Page 22 of Nightmares and Numerology

Lydia

Angelo had the audacity to waltz into the shop, sit in one of my cushy chairs, and pick up a book while I worked.

He didn’t say anything to me right away. Eventually, I decided to put on a CD I knew he disliked to make a point. Yesterday, I would have paid to be in his arms, his lips on mine. It wasn’t just the pheromones, though they helped. It was the way he looked at me, as if I were the most vital and interesting thing in the world.

I could still feel that look, even from across the room, but this time it just pissed me off. He didn’t get to ghost me and then sit in my shop, watching me like a lion tracks a gazelle.

“Don’t you have a house showing to go to?” I snapped as I passed him for the umpteenth time. He’d slid lower in the chair, his legs in the aisle.

I narrowly dodged them again as I navigated the stacks. My shop wasn’t large, but it was roomier than the setup I had in Tiller. I wasn’t doomed to trip over Angelo in the cramped confines of my own damned business. If I was up close and personal with him, it was generally on purpose and almost always his idea. I’d never exactly complained about the times he’d sidled close before kissing me senseless, so I thought of it as a victimless crime. It was cat and mouse, a silent agreement we’d formed over the last few months. He liked the chase. So did I.

Right now, though? It was just making me angry. Angelo gave me a somewhat affronted look when I kicked his leg out of my way, steadying the precarious pile in my arms. I had no sympathy when he rubbed his shin idly, his gaze fixed on my back in bewilderment. I was being prickly, and I knew it.

“I don’t want to trip,” I said, unable to help myself, softening the kick with the only excuse I could think of. “Keep your legs toyourself.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, still eyeing me as I began to arrange my newest display. The new-agey stuff sold best, but I’d decided to splurge on a few more obscure texts most recently. “And no, I don’t have a house to show, to answer your question. Not for another two hours. I’m on a meal break.”

“But you’re not eating,” I pointed out.

In fact, he’d been leafing through what amounted to a sorcery-for-dummies book the entire time.

“I had a sandwich on the way over.”

“And the Subway employee who made it?” I added, my voice lowering to an unhappy grumble.

It was a cheap shot, and I knew it. Angelo hadn’t given me any real reasons to doubt his sincerity, but I wanted to question it anyway. It just didn’t make sense that someone so devilishly handsome could like someone like me. And it didn’t make sense for a playboy like Angelo to shackle himself to a monogamous relationship. If by some miracle he’d decided to defy biology and be content with just one person, why would it ever be me?

Ask,I thought to myself.Poppy gave you advice. Take it. Talk to him.

But I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to rail at him. I wanted to ask how he could do this to me. I’d put on makeup, for heaven’s sake! I almost never wore it these days. No point when I wasn’t looking for a date. Angelo had slunk into my life unexpectedly, settling like an absurdly attractive fixture before I could process it. He was in my life. That was just the way it was.

Thinking of him leaving wasn’t just painful; it felt unbearable, like losing a limb. But if I told him that, he’d run for the hills. And I couldn’t even blame him.

Angelo reached purposefully for the display I was working on, plucking a velvety black bookmark from the knick-knacks section before neatly slotting it into the pages of the book he’dbeen reading. He managed to do so without ever taking his eyes off me. I felt a mortified flush creep up my neck as he stared me down. I didn’t look away, though. It felt like letting him win. I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to beat him at, just that I didn’t want to be the one who blinked first.

The small sound the book made when it hit the end table beside his chair made me jump. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the shop. My radio had been trashed recently in a magic-related incident. I’d almost decided to get a white noise machine, if only to alleviate the claustrophobic quiet that tried to strangle the air from me. Pregnant silences stretched almost unbearably, like this one.

I shrank closer to the display when he stood and brushed past me, heading for the front door. For a long, guilty second, I was afraid I’d driven him out of the shop for good with the sudden and uncharacteristic bout of bitchiness that had overtaken me. I couldn’t even blame Indigo for this one. She’d be back tomorrow evening when the brew we’d come up with wore off and maybe it was a good thing she wasn’t witnessing this.

I expected Angelo to storm past me. Instead, he stopped just shy of the door, flicking my ‘We’re open’ sign to the ‘Sorry, we’re closed’ position. My heart pounded furiously when he drew the front shades down over my windows, plunging the midday shop into sudden twilight.

“What are you doing?” I protested weakly.

“Ensuring some privacy,” he said, brushing the creases from his slacks in a brisk, businesslike fashion. “Clearly, we need to talk.”

I lost my nerve first, dropping my eyes to the darkly stained wood under my fingertips instead. The flush was creeping onto my face now, and I hated my traitorous blood for outing me like this. If I could pull off the cool cucumber routine he’d mastered, I’d probably sell more. I just didn’t have that kind of poker face.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said without raising my gaze. What little light remained glinted off the surface of a crystal ball. They weren’t actually great for scrying, according to Indigo’s snooty lecture on the subject. You got better results with potions or plain water. I’d never tried it, so I couldn’t back up the claim.

Warm fingers closed like velvet restraints around one of my wrists, pinning my hand to the display table. My breath caught in my throat as Angelo’s weight pressed into me from behind. I could feel every well-sculpted inch of him against the line of my spine, caging me in place. I could only make a small, pleased exhale when his fingers wrapped around the column of my throat with infinite care. When his teeth found purchase against the throbbing beat of my pulse, I actually moaned.

“Bullshit,” Angelo chided me. “Something’s wrong. And you’re going to tell me what it is. Keep bullshitting me and I’ll...”

The hand on my throat dipped, skimming over my blouse with lazy, confident ease, undoing three buttons before I could blink, let alone protest. His hand disappeared, deftly shoving my bra out of the way before tweaking one nipple painfully. The gasp that escaped me was one part arousal, two parts outrage.

“We’re in public!”

“The door is locked, your sign says you’re closed, and you need to wind down.”

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