Page 1 of Enticing the Elf
CHAPTER ONE
Dáithí
EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO
The elevator doors open,the same way they do a million times every day, and I give myself a second to finish sending the email memo telling staff that the hallways are not to be used for putt-putt golf. Not that I think office golf is a bad idea—I took part in the last tournament myself, and placed very respectably. But Steffen got antsy at the sight of all the golf clubs and balls, calling them “thinly disguised cudgels and projectile weapons,” so I promised to send the email. Steffen’s not always easy to deal with, but he’s one of my favorite people.
Hitting Send, I look up and do a double take. Speak of the devil… though it’s not actually Steffen, it’s his twin brother who I didn’t even know existed until a few years ago. I tried to find out what was up with that but very quickly hit a wall of silence that, in my experience, means something’s classified. As the receptionist at the Dragon-Elf Alliance, and prior to that the Keeper of Time for the King of the Elves—same thing, different name—I’m great at recognizing the difference between “don’t want to say” and “can’t say because it’s classified.”
I smile and say, “Ronan, right? Brandt said you were coming in. Take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.” I can seehimout of the corner of my eye, but I refuse to acknowledge his presence. It’s the first time he’s been in the office all week, and I’ve been waiting for this chance to show him how pissed I am.
“Thank you.” Ronan’s voice is hoarse, but he clears his throat and smiles back at me. I blink, disconcerted. His face is identical to Steffen’s, and Steffen never smiles.
As Ronan turns away, Eoin glares suspiciously at his back, and indignation mixes with my simmering anger. How dare he stand there with his arms crossed, all judgy of someone Brandt personally introduced to me? Does he think he knows better than Brandt? How dare he even breathe the same air as me after what he did?
I snap, “What’s your problem? Stop loitering in my space and go pretend you do some work around here.”
Eoin’s brow rises, but he doesn’t say anything. Or leave, damn him.
“Ugh!” I throw up my hands in exasperation, then grab the spray bottle of water I keep on the desk and give him a few good spritzes. It’s incredibly satisfying.
“Hey!” Eoin steps back fast, hands up in defense against the water. “Quit that!”
“Serves you right. Now get the mop and clean up that mess, then get to work,” I order. He knows I’ll spray him again if he doesn’t, but this time with the other bottle. The one with the bespelled water that will make him itch for the rest of the day. I may not be as big and muscled as a lot of the people here, but I know how to maintain order in the office. Eoin knows the regular bottle was the only warning he’ll get.
He gives me a flat look, but fetches the mop from the utility closet and swabs the wet spot on the floor. I keep one eye on him but pretend he doesn’t exist.
The security gate opens, and Steffen steps out. Ronan, who I’d forgotten was here, goes to meet him. Seeing them together is a little trippy—the clothes and hair are the only way to tell them apart, unless you count Steffen’s scowl.
Ronan smiles at me again, then follows Steffen through the security gate, and I focus all my attention on the screen in front of me. I am alone. There is nobody else here. Certainly not a six-foot-tall warrior hottie who smashed my heart to pieces.
Okay, not my heart. Nobody who’s heard the stories of Eoin’s past could think their heart would be safe with him. Eoin’s known for being a good time, not a long time, and I’d never get into anything with him expecting a commitment.
But definitely my pride was smashed. My ego. My weekly budget. Manscaping and new clothes for a hot date are expensive, and the price doesn’t change just because the date turns out to be not-so-hot.
From the corner of my eye, I seenobodyput the mop away and come to stand beside my desk. I pretend to be reading an email. Dammit, why won’t the phone ring? The thing never fucking stops when there’s a bunch of people waiting, but right now, when I would desperately welcome all four lines lighting up, it’s silent.
“Dáithí…” He pitches his voice low, coaxing. Or he would if he existed. Which hedoes not. “Come on, Dáithí. You can’t just ignore me forever.”
If he really believes that, he’s got a very rude awakening coming his way. Sure, I can’t ignore him professionally, but that doesn’t mean I have to chat with him. I’ll put through calls and coordinate visitors and do all the other things I take care of for everyone in the office, but that’s it. No more special coffee orders, no more flirty notes, no more favors. He has a weakness for Double-Stuff Oreos, but I’m no longer ordering them for the break room. It’s back to the boring cookies.
“Dáithí, please. Just let me explain. How can I explain when you won’t even look at me?”
The nerve! I turn on him. “Explain? Explain?!” My voice rises. “There is no explaining!”
“I swear there is,” he pleads, looking at me with those big, chocolate-colored eyes that used to give me butterflies but don’t anymore. Nope. Nuh-uh. “Please? I’m so sorry, but I swear, there’s an explanation.”
I sniff. “Oh, really? You canexplain, can you? Go on, then.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Explain why you flirted with me, made me think you were interested. Why you asked me out and promised me a good time. Why I turned up to the restaurant”—after many preparations—“and found you’d pre-ordered an expensive bottle of wine and hors d’oeuvres for us… but you weren’t there. You never showed. And you stuck me with the check!” That’s the part that burns the most. I was excited when I arrived and found he’d gone to such trouble. I accepted a glass of wine and waited, sure he’d be there any minute… any second now… surely he was about to walk in the door? I even tried calling, convinced he must be on his way, stuck in traffic. But he never showed, and eventually, humiliated and infuriated by the pitying looks from other diners and the servers, I got up to leave.
Only for the manager to cringe as she presented me with the bill. Another expense my budget wasn’t prepared for. At least she had the heart to let me take the bottle of wine and hors d’oeuvres with me. She even slipped in a big slice of chocolate mousse cake for me to eat at home, in my underwear, alone, between swigs of rich red wine that cost more than I usually spend on a whole meal.
“They charged you?” In his defense—no, Dáithí, no defense!—he sounds outraged. “They made me leave a credit card on file!I thought… I amsosorry. I’ll pay you back. How much was it?” He’s already reaching for his wallet.
The figure I name is double what it actually cost, and he pauses, shooting me a suspicious look, but then hands over the cash anyway. I guess he feels guilty. I can live with that—I got my balls waxed, and he didn’t bother to turn up.
