Page 8 of The Bookseller and the Alpha (Witch Twins #1)

Calypso

Seriously! What was wrong with this guy?

One moment he was rude and arrogant; condescension dripping off his tongue like acid, then he bickered with me, before a bland professional mask dropped back over his face.

How many personalities did he have hiding in there?

Was it too much to hope that he would just look at my security camera footage and go?

He was a hunk, but he made me feel strange.

No, not strange. I forced myself to be honest; bothered .

Very hot and bothered. The way he looked at me when he riled me up.

I swear it was deliberate. He was baiting me.

There’d been this flicker of mischief in his eyes, and then when we bickered, cute little lines had appeared at the side of his eyes.

His eyes had smiled at me. Deep dark brown, they were like hot chocolate, and not the insipid kind you get where they put sweet topping into your milk.

No, I mean the real sort, with melted Belgian chocolate: dark, rich and decadent.

It wasn’t fair that he had those eyes. Or that body. Or even that voice. And Pompy was snoring in his arms. Traitor.

Just a mood swing , I told myself. You’ve had a bad day. Bad morning to be precise; it wasn’t even eleven.

“I didn’t catch that.”

The voice was right behind me. Crap. I hope I hadn’t said any of that out loud. “Nothing. Just thinking about what I need to get done.”

Luc had followed me into my tiny office nook under the stairs.

I was sitting on the swivel chair, in front of my computer and Luc was looming behind me, blocking the exit.

I couldn’t see him but he was definitely looming.

I could feel him. Right there behind me.

His body radiated so much heat that I wanted to arch my back against him and purr.

I thought of how cold my bed was every night when I climbed in, fortified against the chill with my flannel pyjamas, and Pompy to keep my feet warm.

I wouldn’t need flannel pyjamas if Hot Guy Luc was in bed with me.

I could cuddle against that hard chest and be warm all night.

Aargh. Stop it. Mind out of the gutter. There wasn’t going to be cuddling.

I wrenched my attention back to the computer, even as a flush rose to my face.

Clearly, I’d been wrong when I thought that I had my reactions to him under control.

Tipping my chin down so that my hair screened my face from his gaze, I stared determinedly at the screen.

Security footage went to an external server for storage, where it stayed for a week, then got deleted.

I’d show him last night’s footage, showing me setting the wards.

I wanted to rub his nose in it, show him he was wrong, but it probably wouldn’t make the slightest dent in his enormous ego.

He was good looking, but oh so arrogant, wearing his self-confidence like armour.

Must be something that entitled rich men learned.

Elie was too professional to complain about her boss, but I knew that she found it hard to work for him.

If he was anything like Luc it was a miracle she hadn’t strangled him in his sleep.

My fingers moved over the keyboard automatically and I tapped my fingers on the desk while I waited for the page to load. Neither of us spoke and in the silence I could hear Pompy’s soft snores, almost in my ear.

“You can put Pompy down now,” I said, wrapping my voice in as many layers of Electra’s ice as I could manage.

The Ice Queen label that the Palace staff had given to my sister only demonstrated how little she showed her true self to those around her.

In her work mode it was true; she had to be ice: if she let herself get distracted, her client could die.

She’d steadily become more distant since she’d started to work for Bastien, Luc’s brother.

And lately, it seemed worse. I’d told her that after the upcoming Summit she had to take some time off.

We were both due a holiday and the Bahamas sounded nice.

Still icy, I said, “You’re spoiling her and she’ll expect the next person who comes into the shop to cuddle her too.” Cuddle. Why did I have to say cuddle? Who can be icy when they say cuddle? If Hot, Arrogant Guy hadn’t been right behind me I’d have slapped myself in the forehead.

He didn’t reply, but I heard the rustle of his clothing as he bent down beside me to lay Pompy in her bed next to my desk.

I caught a flash of his dark hair and a broad shoulder before he moved back to loom behind me.

Pompy was so fast asleep she didn’t even stir when she was transferred into her bed.

I guess I could add dog whisperer to his list of skills.

My computer finally loaded with the page for my offsite storage, and I navigated to yesterday’s security footage. I fast forwarded the view until the timer on the bottom of the screen showed 6.29. I shut the store at 5.30 last night, but I wasn’t out the door until an hour later.

I pressed the forward button and scooted my chair to the side, giving Hot Jerk a nice clear view of the screen (and giving me the chance to peek at his face as he watched the video).

I knew that I had set the wards last night and I was looking forward to seeing his expression when he saw that he’d been wrong.

I was being a teeny bit petty (okay, maybe more than a bit) but there was no way I’d miss the opportunity to wring an apology from him.

The video started to play, and I watched myself step out the front door.

I grimaced. I had forgotten exactly how dishevelled I’d been by the end of the day yesterday after lugging around the new books that the courier had delivered.

Books are heavy. Boxes of books are heavy and crates of books are even heavier.

The boxes of textbooks had been manageable, but the crate of magical tomes that I’d purchased sight unseen from an estate auction had been larger than I expected.

The courier driver had refused to step into the shop.

“Union rules” he’d said and if I hadn’t been listening for the truck he would likely have dumped the crate on the back stairs and scarpered.

But he must have seen something in my face when I’d asked him to drop it off inside, and he’d grudgingly offered to unload it inside the door.

He waited long enough for me to drag the rug from the showroom through to the back entrance, and then he’d dragged the crate up and over the step and onto the rug in the doorway.

It had taken me thirty minutes of hard work to get the crate into position beside the boxes of textbooks in the corner of the breakroom where I stored spare stock.

Then I’d texted Harold, asking if he could lend me a crowbar to pry open the crate.

Harold wouldn’t hear of me using the crowbar so he’d popped a ‘closed for fifteen minutes’ sign on the door of his furniture shop and dropped in to help.

I was perfectly capable of using the crowbar but it made Harold happy to be needed.

Plus, if I let him open the crate, he would look at me hopefully—like Pompy did around seven every evening, when she knew that food would soon be forthcoming—just in case I had cookies in my little kitchenette.

He was usually right; if I hadn’t baked any, I kept a packet in the cupboard for him.

On the video, I exited the shop rubbing my back, which twinged again in remembered sympathy.

I’d spent some time unpacking the crate after I’d shut the shop for the night, losing track of time, until Pompy nudged my shin, looking for attention.

Then I’d grabbed one of the books I’d piled on the table, packed my bag, collected Pompy then walked out of the shop.

I watched Luc out of the corner of my eye while dishevelled video-me locked the front door, threw an errant coil of hair over my shoulder then laid my palm flat on the wood for five seconds until the wards flared, showing they had activated.

Luc’s eyes were fixed on the screen as I turned away from the lens, stepped into the street, and out of the view of that camera.

“There. See. I set my wards.” So, I might have been gloating.

Just a bit. I shot him a glance from under my lashes.

Would he apologise? Did I want him to apologise?

If he apologised, and admitted he was fallible, if those eyes smiled at me again, I wouldn’t be angry at him anymore. Danger Will Robinson!