better? And Miss Tunnicliffe is not mean. She’s—”
“Excitable. Yes, I remember. So excitable she didn’t hesitate to be rude to you.”
“That was ages ago, Caleb. It doesn’t matter.”
“It always matters.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about Vanity, of all things, when I’m finally alone with you,” he interrupted grouchily.
They stared at each other yet again, the air becoming so charged that Amelia wondered if a thaumaturgic antique were inside the room after all. But Caleb was looking a little flushed, almost defensive. He muttered something under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” Amelia inquired.
