FUCK?!
“I don’t care what Graham says. I’m going now and you can’t—Stop shaking your head at me!”
Mr. Man Bun stopped shaking his head.
But he did not move.
“You’re pissing me off,” I informed him.
“I see that.”
“Move!”
“Nope.”
“This is insane! You don’t even know me!”
“Precisely the point. We need to make sure you are who you say you are. Not some psychopathic pagan planning on butchering any livestock, leaving bloody pentacles, attempting to sacrifice Gwen during the next full moon… Any of that shit.”
I stared at him some more. Then, weakly, whispered, “Are you joking?”
He shook his head.
I was afraid of that.
“You’re nuts,” I announced, whirling around to scowl at the entire store as a collective unit. “All of you. Everyone in this city. Totally, completely,nuts. The whole can!” I pointed a finger at the twins, who were still lounging on the emerald sofa by the window display like they hadn’t a care in the world. “The fancy mixed kind, not just peanuts. We’re talking cashews, we’re talking almonds, we’re talking maca-freaking-damia!” My voice pitched upward, to a yell, as I turned back to Welles. “NUTS!”
Sometime during my tirade, the shop had fallen silent. I heard no more voices behind me. I did, however, hear the sound of measured footsteps slowly crossing the hardwood, getting closer and closer before finally coming to a stop directly behind me.
A tingle shot straight down my spine.
I was pretty sure I knew who was standing there, but I was far too cowardly to turn around and confirm my suspicions.
Mr. Man Bun didn’t move a millimeter, either. But his eyes shifted over my shoulder, locking on something — someone — that made his mouth tighten ever-so-slightly. And when that mouth muttered, “You have a claim, here?” I got the craziest sense he wasn’t talking to me.
This suspicion was confirmed when another voice — one I recognized instantly — responded with a deep, “Back off her, Welles. I’m not going to say it twice.”
Chapter Eight
Time is Irish. With a last name like O’Clock, how could it not be?
- Imogen Warner, taking an interest in genealogy
Cade’s shoulder brushed mine as he stepped up beside me. His eyes were locked on Welles and his face was set in a stone-cold expression I’d never seen him wear before. Probably because, despite his suggestion to “back off,” the man blocking the door had not moved even one of his (many,many) muscles.
“Guessing that’s ayeson the claim,” Welles said, cracking another grin.
Cade did not return said grin. “We’ve never had problems before, Welles. Let’s not start now.”
Welles lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Just following orders, Detective. Take it up with Graves.”
As if he’d been summoned, Graham joined the fray — trailed closely by Gwen, who was periodically smacking him on the arm as they crossed the room.
“See what you’ve done!”Smack. “Now Cade and Welles are in a standoff!”Smack. “And Imogen looks scared out of her ever-loving mind!”Smack. “Are you happy now, Graham Crackers? Huh? Are you?”
Graham was completely unaffected by the continual assault. He looked down into Gwen’s glaring face, mouth tugged up at one side in amusement. “If you’re trying to pick a fight with me just so we can have makeup sex later… It’s working.”
Smack! “You are so annoying!”