“No.”
“So, you get me.”
“Graham,” I said with so much fake sweetness, I was thinking of changing my middle name to Aspartame. “I have never, not once, evergotten you.”
He studied my face for a long beat. “Uh huh.”
“Uh huh,what?”
He did not deign to clarify.
I looked at him a bit more closely. His hair was longer than I remembered, the thick dark strands curling around his shirt collar. I doubted he’d had it cut since our paths last crossed several months ago, at the backyard barbecue Flo and Des hosted on the Fourth of July. I’d tried to stay far, far from his vicinity all day, but every time I turned around he seemed to be there — reaching for another beer in the cooler at the same time I did, coming up behind me in the kitchen when I was refilling a bowl of tortilla chips, brushing uncomfortably close to me when I exited the bathroom and found him waiting his turn in the narrow hallway. The harder I tried to escape him, the more the universe seemed to push him in my direction.
How annoying was that?
“Whatever,” I muttered, returning my focus to the present. “You’re clearly delusional.”
Graham shot a pointed look at the bottle of Jilted Juice on the countertop, then smirked. “Yes. That’s it. You run a business selling magic potions andI’mthe delusional one.”
“Feel free to leave if my shop offends you.” I paused. “Seriously. Go on.Leave.”
“Is that any way to treat someone who just saved your ass?”
“I had it well in hand.”
“Did you?” His other brow arched to join its mate. “Looked to me like he was about to wring your neck.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I bluffed. The man wastotallyabout to wring my neck and likely would’ve without Graham’s intervention. Not that I was about to admit it.
“I suppose you were ready to whip out a magic wand to keep him at bay.”
“Funny,” I snapped.
“Defensive ward?”
I glared at him.
He grinned. It was an annoyingly good grin. “Rune of protection?”
“You know, for someone who claims to hate the supernatural, you sure know a lot about it.”
He rolled right past that comment. “Let me guess, you were going to jab a crystal in his eye socket.”
“That’s one way to get rid of the citrine,” I said under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” My eyes narrowed. “Pray tell, is there a reason for this visit?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see you, Glinda.”
“Gwendolyn.” The correction came out in a low, vicious bite. His nickname for me, inspired byThe Wizard of Oz, was neither cute nor funny. Especially not the way he always said it. (Read: mockingly.) “My name is Gwendolyn. Or Gwen, to my friends.” I paused. “You can call me Gwendolyn.”
His grin widened. His teeth were very white against his tan and very, very straight. His amusement seemed to expand in direct proportion to my annoyance. And the more amused he appeared, the more my annoyance grew. Such was the way of our strange, adversarial acquaintance.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re here or are we going to stand around taking in circles all day?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I have things to do.”
His gaze dropped, tracking my arm movement, and stayed there. Awareness seared through me. I didn’t need to look down to know that the silky material of my blouse was now pulled tight against my chest, an unintentional consequence of my uppity posturing. I quickly dropped my hands and curled them into fists at my sides instead.