Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(24)
I huffed out a weak laugh, shaking my head. “Nothing like that, no. How do I even begin? It’s . . .”
I trailed off, catching sight of Gareth emerging through the restaurant’s doorway, velvet-curtained against the cold. He gestured to the ma?tre d’, then caught sight of me in my banquette and changed direction, heading my way. By the time he reached the table, confusion had replaced the grim determination on his face, his eyes flicking between me and Morty.
“Uh, Nina, why is the Shamrock bartender here?” he asked, scrunching his nose in an expression between bewilderment and distaste, and it became abruptly clear to me why my brother inspired such a specific sense of loathing in Morty. Across the table from me, I could practically feel his hackles rise in response, his entire demeanor skewing toward pissed-off cat. “Wait. Wait. Are you guys, like—”
“No!” Morty and I half shouted in unison, and despite myself I felt a little miffed by the vehemence in Morty’s own denial, even though I’d echoed it. He didn’t have to sound quite so not if we were the last two people on earth about it.
“No, we’re not,” I told Gareth, clearing my throat, widening my eyes at Morty in emphatic I’m aware he’s being a fuckweasel, but please do take it down a notch yourself fashion. “Morty just . . . had some questions for me.”
“Still do,” Morty muttered, glaring daggers at my brother. “In case anyone’s wondering.”
“Hey, is he bothering you, Nina?” Gareth asked in an entirely different tone, belligerence lighting in his eyes, choosing the very worst path as he was so often wont to do. “Because if he is, I’d be happy to—”
“Step away and give us a minute?” I asked pointedly, transferring my stare to him. “Because that’s what I need you to do, please. We’ll catch up as soon as Morty and I are done, okay?”
Gareth shifted his weight from foot to foot like a streetfighter, mulling this over. Then whatever semblance of reason he possessed thankfully prevailed, and he gave me a reluctant nod, sidling over to the empty bar.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Morty, suppressing a wince. “He can be a little . . .”
“Oh, I know what the lordling can be like, trust me,” he said, more coldly than he’d spoken to me since he arrived. Gareth’s appearance had clearly snuffed any slow-budding rapport between us, and given the way Gareth had spoken to him—as though even here, Morty was just the hired help, like that was some kind of intrinsic quality a person carried around with them—I couldn’t really blame Morty for that. “I’m not here to discuss his failings, so spare me. Just tell me what’s going on here, make it stop, and I’ll get right the fuck out of y’all’s hair. Leave you to go swim laps in your vault of coins, or whatever else you do with your Sundays.”
I stiffened, squaring my shoulders. “That was uncalled-for, but you’re having a rough day, clearly, so I’ll let it pass.” So was I, for that matter, but at least I wasn’t utterly at sea the way he was. “I can explain . . . some of it, anyway. But it’s going to take a minute, and Gareth and I need to discuss some things first. Can I meet you tonight, to talk? Wherever you like. I’ll come to your bar, even, if you want.”
Morty stared at me a little balefully, plucking at his lower lip with a thumb in a way that would, under different circumstances, have been very distracting.
“Okay, fine,” he finally said, shrugging into that annoyingly attractive Captain Jack Harkness duster and standing in another of those seamless motions, his eyes still chilly. “I’m not exactly dying to keep sharing space with His Majesty the Scum King, so I’ll be waiting for you at eight at the Shamrock. And if you don’t show, Nina, I’ll just come find you again. Ruin your extremely fine ambiance with these pungent riffraff vibes.”
“That’s not . . .” I hissed in a breath, nostrils flaring. “That isn’t fair. I’m not like that.”
“Whatever you say, milady,” he retorted, sliding out of the banquette with a scornful glance tossed over his shoulder. “See you tonight.”
I was still stewing by the time Gareth made his way over, tumbler of scotch in tow.
“No way is that fucking dude gonna be my brother-in-law,” he informed me, wrinkling his nose. “Just so we’re clear on that from the jump.”
I glared at him so stonily that he flushed, his ears pinking.
“Okay, so, maybe I overshot that one,” he said, in lieu of an apology. “Not telling you who to date. Though, in my defense, he doesn’t seem like your type. Like, at all.”
“Squarely trespassing in Not-Your-Damn-Business territory over here, brother,” I shot back. “Probably you should beware.”
“I just—I don’t love that guy, okay?” Gareth said, with a finicky shudder. “He always acts like I’m some kind of sloppy shit-for-brains quarterback or something when I go drink at his bar. Like he thinks I’m being a date rapist just by default. Meanwhile he’s this bleeding-edge ‘ooooh, check me out, y’all, I’m so hip and fluid and all about that sweet-ass consent’ hero.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t think that about you,” I said edgily, “if you hadn’t been using his bar for your pickup artist garbage, especially by shock-and-awing his customers with spells to entice them home. I mean, seriously, Gareth? What is the matter with you? That’s not just horribly gross and wrong, it’s embarrassing as hell.”