“No. I figured we’d order a few pizzas, maybe some mozzarella sticks like we had last time. Probably some breadsticks. A few pepperoni rolls.” He scratches his chin, thinking. “Then the cookie.”
I gape at him. “How are you in such good shape when you eat like that?”
He leans close and winks. “I like to sweat.”
Oddly, Gray doesn’t take offense to Jonathan’s flirting. Maybe he knows, like I do, that Jonathan is all talk. So what does that mean about Rafe?
“So what do you think?” Jonathan asks the group. “Food? Beer? Cookie?”
Except for Rafe, we turn our attention to Gray before anyone answers. Rafe just keeps walking, almost as if Jonathan hadn’t said anything at all.
“You all go ahead,” Gray says after a moment. “I have a few calls to make.”
“Gray,” I say quietly, touching his arm.
He leans down slightly so he can talk to me without the rest of the guys overhearing. “It’s fine. Go with the others.”
I could refuse, tell him I’m going with him, but we hit a big, fat roadblock, and I don’t want to crawl over it and continue the course we were traveling. So I nod and drop my hand.
We say our awkward goodbyes up ahead, and Gray goes one way while we go another.
Eric and Jonathan watch the lead knight go, wondering, like me, if they should call him back. But it’s probably best to let him have some time to himself.
I think I know what Gray’s real problem is—guilt. But it’s not always easy to apologize, especially when you haven’t forgiven yourself.
“Okay.” Jonathan claps his hands together, looking downright determined to have a good night. “Let’s consume copious quantities of calories.”
I grimace when he loops my arm through his and tugs me down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I’ll have the chicken salad.” I extend my menu to our waiter, who thankfully was not here last time and didn’t witness the spectacle my magic created.
Jonathan snatches the menu from my hand before the waiter can take it, playfully smacks me on the head with it, and then hands it to the befuddled man and says, “She’s having pizza.”
“Jonathan,” I hiss before I look back at the man. “The salad will be fine.”
“Cheater,” Rafe says under his breath, feeling the magic I infused in the words.
Jonathan catches it and smirks at me before he looks back at the waiter. “There’s an extra Benjamin Franklin in it for you if you forget the salad.”
The poor guy looks torn. He’s influenced by my magic, but he must need the money. And I’m not that cruel.
“Oh fine. I’ll eat the stupid pizza.” Then I point at Jonathan. “But you’re still coughing up the hundred.”
He grins. “It’s worth it.”
Our waiter collects the rest of the menus. Before he leaves, I stop him. “And a side salad. Please.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes.
“You know,” Rafe says, sitting back in his chair. “For the girl on the team who’s supposed to uphold the rules of the Guild, you’re certainly comfortable using your magic.”
The knight is in the seat directly across from me. Being with Jonathan and Eric has changed him, especially now that Gray is gone. He’s smiled, joked, even laughed.
It seems my eyes keep falling on him, but I wish they wouldn’t. He’s trouble, and I just escaped that with Gray.
You’re just a toy to fight over, I remind myself.
“Do you play pool?” Rafe asks me, startling me out of my thoughts.
I glance toward the tables near the rear of the restaurant. A couple are open.
“Do I look like the kind of girl who plays pool?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“I’ll teach you.” He stands and pushes in my chair.
Nervous, I shoot Jonathan a look.
“We’ll go too,” the Griffon says smoothly, standing. “I was just telling Eric that we haven’t played in forever.”
“You were?” Eric frowns like he’s trying to remember.
“I was.”
The four of us make our way to the tables. It looks like Rafe and I will be at the table closest to the wall, and Eric and Jonathan will play at the one next to that. Rafe takes the black triangle thing and sets up our game. While he does that, Jonathan and Eric take the blue square chalk things and rub them on the ends of their sticks.
“Okay, here’s how this works,” Jonathan says quietly, making sure no one else can hear. “If Rafe offers to help you break, it means he’s hitting on you. If he stands to the side, giving you instructions, you’re in the clear.”
I nod. “Right. What am I breaking?”
“The balls.”
I raise an eyebrow, and the Griffon grins, stepping to his table.
“All right, Lexie,” Rafe says after he removes the triangle. “You can break.”
Crap.
“Why does he keep calling her that?” Eric mutters to Jonathan.
“Stand right there.” Rafe points to a spot at the end of the table. “You’re going to hit the white ball—that’s called the cue ball. You want to knock it into the other balls as hard as you can. If you get one of the colored balls into a pocket, you get to go again.”
Relieved he’s still on the other side of the table, I step into place. “Sounds easy enough.”
The first time I try to hit the white ball, I miss. I do manage to tap it when Rafe tells me to try again, but it bounces harmlessly off the other balls.
“You’ll want to hit it a little harder than that,” Jonathan laughs.
I wrinkle my nose at him and then say, “Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
And he does. He takes aim on his own table, and the balls fly apart, rolling across the felt. Several fall into nearby pockets.
“Green fourteen, side pocket,” Jonathan announces, leaning down to go again, giving me a good view of his denim-clad back end.
“I’m beginning to see the appeal of the game,” I tease, not expecting to startle him so severely he misses the white ball altogether.
But I do, and he does.
Rafe and Eric laugh, and Jonathan gives me an incredulous grin.
“When you knock the white ball into a pocket, it’s called a scratch,” Rafe informs me as Eric steps up to take his turn. We watch Eric and Jonathan’s game for a few more moments as Rafe further explains the rules.
Eric makes several shots in a row, one right after another, and I begin to wonder if Jonathan’s going to get another turn. I watch him “work the table,” as Jonathan calls it, paying attention to angle and trajectory.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him when he stands near me.
Eric grins and leans down, taking aim. “Pretty girl, I’m good at plenty of things. I just don’t brag as much as Jonathan.”
“Why Eric, are you flirting with me?” I tease.
Eric takes his shot. He makes a disappointed noise when the ball rolls to a stop half an inch from the pocket. Then he turns back to me, resting the butt of the pool cue on the ground. “I figured it was my turn.”
“And what about the brunette sitting at the bar, making eyes at you? You’d still rather stand here and flirt with me?”
He leans down until we’re close to eye level. “Is she pretty?”
Grinning, I nod.
“You’re sure she’s looking at me?”
I lean a little closer. “I’m sure.”
“Should I go over there…?”
Laughing, I take his pool stick. “You should.”
He scampers off…like a bunny. Jonathan shakes his head, looking disgusted. “Explain to me why he should get all the girls just because he’s a six-foot-four, Viking-conqueror-lookalike.”
I cock my head to the side, watching Eric walk away. “It’s a mystery.”
Jonathan catches me and playfully shoves his shoulder into me, knocking me off balance. “Enough of that. Back to your game.”
> After studying the balls, I aim.
“You know, Jonathan,” I say, already smirking. “Maybe if you bleached your hair, girls might like you too.”
I hit the cue ball into an orange ball, but it doesn’t go the direction I’d hoped. When Jonathan doesn’t immediately answer, I straighten and turn to where he was standing a moment ago. “Jonathan?”
“He stepped away for a minute,” Rafe says from across the table. He nods toward the bar where the brunette is now sitting with her blond and curvy friend.
They’re both laughing at something Eric said. And there’s Jonathan, making his way toward them, weaving through the tables. He must have spotted the new girl before she even made it back to her seat.
I shake my head.
“He’s always had a thing for blonds,” Rafe explains as he leans down to take aim.
His shoulders flex against the soft fabric of his shirt, making me realize he’s a little stouter than I thought, but in a lean way, like a soccer or baseball player.
He meets my eyes before he takes the shot. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Without moving a muscle, he lowers his gaze and sends the ball into the corner pocket.
He’s like a panther—dark, dangerous, sexy.
Okay, maybe panthers aren’t sexy, but Rafe is. Everything about him is controlled power. Fleetingly, I wonder what his charisma magic feels like, how it differs from Wolves’. Or rather, from a particular Wolf’s.
I watch, distracted by the thought, as he makes his way around the table, sending several balls into various pockets before he finally misses.
He smiles as he ruefully shakes his head, irritated he missed the shot.
“I didn’t set that up well for you at all,” he says, studying the table. “You’re going to want to go to the right side and try to bounce the cue off the wall so it hits the edge of the ball and sends it in.”
Biting my lip, I nod, trying to picture the angles. I lean down, taking aim.
“A little more to the left,” he says, walking around the table, stepping next to me.
I shift marginally. “More like this.”
“No, more like—” he cuts off abruptly, and then steps behind me. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Immediately, I try to leap up, offering him the stick.
He shakes his head, his eyes on the table. “No, you’ll do it. I’ll just help.”
Help—yep. I need help. Lots and lots of help. Because Rafe’s behind me, leaning against me, practically draped over my back. My magic purrs as it mingles with his. He sets a hand on mine and slides it back. “Hold it here. Doesn’t that feel better?”
“Mmmhmm,” I say absently.
I was hoping fear would keep me focused, but it’s gone up in smoke. Rafe is nothing like Trent’s weak impersonation. It’s impossible to link the two anymore.
He moves my other hand, keeping his on top to help me find the right angle to make the shot.
And I know it makes me the worst kind of girl considering I’ve already kissed two other men in less than a week, but my stomach clenches at his nearness. The subtle scent of his aftershave envelops me, and he’s warm at my back.
“Okay,” he murmurs near the vicinity of my ear. “Now, gently.”
He guides my hands, and then the cue ball is heading for the other ball. It clips its side, sending it right for the pocket. I hold my breath as the green ball almost comes to a stop…and then finally falls down the pocket.
For one moment, I forget about Rafe, and I squeal under my breath, pretty darn proud of myself. Then I quickly straighten, knowing I need to put space between us. But Rafe doesn’t step back. He stays behind me, his chest pressed against my shoulders. Just when I'm about to step away, he sets his hand on my arm, just above my elbow, his touch light but scorching.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice slightly husky.
My knees weaken, and I set a hand on the table to steady myself. “Do I like it?” I almost squeak.
“The game? Pool?” Rafe steps back, allowing me to turn, giving me a questioning look that’s laced with something smug. He so did it on purpose. “It’s fun, right?”
I nod, unable to find my tongue.
He jerks his head toward the table, his dark blue eyes never leaving mine. “The pizza’s ready.”
Thank goodness.
I follow him to the table, still a little wobbly. Eric, Jonathan, and their two new friends join us as we’re sitting down.
Jonathan hands out plates, but I reach for my side salad.
“No,” the Griffon scolds, meeting my eyes. “You have to eat one slice.”
I roll my eyes. I thought he was so distracted by Blond and Bubbly over there that he wouldn’t notice or care what I ate.
“Why are you so obsessed with this?” I ask as I scowl at the cheesy, meaty slice of heartburn he so generously places in front of me.
He points the tip of his slice at me. “You need to live a little.”
“And living requires pizza?”
Rafe somehow ends up in the seat next to me, and he leans close. “It does if you’re Jonathan.”
Wrinkling my nose, I pick the slice up and scowl at it, mentally planning my next detox. Bracing myself, I take the tiniest kitten nibble.
And…oh.
“See?” Jonathan says, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Good, right?”
“It’s okay,” I say after taking a rather large bite, holding my hand over my mouth because I’m a lady.
We’re halfway through dinner when the girls start asking questions about our jobs.
“I work with the Department of Wildlife,” Eric says, lying so smoothly I pause while serving myself another piece of pizza. “My job involves finding young that have lost their mothers and taking them back to the department to raise until they’re old enough to make it on their own.”
Chrissy—that’s the brunette—gets all googly-eyed. “Oh my gosh. You save baby animals?”
He turns to her, his face solemn. “I do my best. The hard part is not getting too attached. Eventually, we have to let them go.”
She stares at him, her glossy pink mouth parted. “That must be so hard.”
Eric nods and inhales slowly—as if he’s thinking of a particularly hard release.
It takes a lot of willpower not to laugh…or maybe clap—because that was quite a performance.
“Do you work with him?” Samantha—aka Blond and Bubbly—asks Jonathan. “Do you save baby animals too?”
She has this high-pitched voice that makes me want to slap a hand over her mouth. Which is awful, I know. But I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately.
Jonathan shakes his head. “No, I’m in law enforcement.”
Samantha’s eyes sweep over him, and I can practically see her mentally dressing him in a uniform. “Are you a cop?”
“Detective.”
She bites her lip and wiggles until she’s on the edge of her seat, practically sitting in his lap. “Can I see your badge?”
For the love of—
Thankfully, my phone vibrates with a call, giving me a reason to look away. “It’s Gray,” I murmur to whoever might be listening. Which ends up being no one. They’re all too busy watching Jonathan produce a badge—an actual badge.
He carries props?
“Hi,” I say to Gray when I answer the phone. “It’s loud in here. I’m going to head to the hall outside the restroom to see if it’s a little quieter.”
“No, just come out front. I’m here.”
“You’re here?” I ask, surprised. “Why don’t you come inside?”
There’s a moment of heavy silence on the other side, and then he says in a weary voice, “I’m not ready to deal with Rafe.”
“Then why are you here? Just go back to the suite. Jonathan and Eric have made some new friends, but I’ll drag them out of here shortly.”
“I want…no, I need to talk to you.”
“To me?” I ask, my stomach knot
ting. He sounds tired, and his tone is off—like whatever he has to say is weighing on him.
“Please, Madeline.”
It must be serious because he so rarely uses my name.
“All right. I’m on my way.” I pass through a large group of people that showed up all at once, and then I slip out the doors. It’s still light outside, but the sun has set, and the evening is quickly growing dusky.
Gray’s next to the front door, leaning against the side of the building.
I walk his way. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside—”
Before I can finish the sentence, Gray turns. And it’s not Gray at all—the eyes are all wrong.
“Sleep,” the pixie commands, placing his hand on my head before I can back away. Drowsiness settles over me like a sun-warmed blanket, and the urge to close my eyes is stronger than I am. As I feel myself falling into Trent’s arms, one last thought crosses my mind.
How did Trent get a hold of Gray’s phone?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I wake to a man’s voice talking heatedly in an adjacent room. Feeling as if I’m in a fog, I blink my eyes and look at my surroundings. I’m on a couch—an old one with scratchy fabric and saggy cushions. It smells musty, like it’s been closed up in a damp room for a long time.
Heavy drapes cover the windows, but sunlight shines through the slit in the middle where the panels meet, and dust motes sparkle in the slice of light.
As my brain clears, I remember finding Trent posing as Gray outside the building, and I sit up abruptly. My head protests, pounding loudly, and I press my hands to my face, waiting for it to pass.
I should have asked for Jonathan’s stupid codeword.
When the pain finally lets up, I drop my hands and stand, being careful not to make any more sudden movements.
The room is small, and with the dark, cheap trim, gray shag carpet, and popcorn ceiling, it looks like it was built and furnished in the early eighties. A black wood stove sits in the corner, on a slab of red brick, and a dusty collection of fire pokers sits in a rack to the side.
But there’s no sign of Gray.
The flat wooden door is closed, though I can still hear a voice that sounds like it’s talking to someone on the phone on the other side.
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