I lift my mug slightly in a tired toast. “Today I am a woman of leisure.”
Sir considers this declaration with deep suspicion, both eyes now open and fixed on me with the intensity of a judge weighing evidence.
“A dangerous development,”he says, resting his chin on his paws.
“I have spent three days reading magical cookbooks written by women who clearly hated punctuation,” I reply, taking another sip of coffee and savoring the way it makes my shoulders relax.
“Those were potion texts.”
“They were recipes for magical disasters waiting to happen.”
“You cannot approach magical study with such flippancy.”
“I absolutely can when my brain feels like scrambled eggs and my body feels like it’s been through a blender.” I gesture vaguely with my free hand. “Three days, Sir. Three days of trying to understand why Ruby Thorne thought ‘a pinch of moonlight’ was an acceptable measurement.”
Sir opens both eyes now, clearly preparing a lecture that will include the phrase ancient responsibility and possibly something about the sacred duties of the Thorne bloodline.
Before he can begin, a knock lands on the front door.
I freeze with my coffee halfway to my lips, steam curling up to fog my vision slightly.
Sir turns his head toward the foyer, ears pricked forward with sudden interest.
The knock comes again. Cheerful. Persistent. Entirely too energetic for someone seeking audience with a woman in pajama pants.
I lean back and stare through the living room into the foyer leading to the front door, as if I can somehow will the visitor away through sheer force of denial.
The door stares back, heavy and wooden and utterly unhelpful.
Sir looks at me with an expression that clearly says this is your problem to solve.
I look at Sir with an expression that clearly says I am not equipped for human interaction.
“I am not home,” I announce to the empty air.
Sir blinks slowly, the feline equivalent of an eye roll.“You are standing there in your pajamas holding a mug of coffee. Your presence is fairly well-established.”
The knock comes again, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone moving on the porch boards.
I sigh the sigh of a woman who knows peace has officially ended and magical timeouts are apparently not legally binding.
When I open the door, Maceo stands on the porch like he belongs there.
Of course he does.
He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him exactly right, worn boots that have clearly seen plenty of use, and a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tribal tattoos that wind around his forearms. In one hand he holds a wicker picnic basket that looks suspiciously well-packed. In the other he carries a thick wool blanket folded with military precision. His smile is warm and entirely too confident for someone standing on my porch at nine in the morning while I look like I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge maze.
I narrow my eyes at the basket, then at the blanket, then back at his face.
“No.”
Maceo blinks once, his smile never wavering. “I have not even said anything yet.”
I lean against the doorframe and fold my arms across my chest, trying to look stern despite the fuzzy slippers. “You do not need to. I can see the basket. I can see the blanket. I can see that look on your face.”
His smile widens into something that borders on wicked.
“You are not kidnapping me into the wilderness,” I inform him, pointing one finger at his chest for emphasis.
