Page 7 of When the Weaver Met the Gargoyle (Leafshire Cove Monsters #1)

Chapter 7

Laini

D amn it, Tully. She had no right. Absolutely no right. This is so embarrassing!

“I’m so mad I could tie her into knots.” I storm toward the door. “I’m so sorry she did that to you, Rom.” I fling the door open. “I know you didn’t want to get involved romantically.”

Rom snags my arm, his grip firm but gentle, and I look up into his glowing, gargoyle eyes. The smolder in them takes the edge off my rage.

“Laini, I don’t regret what just happened.”

His words make my heart skip a beat, and I freeze, wanting to hear more.

He continues. “I only worry because I put you in great danger. Spark, too. I could have accidentally performed stone magic and hurt you both.”

I reach up and touch his cool, gray cheek. “But you didn’t. Everything is fine. I’m furious with Tully, but I don’t regret anything from my end. I am mad for you, though. I know you don’t want this.” I gesture from him to me.

His luminous gargoyle eyes soften. “Maybe I could give it a try.”

I step closer, my heart hammering. Did I want to try courting? Could this maybe work? No. I just can’t risk my heart. I promised to protect myself after Leo destroyed me.

I squeeze Rom’s hand and quickly release it even though part of me truly wants to hold on. “I need to focus on my tapestry to get the job. We can’t. Maybe after…”

He nods quickly, and I know I’ve hurt him. “I understand,” he says. “I shouldn’t have even asked. Bad idea. I’ll go. Unless you want me to confront Tully with you?”

Why do I feel like arguing with his bad idea statement when I’m the one who shut this down? “No, I’ll handle her. I’m sorry she did this. So sorry.”

“Like I said, I could never regret what just happened.” He starts to lift his hand like he might touch my face like I touched his, but he fists his taloned fingers and lets his arm fall. “Let me know if you think of a recipe for the party. I have time off in two days if you’d like to work on it then.”

“Here or your place?” I ask.

He glances around the room, and his focus attaches to the table where we just took our pleasure. “Maybe my place. I have an apartment, just a small place, inside the tower.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a clever construction with chambers built into the northern side of the structure. Steps off the top floor lead down to my living quarters. My kitchen isn’t as large as most, but it’s nice enough. I keep it well stocked.”

I wonder how often he cooks. He must do it pretty often, considering he avoids going into the tavern and all the regular eating establishments. “See you at ten in two days then.”

He nods a farewell and leaves me at the front door.

I shake my head as I march toward Tully’s house. She is going to experience a face full of my fist. Maybe it takes a little violence to persuade her to leave me alone. Fine.

When I get to her door, I pound the broom-shaped knocker against the purple paint. “Tully! Get out here!”

But there’s no answer. She might still be in town at the bakery or her market stall. I don’t have time to seek her out right now. I need to get to the three-fourths mark in my tapestry, or I’ll never finish in time. I’ll tear her apart tomorrow sometime.

I huff and return home.

As I settle into the chair at my loom and begin weaving, the memory of Rom’s hands on me sends a flush up my neck. He had his forked tongue on me. A gargoyle. The monster I just met. Blessed Stones, but he doesn’t feel like a stranger. I feel safe with him. He understands me. The way he touched me… He said he didn’t want a relationship, but maybe we’re both wrong about that. Maybe there could be something between us.

I drive thoughts of Rom and his very talented tongue from my mind and focus on warp threads and the weft. A scene of sheep, mountains, and a moonlit sky comes to life under my hands.

Spark sneezes a shower of massive sparks, and the quilt he is on bursts into flames.

I rush over, shoo Spark away— he lolls around in fire like a pig in mud—and then I quickly fold the quilt to stifle the flames. Patting out the remaining heat, I shake my head and try not to choke on the smoke.

“Sparkleton, you have to be more careful.”

I head to the kitchen to retrieve a bucket. At the sink, I use the pump handle to fill it with water, then bring it out to the hearth.

“Use this bucket when you think you might have some sparks escaping, all right?”

Spark trots over to the bucket, drinks from it, and then grins up at me. I scratch his head.

“You’re welcome, Sparkston. Now?—”

Before I can finish my sentence, he flies to the door and scratches at it insistently. I let him out. Funny little fellow.

With Spark, also known as the darling distraction , gone, my gaze slides to the table and the two cups of tea that are still there.

The teapot had tipped over, and I hadn’t even realized it. I grab the cups and the pot and bring them into the kitchen. That licorice and honey scent rises as I rinse them out, and my mind spins right back to Rom. To his dark wings spread behind him, the rippling muscles in his arms as he held me, the feel of his breath against my cheek, the way he held me and drew pleasure from my body like he was my longtime lover.

I take a towel and wipe down the table, swallowing as my body refuses to let me forget what happened here. I want to touch him. My hands ache to do it. His normally cool stone-like skin had warmed when he’d been pressed against me. He had wanted me, had wanted to do more. But he’d only been dosed with a powerful potion. It wasn’t real. He’ll likely change his mind about regretting today when the potion fully fades. It would be for the best, yes. Definitely.

I actually finish almost all of the tapestry that evening. Just one more very important, late addition to complete. My muscles are relaxed from Rom’s ministrations, and I find weaving even easier than normal. Once I’m at a good stopping place, I get out the recipe book my grandmother left me. No matter how Rom acts tomorrow, we need to come up with a good dish to bring to the Harvest Party. It’s tradition, and Lord Mayor Rustion surely expects our best efforts. I don’t want to let him down. I want to impress Rustion on all fronts—with weaving, enjoying his party, dressing the part, and following tradition.