Page 8 of The Witching Hours

Brigid chuckled. “I really am. Kiss. Kiss. Bye.”

She was feeling like the farthest thing from lucky, but she didn’t let that keep her from feeling grateful for her sister’s ministrations.

When the doorbell rang, she assumed it was grocery delivery. So, she answered without checking to see who it was.

The person standing on her porch had no groceries. He was also a ringer for that Ralph Lauren model who’s a real-life Argentinian polo player. Of course, he was wearing a white polo with the collar turned up under a black, expensive-looking puffy. Brigid was pretty sure she’d never seen a person so perfectly perfect.

His supremely confident smile said the vacant look she had on her face wasn’t a unique reaction. “You called?”

She shook her head slightly. “Called?” She looked past his shoulder to see if the grocery van was parked in the drive. “Not unless you’re grocery delivery.”

He waggled his head a little then said, “In a sense. At least that’s a small part of what I can do. You’re inviting me in then.”

“Inviting you in? No! I’m not. I, uh, don’t know you. Who are you?”

He lowered his chin and stared into her eyes in a way that sent a chill all the way down her spine. “I’m the one you called.”

“I didn’t call you,” Brigid protested.

He smiled. “Pretty sure you did.”

“Didn’t. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m closing the door now.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Why?”

“Because if you do, I will leave and I’m getting the sense that you won’t know how to get me back.”

“What makes you think I would want to get you back?”

“Because I’m the only one who knows where your husband’s life insurance policy is.”

Brigid’s lips parted and suddenly she wanted to hear what the beautiful man had to say. When he started forward, she moved aside and allowed him to cross the threshold. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a hard refusal either.

“Alright. You can come in, but just so you know. I’m not alone.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “Kenny’s in your bed. Blake and Judd are engaged with Grand Theft Auto upstairs.”

“Grand Theft Auto?” I sounded like a dumb ass, but really. I knew enough to know my boys aren’t old enough to be playingthatgame.Noboys are old enough for that game. And where did they get it? “How do you know my boys’ names? And how do you know where they are and what they’re doing?” She looked him up and down. “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s here to help. And you need help, don’t you? Without my intervention they’ll be coming to dismantle your life. And that would be a shame.” He turned right into the study like he knew the way. Brigid followed like she was the guest. “Let’s have some wine,” he said as he removed his jacket and laid it across the ottoman. “Maybe sit by the fire? And talk about your predicament? I like a nice red blend when the weather is cold. How about you?”

On the table between the two red leather chairs, there were two crystal glasses of wine she hadn’t poured waiting by the fire she hadn’t lit. She didn’t remember him bringing wine. The bottle wasn’t one she recognized, and she was the one who stocked their wine column.

He sat, he gestured toward the other chair imperiously. “Come. Sit.”

Still staring at the wine, she said, “Where did this wine come from? I don’t drink wine in the middle of the day.”

“Well, why not?” he smiled. “That seems like a rather silly rule. Did you make it up or just absorb it like a sponge with no brain cells.”

“I didn’t allow you in to be insulted.”

“Well, finally. There you are, Brigid.”

Brigid sat, but didn’t accept the wine. “You know our names. What is yours?”

“Amon.”

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