Page 32 of Wooing the Wiccan
“Fine.”
We turn in that direction, and I pull out my phone and open the app as we walk silently over. It’s too early for any cars to be waiting, too early even for the arena staff who manage the lines to be out here, so we stand in silence in the cold night, just the three of us, waiting the six minutes for my driver to arrive.
“He’s not welcome in my house, by the way,” I announce. Partly because it’s true, and partly because the need to cause trouble is riding me hard.
“He’s not that bad,” Raðulfr begins, but Eoin interrupts.
“That’s fine.” He stares me down. “I’ll just wait in the same place we’ve been waiting every time he’s visited.”
My skin crawls, and I slowly turn to glare at Raðulfr. “What?”
“I’m telling Dáithí about this,” he snaps at Eoin, then grimaces apologetically at me. “I have security. They… don’t like it when I’m far from them. I set boundaries, but they’ve still been close.”
There were people outside my house, watching my house, while Raðulfr and I were inside? While we were cooking together and watching TV and practicing magic? While we werehaving sex?
“How close?” I practically shout the question, and Raðulfr rushes to appease me.
“Not that close. Boundaries. But they were there.”
I shudder, and then, just as my car pulls up, another thought strikes. “That woman at the bookstore on our second date,” I whisper.
Raðulfr’s face says it all.
“That was Niamh,” Eoin says helpfully, and suddenly do no harm seems like a stupid edict to live my life by. “She likes you more now that she’s seen your cat.”
Eyes sliding shut, Raðulfr slowly shakes his head.
“Is that a threat?” I demand, ready to throw away over a decade of peaceful practice to defend Margie.
Eoin looks confused. “No. I’m just saying?—”
“Is one of you Jared?”
We all swing around to look at the guy half out of the car in front of us, and I pull myself together.
“I am. Sorry. I’m ready.”
“Half an hour?” Raðulfr asks desperately, and I nod, not willing to risk speaking right now. Instead, I get into the car and close the door.
“You okay?” my driver questions, eyeing me in the rearview mirror, and I try to remember what his name is.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
He waits a beat, as if to see if I’m going to say anything else, then says, “Still going to the address in the app?”
“Yes, please.”
“’Kay. Traffic looks good, so we should be there in fifteen.”
“Thank you.” I make a mental note to tip him extra, and as the car pulls out of the pickup zone, I lean back against the seat, exhausted.
My mind is spinning, but I know one thing: If I want to hear the truth, the sniping has to stop… or at least be scaled back. I have to listen. I have to come up with a list of questions that need to be answered. And boy, do I have questions.
Too bad I’m scared of what the answers might be.
Which brings me to the big question. Do I actually want to hear the truth? I have a feeling that once I do, there’s no going back. Would it be easier to just lock the door and forget I ever met Raðulfr?
Or do I want to try to salvage what I thought we had between us?
