“Try it,” he commands.
“Yes, sir.” I lift the mug and blow lightly on the surface before taking a sip.
Smooth, creamy, chocolatey sweetness glides over my tongue, but it’s not overly saccharine. There’s the darkness of the coffee and the bite of spice. I knew this wouldn’t be one of my usual drinks, and since I had no expectations, I’m not disappointed. This is a different environment. It’s not Lou’s, and I didn’t order a Wild Eye or a Tristesse, so my brain doesn’t expect the familiarity of Lou’s beverages.
This isnew.
I take another long sip and decide that I like it.
Rick surveys me, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even ask me what the drink does.”
“I guess I trust you now.” I smile at him.
“It’s designed especially for you. You’ll feel sad, but the sadness will be tempered with nostalgia. Afterward you’ll be angry, but the anger will end with a sense oftriumph. Let me know how it works for you. I can tweak the recipe to make it stronger next time if you want.”
“Next time?”
“I plan to be making you coffee for a very long time, Marlowe Reilly.”
A delicious thrill passes over my skin. “That’s presumptuous of you.”
“Drink up,” he orders. “You’ve got work today.”
“In addition to worrying about my bloodthirsty sister,” I mutter. “I have to tell the council something about her. It’ll probably end up with me getting shut out of the festival. If they have to ban one kelpie, they’ll ban us all. I can’t ask the witches to make an exception just for me. It’s too bad. I love attending the concerts, visiting the booths, tasting the treats.” I sigh a little without meaning to.
Rick doesn’t reply, but he looks pensive as he comes around the kitchen island. “I texted a buddy of mine when we left the stable. He should be here to pick me up in a few minutes.”
“You already have buddies?”
“Yeah. Buddies in progress, anyway. I told you I was working on making friendships.” He kisses the top of my head. “Be good today. Don’t eat anyone.”
“You got it.” I give him an awkward little salute and turn back to my drink, listening to his footsteps leaving the kitchen, heading for the front door.
He kissed my hair. I wish he’d kissed my mouth.
He sent me several signals that he’s interested in me beyond what happened last night. And he accepted me—all of me, including my wild, violent, ravenous side.
Maybe I should send him a signal, too.
I abandon my coffee mug and run after him. I burst out the front door as he’s walking down the drive toward an approaching Jetta.
Rick hears me running and turns. I fly into his arms, my palms on his cheeks, pulling his face down to mine.
His lips are smooth, warm, and soft. He tastes smoky-sweet, like he had bacon and juice for breakfast before driving out here. I trace the edge of his tongue with mine, then ease off on the kiss. I touch my lips to his once more, softly, then back away.
His eyes are bright and fierce. “I’m coming to see you tonight.”
“We’re having a trail ride and then a campfire dinner with some clients,” I tell him breathlessly. “You can come around nine.”
“I will.”
As he’s turning away, I say impulsively, “Bring a bag if you want to stay the night.”
Was that too much, too soon?
“Okay,” he responds. And then he’s swinging himself into the Jetta’s passenger seat, and the guy in the front is waving politely to me as they turn around and head back down the driveaway.
I go back inside and pour my special coffee into a thermos. I’m already feeling the effects, but instead of overwhelming sadness, the emotion flooding my soul is bittersweet. It’s an effective release, but it’s more bearable, less overpowering. I don’t have to run off to the beach to scream and cry for an hour. I’m functional.
