Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(57)
“Tilda Sherwood,” says a man from behind me.
Gil looks past my shoulder and his eyes narrow. Turning, I look up at the black-haired guy with bluer-than-blue eyes and a killer smile wearing a navy tux that has to be custom-made.
“Erik Svensen.” He holds out his hand in greeting, and like everyone else we’ve chatted with since walking in, his gaze never drops below my chin. “I hear you got tickets by bribing my brother Cy with enough juniper berries to fill a semitruck.”
“That’s exactly what I did.” Really, what is the use in denying it? Plus, the only way we’re going to carry this off is to lie as close to the truth as possible. And the fact that my palms are all clammy from nerves? Let’s just hope Erik doesn’t notice that as we shake. “What in the world does he need all of it for?”
“When it comes to Cy, I never know,” Erik says with a chuckle. “Every family has one brilliant thinker, right?” He looks past me, scanning the crowd. “Did Leona come with you?”
Ah, there it is. “No.”
“Pity,” he says with a false cheer that doesn’t do a thing to dim the genuine disappointment in his blue eyes.
And the mystery thickens. I have no idea what happened between Leona and Erik, but you can bet I’m going to find out as soon as she warms back up, because this guy is beyond just interested in her—no need for a truth spell on that one. His shoulders drop before he hitches them back up again, his friendly grin a little stiffer than it was when he first walked up.
He covers it up well though, stopping a waiter and getting a glass of champagne for each of us from the tray. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, but you do look familiar.”
“Guess I have one of those faces,” Gil says as he accepts the champagne. “Gil Connolly.”
They shake hands and do the puffed-chest dude thing where guys size each other up. What is it with guys? They really are beyond understanding sometimes.
“You requested four tickets,” Erik says, turning his attention back to me. “Did you bring two of your other sisters?”
“No, just a couple of friends.” I fight the urge to look directly at Birdie and Eli even though I’ve been watching their progress toward the target from the corner of my eye. “They’re here somewhere.”
At the moment, they’re finally in line to see The Liber Umbrarum, but I’m not about to point that out to Erik.
“Well, it was good to meet you both. Be sure to tell Leona I said hello.” Erik narrows his eyes and his gaze zeroes in on me. “You’re not at all what I expected. LeLe always said you were something of a wild whirlwind.”
LeLe? Oh wow. There is no way my very uptight, very by-the-books sister would like that nickname—or any nickname, for that matter.
I give what I hope is a convincing smile. “I promise to keep my gusts to a minimum during the party.”
“That sounds perfectly boring and unlike any Sherwood in all of Witchingdom.” He nods at Gil. “If you’ll excuse me, as the family representative I have to go mingle, but I hope we’ll get to chat again later.”
Gil and I sip our champagne, the little bubbles popping against the roof of my mouth, and watch Erik make his way across the crowded gallery, stopping several times to chat with this couple or that group. He has an easy, friendly vibe to him, but I can’t help but think that’s just an act. The little voice in the back of my head is firmly against crossing Erik Svensen, but there isn’t really a way around our night of thievery. I’ll just have to ask for forgiveness and pray to the fates that our plan doesn’t go south.
It isn’t until Erik’s past the large bronze sculpture depicting Moll Dyer outside of her ramshackle cabin in the Maryland woods that I let out a shaky breath.
Leaning in close to Gil, I whisper, “I thought for sure we were busted.”
“Have faith. You’ve got this.” Gil sets his empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Shall we get to work?”
I hand my glass to the same waiter and follow Gil to look at The Musicians by Caravaggio. While doing my best to seem as if I am admiring the lush colors and not-so-hidden sexuality of the painting, I keep sneaking peeks at Birdie and Eli as they chat with the couple in front of them in line. At the same time, I can feel what feels like a million sets of eyes on me as well as more than a few not-so-discreet camera phones aimed right at me.
Really, I should be used to it, and—between the past few weeks’ accidental glitching in public with Gil—it’s not like I don’t give people the fool they’re expecting. I can’t blame them for expecting more of the same even though I hate it. That is my lot in life. The null who fucks things up. Imagine if they knew that I’d frozen my family. It would be a gossip-feeding frenzy. I know it’s all part of the plan I came up with, but still . . . I hate it.
“They’re all watching us,” I mutter.
“I’m not surprised,” Gil says, slipping his hand across my back and coming to rest on my hip. “You look amazing.”
A blush heats my cheeks. “I don’t think that’s why anyone is looking at me.”
Quick as lightning, he moves so he’s in front of me, looking at me with an intensity that steals my breath. He cups my face in both his hands and kisses me like he is trying to tell me a million things in one all too brief touch. Then he steps back, his blue eyes stormy, and says, “Then they’re fools.”