Page 19 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
“Not many lighthouses in this landlocked city,” I pointed out, submitting yet another application for a retail position I was overqualified for.
“Spirit medium? You’ve clearly got some sensitivity to the supernatural.”
“I think accidentally summoning one demon doesn’t qualify me as a professional psychic.”
“You’re no fun.” He poked me with his toe. “What about art? You’re always drawing.”
I paused, surprised he’d noticed. “That’s just a hobby.”
“A hobby you’re good at,” he insisted. “Those sketches on your walls? They’re excellent. Especially the one of the old man with the umbrella.”
I felt an unexpected surge of pleasure at the compliment. “You really think so?”
“I’ve seen art throughout human history,” he reminded me. “You have genuine talent.”
“Talent doesn’t pay bills,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling warmed by his words.
By evening, I’d applied to fifteen jobs, ranging from promising (another coffee shop with slightly better pay) to desperate (night shift at a gas station). My eyes were burning from staring at screens, and my mood had sunk back into anxiety about my financial situation.
Deus, sensing my stress, insisted on making dinner—a surprisingly delicious stir-fry with vegetables I didn’t remember buying.
“Don’t ask,” he said when I questioned where the food had come from. “Just enjoy it.”
After dinner, he drew me a bath, complete with some kind of aromatic oil that filled the bathroom with a scent like cedar and spice.
“Get in,” he instructed. “You need to relax.”
“Are you joining me?” I asked, only half-joking. My tiny bathtub could barely fit one person, let alone someone of Deus’s size.
“Not this time.” He brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “This is just for you. Soak, relax, stop thinking about jobs for a while.”
I didn’t argue, stripping down and sinking into the hot water with a groan of appreciation. Whatever oil he’d added made my skin tingle pleasantly and seemed to ease the tension from my muscles.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Deus was gently shaking my shoulder. “Water’s getting cold,” he said. “Time to get out before you turn into a prune.”
I stood, water cascading off my body, suddenly self-conscious in a way I hadn’t been last night in the heat of passion. Deus handed me a towel, his eyes appreciative but not overtly sexual as they moved over me.
“Feel better?” he asked as I dried off.
“Much,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He handed me a t-shirt and boxers that he must have retrieved from my bedroom. “Now, bed. You’re exhausted.”
I changed and followed him to the bedroom, where he’d turned down the covers and placed a glass of water on the nightstand. The domesticity of it all struck me again—this powerful supernatural being fussing over me like… like a boyfriend.
“Are you coming to bed too?” I asked, sliding under the covers.
“Do you want me to?”
I hesitated only briefly. “Yes.”
Deus smiled, a real smile without his usual smirk or sarcasm. “Then yes.”
He stripped down to boxers (when had he started wearing those?) and slid in beside me, his supernatural warmth immediately enveloping me. I turned toward him, resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Do demons need sleep?” I asked drowsily.
“Not like humans do.” His fingers carded through my hair, gentle and soothing. “But we can enjoy it. The stillness. The dreams.”
