Page 36 of Season of the Witch (Toil and Trouble #3)

twenty-three

Men were unreasonable, Tia thought an hour later, playing with the paper that covered her milkshake straw. Warlocks were even worse.

She sat in Pie Hard, brooding over a chocolate Oreo milkshake since she couldn’t get hammered the way she wanted. One drunk episode where everybody indulged: fine. Two drunk episodes, Siddeley would start asking questions. And he was supposed to think she and Henry were in capital LOVE.

She crumpled the paper and tossed it on the counter.

She had no idea what had crawled up Henry’s ass to make him come at her that way.

Demanding to know why they’d broken up, accusing her of keeping distance, of not talking to him.

Excuse him, she talked. Maybe not about hopes and dreams and all that gushy crap, but they weren’t actually in a relationship.

Maybe his memory problem was worse than they’d thought and he’d forgotten that, too.

“Men suck,” she directed at Damon, who was fixing drinks for a family of four in a corner booth. The steam from the coffee machine didn’t mask his sardonic look.

“You do,” she insisted as he shook the canister. “You all say you want sex and fun, but when we don’t start clinging like dog hair, it riles your male pride.”

He didn’t say anything, concentrating on filling the mug to the brim. She felt like his back said a lot, though, considering he turned it deliberately.

“Sure, side with the rest of your sorry gender,” she mocked, flicking the paper farther away with telekinesis, then glancing around guiltily when she remembered the humans. “I’m just saying, what do you want from us?”

He placed both mugs on a tray and retrieved two glasses from the shelf. From a tub in the chiller underneath the counter, he poured fruit, milk and ice cream into a blender.

“All I’m saying is—” she began, but with a pointed look, Damon switched the blender on, drowning out her voice.

She scowled at him. Typical.

If this was any other situation, she’d call Emma and Leah, but she knew what side of the line they’d fall on. Especially with that Gingerbread Man comment from Emma. Which, by the way, was totally unfair. Just because she preferred to keep things casual didn’t mean she ran from men.

The trouble was Henry didn’t remember their history. And yes, she got that he was asking to understand, but even eight years was too short to rehash their past. Any amount of time was.

She plonked her elbows on either side of her milkshake and sucked the thick mixture up the straw. Her back teeth hurt from the cold but she didn’t blink.

She didn’t know what to do.

Option A: stop fucking him.

Every nerve in her body was opposed to that. Besides, time would do that job for her when he got his memory back.

She sucked up more milkshake, choosing one pain against the other, deeper, infinitely more troubling one.

It wasn’t like she wanted a relationship with him, not really. Not with the Henry who had chosen to follow his dad and leave her behind. Who had abandoned her because she wasn’t worth staying for.

That Henry held too much pain. And this Henry was a mirage. The “before” when she knew there was an “after” hovering on the horizon. This Henry hadn’t made the choice to devastate her, which was why it was so damn hard not to get sucked back into his orbit.

The plain fact was that she and Henry would always want each other. Arguments, breaking up, time—hell, even memory loss hadn’t wiped that truth away. But a battlefield lay between them, hexed and scarred and impossible to navigate.

Maybe it was stupid living in the past. Maybe it was, but she didn’t, couldn’t, give it up yet.

She concentrated on her milkshake.

So option A was out.

Which left option B.

What the fuck was option B?

“You’ve been working on that milkshake for an hour,” Damon informed her, crossing his arms as he stood, legs braced. He wore a black sweater and jeans, hair rumpled and shadow growing in on his jaw. Not a speck of festive cheer on him.

“So?” she said.

“So, buy something else or get gone.”

“You should run business seminars,” she told him. “I’m savoring it.”

“You’re pouting. What’s worse, you’re trying to drag me into a conversation.”

“So?” she repeated.

He tilted his chin. “Does this look like a bar, sweet cheeks? Do I look like a bartender waiting for you to spill your shot and your troubles?”

“If I said yes, would you listen?”

He pointed toward the door. “Finish the damn milkshake and take your pouting face with you.”

“See, you’re the kind of man I should be with.”

He blinked, eyes widening at the corners. “’Scuse me?”

“Rude. Argumentative. Clearly doesn’t want to be all lovey-dovey with a woman. You’re me with a dick.”

“Just to be clear, you were nuts before you had your milkshake.”

“That’s rude to people with mental health issues.”

“Ask me if I give a damn.”

She pursed her lips. “One bit of advice,” she bartered. “And then I’ll go.”

He regarded her with deep suspicion. “Fine.”

“Okay, so, I’m guessing you hook up a lot.”

He arched one eyebrow.

“Taking that as a yes. And I’m also guessing you don’t want it to go any deeper than…well, insert obvious joke.”

A smile ghosted across his lips.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Keep things on one level without anyone’s feelings getting hurt.”

He shrugged. “Up front about it from the beginning. Can’t moan if I’ve already said I’m not looking for anything serious.”

She nibbled her fingernail. She hadn’t done that, she realized. She hadn’t wanted to talk it all out, make it a bigger deal than it was. Just sex. Except…apparently, it could never be just sex with her and Henry.

Fucking Emma had been right.

“I thought keeping a line between us was working,” she muttered, tracing the condensation on her glass.

“What’s so wrong with that? As soon as you start talking, you start feeling.

” The stupid things were like a snowball and she was already rolling down the hill.

Not that she could tell Henry that. Easier to attack than to be vulnerable. Cue her dramatic exit.

Damon sighed irritably. “Look, if you don’t want what he wants, shut it down. Easy.”

“Not easy.”

He ignored her. “Either break it off or give him something.”

“Give in to him?” Open herself up just to get shot down? Distaste rose up over her like a shadow. “No.”

“Up to you. Now—” Damon pointed behind her “—finish. And go.”

“Your advice sucked. I want a refund.”

“Good luck with that.” He walked off, leaving her irritated.

Which only deepened when, minutes later, Griffith slid onto the stool next to her.

“Tia,” he greeted her, picking up one of the plastic menus on the counter, fixing his eyes on it. “I was walking through town and saw you in here. Looked lonely without your other half.”

“So, you thought you’d make my mood worse?”

He flashed the grin that had all the society witches swooning. “Where is the old ball and chain anyway?”

“Working, probably. We’re not attached at the hip.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Siddeley, too,” he added laconically, making her hackles rise. “You play the couple well.”

“What do you want, Griffith?” she asked directly, not in the mood.

He set down the menu and turned so his knee bumped hers.

She immediately shifted backward. “We know Siddeley’s only going to go with one potion company, even if he invests in multiple projects,” he said, dropping the casual act.

His eyes glinted. “It was clever to try for the generational family angle, hats off to you. But it’s just us.

Realistically, how long are you going to be able to keep it up if Siddeley does invest? ”

A nugget of unease poked Tia’s ribs and she wrapped her arms around them, fixing a sneer on her face. “Are you officially president of our fan club, Griffith? Do you want us to sign a napkin for you?”

He smirked. “Isn’t it tiring keeping up the act? It’d be better if you just came clean now, stopped pretending and let Siddeley make his decision based on business.”

She smiled sweetly around the temper he’d thrown gasoline on.

“We’re not pretending,” she lied, or…didn’t.

Or did. Who the fuck knew at this point?

“And if Siddeley was solely looking at business, you’d still have to bend over because we spank your ass every time.

Maybe you should concentrate on your own company and stop poking around in me and Henry’s relationship. ”

“Relationship,” he scoffed. “You? The queen of fucking and ducking?”

It grated too closely to her exposed nerves and she flinched.

“You.” Damon strode over, scowl fixed in place. “ Out .”

Tia’s mouth fell open. “Men suck ,” she exclaimed, pushing away her milkshake. “Fine, I’m going.”

“Not you. Him.”

Griffith blinked. “What?”

“Out.”

“But I’m a customer.”

Damon jabbed a thumb to a plaque on the wall. It read: We reserve the right to refuse service to assholes.

Griffith’s face darkened. “I was only telling the truth. Nothing wrong with that.”

Damon just stared. A static shock of power rippled in warning.

Griffith pursed his lips before shrugging. “I wasn’t going to stay anyway. Just think about what I said, Tia. Better if you back off now.”

Tia’s mood blackened as Griffith sauntered away. She let out a breath that took air from every crevice. “Maybe he’s right,” she said glumly. “Maybe I should just end it now.”

Damon snorted. “ I’m right. He’s an asshole.”

* * *

Give him something.

After another hour at Pie Hard testing both Damon’s pie and patience, she headed back to the Hall. She chose to walk, preferring to turn the surly baker’s so-called advice over and over, rather than portal in quickly and have to make a decision.

It was late afternoon, sun already sinking into its bed, by the time she reached her destination. And she still wasn’t sure what to do.

“Lady Tia,” Primm greeted her as she strode in the front door, a pile of wrapped presents in his arms, the smallest obscuring his nose.

“Primm.” She nodded at the boxes. “You need some help?”

“I’m fine, thank you. May I help you with anything?”

She hesitated. “Do you know where Henry is?”

“I believe he’s in your room.”

“Thanks.” She walked far more confidently than she felt up the stairs, the route so familiar now that she was on autopilot, there at their bedroom before she knew it.

She stared at the door.

Give him something.

But what if something led to everything, like last time? She’d sworn…

Enough. She let out a breath and opened the door.

He was on the bed, lying with an arm behind his head, a book in his hand. His gaze came to her, held.

Nerves pushed and shoved for prime position as she shut the door behind her. It clicked in the quiet. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She’d forgotten this tense silence, she realized, staring at the man on the bed. This fraught empty air filled with words she couldn’t say.

She hated it.

“Look,” she said, drifting to the foot of the bed. He didn’t move. Magic twisted under her skin. “I know you’re pissed, but trust me, I’ve got reasons why I keep stuff to myself.”

“That’s not why I’m pissed at you,” he said, deep and neutral. Older. Like the one who’d left her.

The corner of the curtains folded under her unease. “Sounded like it earlier.”

He scooted up to sit, putting the book facedown, pages splayed. One arm wrapped around his updrawn knee, where his fingers tapped. “I’m pissed because I actually like you, and you’re treating me like any old hookup.”

“That’s not true,” she protested, ignoring the first half of that sentence for her mental health. The curtain curled under her telekinesis, pulling at its hooks. “We’re…friends.”

“Friends share things.” He dragged a hand down his neck.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t want it to be all about sex.

I don’t want to be—” outrageous pink bloomed on his cheeks and he cut a glare down at the book, which she realized was one of her romances “—just anyone to you,” he mumbled.

“Or worse, someone you want to hate-fuck.”

She froze in place, the curtain barely hanging on at this point. Same, curtain, same.

Her throat hurt as she swallowed. “I don’t hate you.” Her voice sounded papery to her own ears. Nervous.

“But you don’t trust me.”

She didn’t want to do this, have the big conversation that cracked her open and scooped out her emotions for him to peer at. She couldn’t handle him remembering their issues, remembering that he’d left her, and worse, feeling sorry for her. But the hurt in his face made her chest ache.

Give him something.

A glimmer of an idea had her straightening. Something didn’t have to mean everything. She could keep things casual and sexy and not catch feelings if she was clever. Compromised.

“How about a trade?”

“A trade?”

Tia leaned against the dresser opposite the bed, crossing her heels. Her hem slithered up. “Twenty questions. For twenty kisses.”

His eyebrows winged up. “Who asks?”

“You. You have free rein to ask me twenty questions and in return, I get twenty kisses.”

“Hmm.” He tapped two fingers on his thigh as she held her breath. Then he smirked, all traces of vulnerability erased as he made a slow inspection of her body. “Where?”

Relief surged as she felt the change in him, in the atmosphere. Her smile was probably too big, too brilliant. “Wherever I want. So? What do you say?”