Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(11)
“I am.” Well, mostly. I mean, my libido has definitely gone haywire, but I can deal with that as soon as I figure out how to get Barkley to leave me alone long enough for some special privacy time.
Mom and Dad stand up as one unit, so in sync with each other that I swear they know what the other is going to say before they even open their mouth.
“Then come give us a hug,” Dad says, throwing open his arms.
My parents envelop me in a tight if somewhat awkward group hug. It settles something in me, and for as long as the hug lasts, it feels like everything just might be okay.
“We love you,” Mom says.
And the thing is, I know she means it. It would be so much easier to be an outré if my family were awful about it. The truth is that they aren’t. Are they a little too involved and do they treat me as if I’m about to either trip over my own two feet or cause a mini disaster at every turn? Yeah. But in their defense, I haven’t exactly spent the past twenty-eight years of my life proving them wrong—just ask me about the incident with the chicken and the eggs and why we only have Barkley now. Better yet, don’t ask (but I promise no chickens or eggs were harmed in the explosion).
That, however, is all about to change.
No more dragon’s blood trees.
No more humiliations caught on video.
No more obnoxious hot guys named Gil Connolly.
But to make that happen, I have to figure out what is going on with the cards that has Griselda setting us up on date after date and why every time I’m around him I want to throttle and kiss him or maybe kiss him and then throttle him or maybe both at the same time. I don’t know! All I know is that I need to ensure it never happens again. That means I need to track down the smarmy jerk himself and get some answers.
Chapter Six
Gil . . .
You!” Tilda strides into the Hocus and Hops Pub like a woman on a mission to eviscerate a very unfortunate soul.
I am definitely that soul, but I am too distracted by the way she’s marching so forcefully that her red hair is flying around her like flames. It’s a neat illusion, subtle enough to go unnoticed unless someone is really paying attention and enchanting enough to make it so I can’t look away from her—not that that would be wise at the moment. A person doesn’t last long in the lawless Beyond without developing keen defensive skills.
“Looking for me?” I take a sip of pumpkin beer, drinking her in and the way the tip of her impressive nose practically twitches with annoyance. “I’m flattered.”
Without noticing—or at least making a good show of not noticing—the looks she’s getting from the handful of customers sitting on the velvet love seats near the bar and the guy pretending to look at the arcane magic books on the shelf closest to my table, Tilda stops next to me. She puts her hands on her hips, the move drawing my attention to the strip of skin visible beneath the hem of her cropped hoodie.
I shouldn’t notice.
I definitely shouldn’t look.
I’m doing both anyway.
“What did you pull yesterday?” she asks, her chin tilted at a self-righteous angle.
After spending hours last night researching my theory, followed by many sleepless hours trying not to think about Tilda or the dimple in her left cheek or the way her ass looked when she angry-walked away from me or the way she’d felt in my arms or that kiss that hadn’t happened, I am groggy, easily annoyed, and not in the mood for her to gaslight me.
“Not a thing,” I say, putting enough obnoxious know-it-all superiority in my tone to end this conversation now. “That was you and you well know it.”
“All I was doing was trying to get away from you, and the next thing I know I’m in your arms.”
I smirk up at her, dialing the asshole up to twenty. “Begging me to kiss you, as I remember.”
Something hot and needy flashes in her eyes so strongly that even her thick glasses can’t hide it.
This is a stupid game to play with someone like her—not just a Sherwood but that kind of Sherwood—but I can’t help it. Watching her reveal all the passion and intensity beneath her awkward, melts-into-the-background exterior is addicting. There is so much more to Tilda than anyone else gets to see, and I want to see it all.
For work purposes, right?
Absolutely. One hundred percent.
Am I answering myself? Fuck. This is what being around Tilda is doing to me.
Also, why does she smell so good? And that twisty thing she does with her hair, wrapping it around her finger while she sends me death glares, is fascinating.
She takes the seat across from me at the tiny wrought iron table and uses her middle finger to push up her big round glasses. “I. Did. Not. Beg.”
“I was there.” I shrug and take another sip of my beer. “I heard what I heard.”
She squishes up her face. It’s fucking adorable and somehow hot at the same time. There is definitely something wrong with me. I sniff the beer but don’t catch the scent of any magical additions.
“You enchanted the dragon’s blood tree to trip me so everyone would see,” Tilda says, her voice quiet but firm.
“Project much?” I shoot back, grasping my teacup with both hands so I won’t give in to the urge to reach across the table and touch her. “That was all you.”