Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(88)

“Good to know. I’d like a clear head when I get to work.”

“So you’re sticking with it then?” Meara gave her a light shoulder punch of approval. “Good for you.”

“I’m not going to deprive myself of work I love, or mope in a corner. I need the job, so we’ll figure out how to work together, unless he fires me.”

“He never would. He’s not so hard, Iona.”

“No, he’s not. Besides, the sun may be out now, but there’s always a chance of fog. With that to deal with, we have to put the rest aside. No chinks in the circle, right?”

“You’ve got spine.” This time Meara gave her a quick rub on the shoulder.

“If you’re really making oatmeal, I’ll go up, soak some of this hangover away in the shower, and get dressed for work.” She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around Meara in a hug. “You and Branna got me through a tough night.”

“Ah, well now, what else are friends for if not that?”

By the time she got out of the shower, the throbbing and banging had clicked down a couple levels. But a sober study of her face in the mirror told her more help was needed. Instead of her usual workday slap-and-dash-on makeup, she took some time, some care. She didn’t want Boyle to think the pale cheeks and smudged eyes were due to him, though indirectly they were, since she’d overindulged to buffer the hurt.

Satisfied she’d done the best with what she had to work with, she dressed and went back down to face oatmeal.

She found Branna, sleepy-eyed in her pajamas, drinking coffee as Meara hummed a tune while she slapped butter on toasted bread.

“And there’s herself now, and looking only half dragged out.”

“That bad?”

“Not bad at all,” Meara said staunchly, and dished out oatmeal.

“Sure we can do better.” Branna crooked a finger. “Lean down here, since you won’t do it for yourself.” She glided her hands gently over Iona’s face. “Just a touch, as we don’t want him to think you fussed for him either.”

That brought on a smile. “You read my mind.”

“It’s sensible, so a little glamour adds just the right touch. We women, and witches, stick together. Meara says you’ve a bit of a head.”

“It’s better.”

“Drink that.” She tapped her finger on a glass filled with pale green liquid.

“What is it?”

“Good for what ails you. Herbs and such, and a touch of more. No point going in as you are, feeling less than well, or looking it. You’re showing backbone by dealing with what is, so you’ll have a reward.”

“And oatmeal.” Meara set three bowls on the table, went back for the toast, then sat.

“Here goes.” Considering it medicine, Iona drank the potion—but found it had a cool, fresh flavor with a faint hint of mint. “It’s nice.”

“Good for what ails you doesn’t have to be unpleasant. Eat as well, it adds to it.”

“You’re both taking care of me. I want to say if either of you get the crap kicked out of you by love, I’ll be there for you.”

“That’s reassuring.” Meara dug into the oatmeal.

The hangover slid away, like raindrops sliding down a window pane—a kind of slow, soft, liquid fading that left Iona feeling refreshed and rested.

“You could make a fortune off that single potion,” she told Branna as she pulled on her jacket. “It’s a miracle.”

“Not quite that, and making fortunes isn’t all it’s thought to be. We work tonight, cousin, and twice as hard for the night off.”

“I’ll be ready. I know you’re not much for hugs,” she added as she gave Branna a squeeze. “But I am.” She stepped outside with Meara. “I don’t think Cabhan liked the music.”

“I hope it rings in his ears still. I’ll speak with you later,” Meara said to Branna, and strode to her truck. “I hate I’m saying this,” she continued when Iona sat beside her. “But don’t be too awful hard on him. Oh, he deserves it with no doubt, the donkey’s arse, but men can be such fumblers.”

“I don’t want to be hard on him. I just want to get through.”

“Then you will.”


*


HE DIDN’T EXPECT HER TO COME TO WORK, AND IT CHAFED at him that he couldn’t blame her. Before the mucking and feeding, watering and daily morning medications began, he huddled down with the weekly schedule. In a relatively short time, he realized, he’d assigned Iona to so many tasks, students, duties he’d need to do a bit of scrambling to fill in her spots.

Pain in the arse, and really when you thought about it all in a rational way there was no reason she’d get herself in such a state so she’d toss the work in the trash bin along with the rest.

And if he could just have a rational word or two with her, he’d surely climb out of the bin himself.

If women were more like men, life would run along smoother, without a doubt.

He stewed, and finagled the schedule, brooded and shifted hours and students. As he pushed away to pull out his mobile and begin to make the necessary calls, he heard Meara’s truck drive up. Hers ran with a cougar’s purr rather than Mick’s aging lion with bronchitis.