Page 11 of Witches and Wine
Mortification consumed me, and I fought the compulsion to lift the collar of my shirt over my face. “Will do, see you tomorrow.” I rushed the words before I power walked toward my building.
“I’m super stoked to have run into you, Red,” Dion shouted after me with his hands cupped around his mouth.
Given it was three in the morning, I looked for a light turning on from one of the apartment windows, yelling at us to pipe down. Not answering him, I pointed to myself and then held up two fingers.
Dion chuckled, used his thumb to scratch his chin, and turned on his heel with his hands in his pockets.
And here we had it. I was about to let Dionysus, a Greek god, attempt to seduce me. I knew it. He knew it. And now, therewasn’t any more beating around the bush over it. But there was too much fun still to be had before letting myself fully succumb to his charm. That is—if I couldhelpmyself.
I’d walked homein an actual fucking daze. Not only had I miraculously run into Chelsea Stewart, but I’d run into herinArcane Cove. It took every ounce of restraint in my godly arsenal not to physically let my jaw drop to the floor to move past the initial shock of seeing her in the flesh again. The dawning realization that if she was here, the wards allowed her to pass through—defensive wards placed by sorcerers and warlocks. They shielded the Cove like an invisible dome to prevent any non-magical beings from finding the hidden sanctuary.
It begged the question—what was she then? A nymph? Nah, she was far too reserved. A sprite? Too tall. There was the possibility of a faerie, but as spellbinding as Chelsea’s jade eyes were, they weren’t that uncommon of a color.
Then I’d catapulted into a panic—me, Dionysus, the most laid-back god of them all—panickedover how I was going to see her again as fast as inhumanly possible. But I’d always been one to think quickly on my feet, and work is something that never leftRed’s mind. I’d offered to help her forherbetterment, sure, but it also selfishly gave me the juiciest of excuses to be around her all. Damn. Day.
I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t seen Bruce lying on the steps leading to my building’s entrance. Then again, stairs weren’t a typical place where one chose to take a nap. I lifted my booted foot, glaring down at the grumbling satyr who I often called my friend and occasional assistant.
“Bruce, what the Tartarus are you doing outside my building? Did you get drunk at the pixie party again?” When he only answered with more grunting, I lightly shoved my boot into his portly stomach.
Bruce giggled like the Pillsbury Doughboy, rubbing his vest-covered stomach, his hooved feet curling upward. He wrapped a finger around one of his small horns sprouting from the front of his skull covered in a thick mass of dark brown hair, still happily sleeping away and not waking up.
Sighing, I snapped my fingers, producing a chalice of water, and poured it over Bruce’s head.
Bruce screeched, sputtered, and clamored to stand, holding both fists in the air as if he were ready to fight whoever attempted to drown him. “I know I don’t look like much, but I—” He blinked when he spotted me and lowered his hands. “Boss. Didn’t see you there.”
“How could you? You were passed out on the stairs.” Brushing past him, I fluttered my burgundy magic as a pin code and paused with the door half ajar once I heard Bruce’s hooves scraping the concrete behind me.
Bruce slipped his hairy arms behind his back, dragging the point of one hoof back and forth in front of him. “Don’t suppose you’d find it in your good graces to let me crash on your couch until I sleep this off?”
“I thought we talked about this.” Leaning on the doorframe, I hung my thumb through a belt loop. “Remember what I said?”
Bruce wrapped a hand around each horn, clenching them for support. “That it was the last time you’d sort out my mistake if I got carried away at the pixie party again.”
“That’s right. Are you making me out to be a liar?” The skin beneath my eye twitched because I bit the inside of my cheek so harshly to keep from cracking my demeanor.
Bruce’s eyes went wide as harvest moons, and he clip-clopped several times. “No, sir, not at all. It’ll never happen again. Cross my heart and hope for some pie.”
I rolled my eyes at my sad excuse for an assistant, not bothering to correct him. “Shut up, you old goat. We both know that’s not true. And what kind of god of debauchery would I be to look down on partying so hard you passed out on concrete stairs?”
Bruce perked up at that, his small, bushy tail swaying in delight. “Does that mean you’ll let me in?”
Not answering, I pushed open the door but blocked him with my leg before he entered. “This is the last time, though, Bruce. You get drunk off your ass as much as you want with the pixies so long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. And next time, because therewillbe many more times, you bother Selene at the inn instead. Understood?”
“Crystalline clear, boss,” Bruce answered, saluting me.
“What are you doing?”
“Saluting you, sir. Captain.” Bruce squinted one eye, which meant he was desperately trying not to see double.
Growling, I yanked him inside. “For fuck’s sake, get in here.”
Usually, I’d opt to take the stairs as an act of normalcy, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to carry Bruce’s sorry ass up them, so I coaxed him into the elevator—still normal enough, probably more so. As it ascended to the top floor, I crossed my armsand leaned against the wall, propping Bruce up with one foot, grimacing at the drool dripping from his mouth and gathering in a puddle at his hooves.
Once the doors binged open and I gave Bruce a nudge, we eventually made it into my loft apartment, and Bruce begrudgingly crawled to my black leather couch facing the wall of windows. The satyr pawed at one of four satin, wine-colored pillows on the couch and stuffed it under his head after combing his beard with his fingers.
“Say, boss, why were you out so late, huh? I thought you normally got in around one thirty?” Bruce asked, his eyes already growing heavy.
I’d made a beeline for the kitchen, strolling past one of four ceiling-to-floor wooden wine racks I owned filled with varieties of wine, some dating back to early Earth years in the seventeen hundreds. Grabbing a random bottle, I yanked the cork out with my teeth and flipped a glass with pewter ivy swirling up its stem onto the countertop.
