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“Huh.” Callie takes another sip. Then another.

That’s my girl.

“And the food?” She asks, her attention turning to her plate.

“Not made from horse piss either.”

She looks heavenward. Gods I relish exasperating her! She should know by now that I take particular pleasure innotanswering her questions.

“That’s not what I mea—”

Using my magic, I make her fork scoop up some of the chicken from one of the plates, then levitate it towards her mouth.

“Des!” She looks around us, afraid someone will see a fork successfully fighting the laws of gravity.

Her naiveté is another endearing feature of hers. I wouldn’t pull a stunt like this without shielding my magic from unwanted eyes.

The prongs of the fork bump her lips, and a bit of the chicken falls off of the utensil, landing on her white shirt.

She wrestles the fork away from her mouth. “Oh my God,fine, I’ll try it already. Stop hustling me.”

I kick my heels up on the table, eating a bit of my kabob as she tries the dish.

An hour later, our plates are clean, and Callie has polished off two glasses ofchichawhen we finally leave the restaurant. Her cheeks have a rosy hue to them.

Shit. She’s a lightweight.

Definitely taking her homebeforeI meet my client. Between her lowered inhibitions, the relentless siren that’s been making her skin flicker like a strobe light, and my own protectiveness, mixing business and pleasure right now might be a very bad thing.

She stumbles into me as we leave the restaurant, giggling a little as she tries to right herself.

“Whoops!” she says, her skin flaring to life for the twelve thousandth time.

Her eyes alight upon the tourist shop across the street.

Fuck me.

She gasps dramatically. “I want to get you something.” She’s eyeing the tacky shelf of mugs that sit inside the shop.

“Please don’t.”

“C’mon, Des,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Ipromiseyou’re going to like it.”

“Do you even know what a promise is?” I ask her ten minutes later, when she heads to the cashier with my “gift.” I frown at the lime green shirt tucked under Callie’s arm; it has a cartoon llama on it andCuscowritten beneath.

Buzzed Callie has poor taste in souvenirs.

Salvation, however, comes in the form of an actual llama. I don’t know what the hell the owner is thinking, bringing the beast through the streets of Cusco, but even mated, I’m considering kissing him.

Callie’s eyes widen at the sight of the beast, and the shirt slips out from under her arm, falling, forgotten, to the floor. “It’s … a llama.”

Sometimes, I just can’t handle this girl.

She heads out onto the street, abandoning her quest to find me the perfect souvenir. My normally reserved mate approaches the man and his llama, cooing at the creature.

Ah, be still my heart.

I follow behind her, and in Spanish I ask the man, “Do you mind if my friend pets your llama?”