Page 15 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Definitely on the Menu

DONATELLO

Donatello’s headache pulsed behind his eyes like a living creature, feeding on spreadsheets and bureaucratic nonsense.

He blamed the beanie squeezing his skull, the lilac disaster underneath it, and most of all, the witch responsible for both, now seated beside him—typing with infuriating efficiency, the clacking keyboard making his migraine even worse.

“Are you planning to glare at me all day or do something productive?” Andromeda asked without looking up from her screen.

“I’m multitasking,” Donatello replied, shifting his attention back to the request forms. “I can despise you and still be productive.”

That earned him a genuine laugh—a sound that coiled low in his gut where someone had replaced his organs with warm honey. He cleared his throat and focused harder on the forms.

“I need access to the Magical Habilitation Registry and the Restricted Components Database.” Andromeda finally looked up. “And whatever you’ve got on Arcanet’s personal connections—friends, colleagues, rivals…”

Donatello nodded, grateful for the professional conversation. “I’ve already requested access. Should come through within the hour. In the meantime”—he pushed a USB stick across the desk toward her—“here’s what we have on Arcanet’s known associates.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the flash drive, and despite the cliché, there was definitely a spark—whether from static or something more complicated, Donatello couldn’t say. But it left his fingertips tingling—not because of any spell, but because of the woman sitting too close to him.

If the spark hit her too, Andromeda gave no sign. She plugged in the drive and began cross-referencing the lists.

Donatello returned to his work, finding perverse satisfaction in doing something he could control. Cursed hair? Not within his power to fix. Forms submitted in triplicate with the proper department seals? That he could handle.

Three hours later, Donatello’s eyes crossed over the endless list of time-sand purchasers. The regulated magical substance was more popular than he’d expected—used in everything from anti-aging creams to specialty watches for wizards who were chronically late.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing the beanie back from his forehead. The cramped tech lab had turned stuffy and too small for two people charged with whatever undercurrent he and Swan shared.

“Got it,” Andromeda announced after a moment, sitting back with a satisfied smile. “My algorithm has narrowed down the number of potential wizards who could create a lich.”

Donatello stood and moved behind her to look at her screen over her shoulder, struggling to ignore the vanilla–lavender scent that clung to her hair. “And?”

“Five names.” She pointed to the monitor, where the wizards’ profiles were displayed in neat rows. “Three are in Europe and Asia—respected necromantic scholars with questionable hobbies. But two are right here in Salem.”

Donatello leaned closer, his chest nearly touching her back. “Lionel Graves, Head Archivist at the Preservation Society.” He clicked on his profile, ignoring the tingle of the witch’s hair under his chin. “And a declared purist.”

“And the other is Professor Esme Blackwood,” Andromeda finished. “She teaches Necromancy at Salem University.”

“Both names are on my time-sand purchaser list.” Donatello stood up, putting some much-needed distance between himself and Miss Swan as he scanned the entries again. “Along with half of Salem. But Graves’s last recorded purchase was over five years ago.”

“Long premeditation? Or not our guy?”

Donatello frowned, studying the other prime suspect’s file. “Professor Blackwood is a leading expert on the ethical implications of arcane rituals. Not the profile of a deranged witch creating liches.”

“The best place to hide is in plain sight.” Andromeda shrugged.

“We’ll need to interview both of them, but discreetly. If either is involved in lich creation, tipping them off could be dangerous.”

Andromeda nodded. “Are we going now?”

Donatello checked the hour. “No, it’s already past seven. The Archives are closed, and Blackwood won’t be having office hours this late.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the day’s tension knotted in his muscles as if his body hadn’t gotten the memo that his shift was over.

Maybe because tomorrow would be the same, or worse.

The prospect of continuing their investigation meant another day of working with Andromeda, a thought that left him with mixed feelings—mostly inappropriate ones.

“We should call it a night. Pick this up tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

“Giving up already, detective?” Andromeda teased, but she was shutting down her computer. “Aren’t brooding alpha males supposed to have superhuman stamina?”

“I’m saving my stamina for things more worthwhile than paperwork,” he replied instinctively, then suppressed a curse as her eyebrows shot up.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to wear yourself out before your daily sulk-and-scowl routine.”

It took monk-level discipline not to rise to the bait. “Since I drove you in this morning, do you need a ride home?”

She reacted to his attempt at being nice like it was a setup, studying him through narrowed eyes as if reading the fine print of the offer. “Sure. As long as I can sit in the front.”

“No promises,” he replied with a half-smile. “But I’ll keep the cuffs off… unless asked nicely.”

“In your dreams, detective.”

As she preceded him out of the room, Donatello blinked—that was it? He’d expected an argument or at least some token resistance.

When they reached his car, he held the door open for her. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight about spending additional time in my company.”

“I’m numb with secondhand misplaced masculinity,” she shot back, pulling the passenger door shut.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. If she had any idea what parts of his misplaced masculinity she was poking at, she wouldn’t be sitting there looking so smug—she’d be running for the hills. Or climbing into his lap. Hard to say.

The drive began in silence. The streets of Salem were already wrapped in shadow and the scent of fallen leaves, a serene contrast to what was brewing under Donatello’s skin.

Despite not speaking, he kept stealing glances at Andromeda’s profile—the stubborn set of her jaw, the dip at the base of her throat, the slight furrow between her brows as she watched the town pass by—when a noise somewhere between a dying cat and a broken trombone filled the car.

Donatello startled, then shot her another sideways look. “Was that you?”

Andromeda’s glare could have melted steel. “In case you hadn’t noticed, detective, we skipped lunch. Some of us need actual sustenance to survive, not just the satisfaction of ruining innocent people’s days.”

Without warning, Donatello activated the blinker and executed a sharp U-turn that had Andromeda grabbing the door handle for support.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “My house is in the opposite direction.”

“I’m going to feed you,” he replied simply, “before that stomach of yours triggers a noise complaint. I know a Chinese place about five minutes away—best dumplings in Salem.”

Andromeda eyed him sideways. “Most people ask before dragging someone off to dinner.”

“You hungry or not?”

“I’m hungry, not desperate. This still counts as kidnapping.”

“This is an unsolicited act of heroism. You can thank me later.”

The Golden Dragon was tucked between a bookstore and a crystal shop on one of Salem’s quieter side streets. Its facade was unassuming, but the delicious smells wafting from within made Andromeda’s stomach growl again—softer this time, but no less insistent.

“The grandmother who runs the kitchen is half-witch on her mother’s side—uses enough magic to make the food unforgettable,” Donatello said as he held the door open for her. “Family-owned for three generations.”

Andromeda paused too close to him before getting in. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a foodie.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Swan.”

The hostess—a young woman with a streak of blue in her dark hair—greeted Donatello by name and led them to a corner booth with red cushions and a small paper lantern casting a warm glow between them.

As she handed them menus, she gave Donatello a curious look, her eyes lingering on his beanie before flicking to Andromeda with obvious interest.

“Your usual jasmine tea, Don?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

Andromeda’s mouth twitched as she flipped open the menu. “I’ll have the tea, too.”

Donatello glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said innocently. “Jasmine tea is not the manly beverage I expected you to order.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, I save the blood of my enemies for weekends.”

By the time they’d ordered drinks and enough food for four people, the atmosphere had settled to something suspiciously date-like.

The small table forced them to sit close, their knees brushing beneath it.

And the soft lighting took the edge off Andromeda’s features, turning the digital menace into someone he wanted to know better.

Donatello watched, fascinated, as she ate the rice—he could manage most foods with chopsticks but had to ask for a fork for the rice.

“You’re oddly good at that,” he observed, nodding toward her bamboo sticks.

“I could say the same about your brooding,” she replied, eyes dancing with amusement. “Professional grade.”

He shrugged. “Must be the bad hair day.”

Andromeda’s smile turned sly, and she pointed her chopsticks at his beanie. “You can take that off, you know. I’ve already seen what’s underneath.”

“That’s what she said,” Donatello deadpanned.

Her surprised laugh lit up her entire face. “He makes jokes.” She sounded genuinely delighted. “Will the wonders never cease?”

She stared at him then—like she was in no hurry to look away. It put Donatello off balance in the most unnerving, satisfying way. He yanked off the beanie, revealing his lilac locks in all their pastel glory.

Andromeda’s eyes widened, her lips parting on a small gasp before she composed herself. Did she… like the purple?

“Hypothetically speaking.” He ran a hand through his liberated locks. “If a witch had cursed a cop’s hair, how long would it take for the curse to wear off?”

“Hypothetically,” Andromeda replied, her expression as pure as bottled moonlight, and with as many side effects, “two to three weeks.”

“You said days, right?” Donatello leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“No, weeks,” she corrected, taking an unconcerned sip of her tea. “Especially if our hypothetical witch got really pissed off by our hypothetical cop.”

“So our hypothetical cop is going to be purple for half a month?”

“Unless he hypothetically apologizes.” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.

Donatello snorted. “I’d prefer to choke on kung pao than give you the satisfaction.”

“Is that why you’re foregoing chewing?”

“Would you rather I moaned with every bite like you do?” he shot back.

Her cheeks colored. “I don’t moan over my food.”

“Oh no?” Donatello set down his chopsticks and did his best impression of her eating, complete with exaggerated expressions of bliss and breathy little sounds of appreciation.

The blush spreading across Andromeda’s cheeks deepened, but her eyes narrowed in a challenge. “If I ever moan, detective, trust me—you’ll know the difference.”

The air between them became charged with possibility. Donatello stared at her lips, wondering how they would taste, how they would feel against his. Something molten and urgent pooled in his gut.

“Makes me want to skip straight to dessert.” His tone took on a darker lilt, the kind that led nowhere smart.

Andromeda’s breaths came a touch faster, but she kept her expression cool. “Bold of you to assume dessert’s on the menu.”

“C’mon, Swan.” He grinned, enjoying the way she tapped her fingers on the table when he leaned closer, a silent Morse code of don’t-push-your-luck. “There’s always room for dessert.”

“Room, sure,” she replied, her voice a touch huskier than before. “That doesn’t mean you’re getting a spoon.”

“Never say never,” Donatello countered, tipping his head, eyes not leaving hers. “And I’m not afraid to eat with my hands if the situation calls for it.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked at him as a new pressure vibrated between them.

Of course, that was the precise moment their server appeared at their table, cheerful and oblivious. “Can I interest either of you in dessert tonight?”

Donatello’s eyes never left Andromeda’s as he politely declined, watching as she did the same. The moment the server retreated, they both burst into laughter—nervous, hysterical guffawing that did nothing to dissipate the tension but made it more bearable.

The heat was still there when their eyes met again, simmering beneath their shared amusement. So much for professionalism, because sex with the courtroom complication, hair-cursing, pain-in-his-ass witch was definitely on the menu now.