by Devon Monk
There he was again. Zen-Zay, the man of a million secrets. The man I knew I’d be a fool to trust.
‘‘I want you to stick around, at least until I get a chance to point that jerk out to you.’’
‘‘Which jerk?’’
‘‘The one who opened the cab and talked about a war that’s coming.’’
Zay suddenly became very, very still. I could feel the magic shift beneath him, could feel him drawing upon it.
‘‘What war?’’
‘‘That’s what I want to know.’’ And I guess I looked convincing, because he blinked and sat back in his chair. He looked out the window again, and I could see the muscles in his jaw clench, could see the rope of muscle down the side of his neck strain. He was angry. Or worried.
‘‘I’d love to have you show me who said that to you.’’ He said it in a low, soft, and dangerous voice. But when he looked back at me, he seemed calm, as if we were discussing tomorrow’s rain. ‘‘What is the other favor?’’
‘‘I could really use a cup of coffee.’’
That got a smile out of him, and I liked the look of it. Even scruffy and underslept, he was a damn handsome man, with those tiger-bright eyes, arched cheekbones, and kiss-me-baby lips. I wanted to reach across that table, grab him by his shirt, and find out what his mouth tasted like.
A wisp of memory, of mint, came to me.
‘‘All you want from me is a cup of coffee, Ms. Beckstrom?’’ he said.
‘‘No,’’ I said, ‘‘I want more. Maybe a lot more.’’ I looked down at my hands, because I needed to look away from him to catch my breath. When I was composed, I glanced back up and said, ‘‘How about we start with coffee, lunch, and dessert?’’
He leaned forward and gently caught my gloved hands in his. ‘‘How about we do.’’
And I realized this, this was what I’d been looking for. It might not be the only place for me, or the best place for me. I had a feeling it wasn’t the safest place for me. But for now, for today, it was right where I wanted to be.