Page 18 of Mystic Justice
‘I’m on the clock,’ I pointed out.
‘So is Channing and you gave him an hour. We’re taking one too,’ he said firmly. For once, I didn’t argue; I needed to refuel so why not do it with Krieg? He’d taken a few days’ holiday to spend time with me. The very least I could do was give him my lunch hour.
Chapter Nine
When I’d agreed to lunch with Krieg, I’d envisaged grabbing a bowl of pasta at the Olive Garden, or a quick pizza at Rudy’s. I hadn’t envisaged afternoon tea at The Panoramic 34.
The Panoramic 34 was set in the West Tower at the edge of the Liverpool docks. Three hundred feet above sea level, it was one of the UK’s highest restaurants. It didn’t just feelhigh, it felt almost celestial. Maybe, though, that was the company I was keeping.
Despite his casual jeans, my royal escort looked utterly relaxed in the fancy setting, and the waiters tripped over themselves in their eagerness to serve an obviously wealthy alpha male. The restaurant clung to the upper edge of the West Tower like a well-dressed eagle’s nest, all gleaming glass, soft lighting and hushed luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered stunning views. The River Mersey glittered with sunlight and I could even see rolling Welsh hills in the distance. Yeah, I’d give him that – it was one heck of a view.
If I hadn’t been in uniform and on the clock, it would have been the perfect date. As it was, the afternoon tea arrived almostimmediately when we sat down as if it had been conjured rather than painstakingly prepared. As far as I knew, The Panoramic 34 was wholly Common so no doubt Krieg had simply ordered ahead of our arrival.
A slate stand towered between us, its three tiers dressed to impress. The base offered neat finger sandwiches: slices of cucumber with mint crème fraiche; egg mayonnaise with micro-cress – my favourite – and rare roast beef folded over horseradish butter in soft brioche that made my mouth salivate at the thought of tasting it.
The middle tier was a riot of colour with cakes and pastries in an array of shapes and sizes. It was a fairy tale in sugar: miniature lemon possets in shot glasses; bright pink rosewater macarons; mini carrot-cake slices, and a tartlet filled with violet cream and topped with a single sugared pansy.
The top tier was all warm scones with a side of freshly churned butter, thick clotted cream and smooth strawberry preserve. My stomach growled audibly and I flushed a little.
I was on the job and Krieg knew it, so there was no prosecco, no cocktails, just tea, but it was proper loose-leaf tea poured into bone china cups through a silver strainer with enough ceremony to make me feel faintly awkward. I wasn’t used to silver service. To be honest, it all felt a bit much, but with the food looking so divine I was willing to put up with a side order of imposter syndrome. Besides, the company was certainly compelling. The only thing that would have made the whole thing better would have been a can of Dr Pepper.
As if she’d read my mind, a moment later a buxom waitress with a flirty smile held out a silver tray to Krieg. On it sat a chilled can of Dr P, condensation clinging to its sides. Involuntarily I licked my lips.
Krieg’s eyes darkened. Without sparing the waitress a single glance, he removed the can from the tray and, still holdingmy gaze, opened it. The loud crack resounded across the fancy restaurant like a gunshot, a challenge. It reminded me of the old Coke advert where a sexy guy stripped his shirt off and drank a can of Coke while an office full of women gaped at him.
If Krieg stripped off his shirt and drank my Dr P, I would pounce on him. Sadly for all concerned, he just set the can in front of me.
This was surely not the sort of place that usually stocked something so crass as Dr Pepper – and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t serve it in a can – but there was something about sipping from the metal that I’d always loved. And Krieg was nothing if not observant.
He watched intently as I took my first sip of bubbly rich goodness then set down the can with a satisfied smile. ‘Honestly, Krieg, you don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘One day,’ he murmured, voice low, ‘I’ll taste it from your lips.’
I swallowed. Hard.
‘One day soon,’ he promised, his eyes lingering on my lips as he licked his own.
Oh boy. I was in so much trouble.
I was a woman who faced things head on and this – whateverthiswas – could be no exception. I took another sip from my can, selected an egg-mayo sandwich and marshalled my courage. ‘Talk to me about the fact that you think I’m your mate.’
He stared at me for a beat then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Inspector,’ he said when he’d recovered himself. ‘I’m used to people pussy-footing around me.’
‘I won’t do that,’ I said firmly. ‘Life is too short.’ My dad’s death had taught me that at too young an age.
Krieg discreetly fed Loki some of the sandwiches as he framed his response. My cheeky bird companion was resting in a large plant pot and staying still; at a glance he could have passed fora statue. However, his stillness went out of the window when Krieg passed him some beef and he gave a happy warble as he chowed it down.
With Loki taken care of, Krieg selected his own beef sandwich with his left hand and took my left hand in his right. He interlaced our fingers and his thumb stroked my skin almost absently. He took a bite of his sandwich whilst my insides grew hotter and hotter at every casual swipe of his skin. ‘You’re distracting me,’ I complained a shade breathlessly.
He smiled. ‘Good.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘You’re also avoiding my question.’
He laugh again. ‘Not enough, it seems. I do so admire your tenacity.’
I started again. ‘A witch brewed you a potion to reveal your intended mate.’
Krieg’s look of admiration grew. ‘So clever, Inspector.’
