“We have a system…”
“YOU have a system. I have a life.” She fumbled with the lockbox, extracting a key that looked old enough to have opened doors for the Revolutionary War. “Besides, what kind of protection detail makes the protectee carry her own bags?”
She had a point. Marcus grabbed both suitcases and her overflowing boxes of magical supplies. The weight surprised him. What had she packed, bricks? But he managed to navigate the porch steps without dropping anything.
The door opened onto a time capsule from the 1970s. Wood paneling covered every surface. Orange shag carpet crunched underfoot. The furniture looked like it had been upholstered in rejected hotel lobby fabric.
“Charming,” Hazel said. “Very serial killer chic.”
Marcus set the bags down and assessed their situation. Kitchen to the left, barely. Living room straight ahead with a couch that had seen better decades. One door on the right that presumably led to…
“Dibs on the bedroom!” Hazel darted through the door before he could object.
Marcus followed, stopping in the doorway. One bed. Queen-sized, brass frame that would creak if someone breathed on it. A patchwork quilt that had probably witnessed things.
“There’s only one bed,” he said.
“Keen observation, counselor.” She dropped her bag on the mattress, claiming it. “The couch is all yours.”
“That’s not…” He stopped. Arguing about sleeping arrangements felt too intimate. “Fine. I’ll take the couch.”
He returned to the living room and examined his future bed. The cushions had compressed into concrete over the years. Springs poked through in strategic locations. It was barely long enough for someone half his height.
This would be a long three weeks.
The kitchen yielded more disappointments. Avocado-green appliances that belonged in a museum. A refrigerator that hummed ominously. And…
“Is that supposed to be a coffee maker?” It was a Mr. Coffee from approximately the Carter administration, the carafe clouded with mineral deposits so thick it looked geological.
“I can make tea,” Hazel offered from the doorway.
He turned to find her watching him, head tilted, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She’d changed while he investigated: soft leggings and an oversized sweater that made her look smaller, younger. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, red curls escaping to frame her face.
“Tea,” he repeated. “Yes. That would be adequate.”
She moved into the kitchen, navigating around him in the narrow space. The kitchen was too small for two people. Too small for one person, really.
Marcus occupied himself by reorganizing the cabinets while she worked. The dishes were stacked haphazardly. Glasses mixed with plates. Spices scattered with no system whatsoever.
“You know we’re only here for three weeks, right?” Hazel watched him arrange mugs by size. “The kitchen doesn’t need a new filing system.”
“Organization promotes efficiency.”
“Organization promotes obsessive-compulsive disorder.” She reached past him to get the kettle. “Relax. Live a little.”
He noticed she kept touching her left wrist, fingers rubbing over the spot where their magic had sparked when she’d jabbedhim in the shop. The gesture was unconscious, repetitive. Was the magical connection bothering her too?
Not that it was bothering him. It was merely noticeable. Purely professional concern.
The kettle whistled. Hazel poured water over tea bags—simple mortal tea, nothing magical—and handed him a mug.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded and retreated to the living room, curling into the armchair farthest from the couch. Marcus remained in the kitchen, using cabinet organization as an excuse not to join her.
This was a job. She was a witness. In twenty days, he’d deliver her safely to court and never see her again. Everything else was irrelevant.
Marcus had locatedingredients for pasta: simple, foolproof, impossible to ruin. He’d underestimated Hazel’s capacity for culinary chaos.
