by Holley Trent
Will had been quite content to remain in Mission Viejo where he’d lived since finishing his PhD, but then the Afótama queen Contessa returned to Norseton and shook up the web. That had piqued his interest a great deal. Being a researcher, he needed to understand the unfamiliar magic that allowed him to move small objects with a careless thought. He wanted to know what was happening to him and if it was happening to any of his other clansman, too. He’d only been back for a week, but based on what he’d observed so far, his affliction didn’t seem to be a common one.
Magic may have been returning to the people, but according to Jody, the distribution was highly selective. The higher-ups were trying to make sense of the rhyme and reason, and that was part of the reason Will was there. He’d come home to poll the clan, crunch the data, and help the archivist trace the magic along the old family lines. It was a project that would likely take years, and it was right up his nerdy alley.
He could start informally with the nervous blonde in front of him—the other reason he’d come home. He’d been dreaming of her for months, and it had taken him almost that long to figure out what the dreams were. They were messages from the Fates, or perhaps from the goddess Freya herself, telling Will to claim his other half. To go get her.
At the moment, she didn’t seem to want to be gotten.
He’d never known Erin to be skittish. She was always a bold child, but he knew better than anyone that time changed people. He needed to be patient and see how else she’d changed. He’d hoped their first encounter in Norseton would come with an equal understanding from both parts that they were meant to be each other’s. If she had an inkling of that, she gave no indication of it. She’d hardly seemed to recognize him at all. So, he’d bide his time, and go slow. He believed his dreams were true, but he also knew that if he frightened her, he’d have work harder to earn her trust. At thirty, he was driven to settle in—and with her—as soon as possible. He’d do his best to be smooth, but that was hard when she was right there and so fucking beautiful.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” He gestured to the untouched chocolate croissant on her plate and watched her stir another packet of sugar into her cappuccino. By his count, she was up to four. Sweet tooth. He wanted to indulge her fondness for decadent things, if it made her smile. Her smiling meant she wasn’t anxious anymore.
“I am. I just like to make them last. Dad’s going to give me hell if he finds out I was here.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He’s sensitive about food, and has been ever since Mrs. Carbone started working in the mansion kitchen. I think he’s intimidated by her.”
“Who’s Mrs. Carbone? I haven’t had much time to meet all the staff, what little there is.” The queen had to clean house to root out a traitor, and the leaders were still in the process of vetting and rehiring staff. He would have recognized the name, though, if Mrs. Carbone had been from an Afótama family. Most clanspeople had typical Viking surnames that originated in Denmark where they were before they’d immigrated to Iceland.
“She’s part of the werewolf pack.”
“Wolves?” He’d totally missed that memo.
“Yeah. The guys provide security services to the queen, the matriarch, Ótama, and the chieftain Oliver’s aunt Maggie. Well, security to the mansion in general, I guess. Mrs. Carbone’s husband is the pack alpha. She’s supposed to work on the days when my father isn’t there, but he’s been really sensitive about it. They’ve become really attached to her. I guess I can’t blame them. She cooks actual food.”
“What does your father cook?”
Erin rolled her whisky brown eyes and sputtered her lips. “Depends on the week and his mood. He’s been in this weird, trendy macrobiotic phase lately.”
“He’s feeding rabbit food to Vikings?”
“Yup. Whereas Mrs. Carbone actually fries things on occasion, and she keeps really great snacks by the kitchen door. Dad has started snooping on his days off. Then he goes home and nitpicks every single thing she does. So tedious. I try to be sympathetic, but…” She shrugged.
“Yeah, I get it. I think I’d prefer the fried stuff. Who hired her?”
“Uhh.”
Will knew without her saying, because her cheeks burned red, and the image of the woman en déshabillé floated to the forefront of his mind. Why is Erin still so ashamed about that? Will didn’t understand it, but he could admit he was somewhat desensitized to sexuality. The Afótama as a whole tended to be rather conservative, which was interesting, because their queen and chieftains certainly weren’t, and couldn’t even pretend to be. There was no way to contend that a committed ménage was the slightest bit mainstream, especially when the two men in it weren’t even trying to keep their hands off each other. There may have been some raised eyebrows about it in the community, but Will had always felt people needed to do what was best for themselves and to not waste energy on judgment. He was certainly in no position to throw stones.
Erin let out a breath and picked at the end of her croissant. “Well, Lora did. She handles most of the admin stuff at the mansion.”
“If your dad gets on your case about me buying you a croissant, tell him to take it out me.”
“Maybe he won’t find out.” She settled lower into her chair. “I’m so ready to move.”
“You still live at home? I spent the night at my parents when I arrived, but moved into my apartment the next day.” He pointed to the opposite corner outside. “In that building. Third floor. Got a great view of the town square.”
Her jaw dropped, and she shook her head. “And a balcony, I bet. Lucky. I know how much those units go for. I looked into them. Never going to happen. I’m on the waiting list for something in the older part of the community. They’re full right now. I’m a bit jealous of the wolves. They get new houses out on the fringes. It’s part of their contract. Plenty of room to expand, too.”
“You could always buy a lot and build on it. It’d be heavily subsidized. I thought about doing that.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t need the space, and I’m used to apartment living.”
“They must be paying you pretty well if it was even a consideration.” She cringed, and put up her hands, palms-out. “No, don’t respond to that. It’s none of my business.” She took a bite of croissant and closed her eyes on a moan.
Simple pleasures. How dare she deny herself?
“I feel comfortable enough in telling you my pay is a bit over commensurate for my education and experience.” His salary was her business. She just didn’t know it yet.
“What exactly is your title?”
“I suppose you could call me a demographer, though what my contract says is ‘Research Lead’.”
“What are you researching?”
“The Afótama people, and perhaps some of the folks out in Fallon for comparison. We’re trying to get a handle on the magic types.”
“Really?” She furrowed her brow and leaned her elbows onto the tabletop. “Some folks aren’t going to want to talk about that. It’s like politics and religion.”
“That’s expected, and there are always ways around participant reluctance. We may not be able to get any information out of one man, but perhaps one of his offspring will give us some, or his mother or father.”
“You said we. Who is we? How many people are working on the project?”
“Right now, it’s just me. I have to establish the research methodology. Set up a game plan, really. That’ll take some time, but the folks at the mansion understand that. Compiling the data isn’t going to be a short process, and there are thousands of us both here and outside of the community to reach out to. I need to be consistent and methodical.”
“That’s what you went to school to learn?”
“Yes.”
“How would you even know that jobs like that exist? I mean, I work as a temp, and I get to do a lot of things for a little while, but all of those jobs are things I’ve heard of
before.”
“Suffice it to say, I have a fairly eclectic set of interests.” He brushed back a swatch of hair that had fallen across her eyes and let his hand linger against her cheek. Perhaps the act lacked propriety, but touching her seemed unavoidable. Her loud mind was a psychic mess of want and desire, and she needed to be touched—to be noticed by someone. He’d never been one to deny himself simple pleasures, and she was his.
Why not touch?
Her lips parted and shaped words that didn’t come out as she stared, alarmed, at him. He could read her confusion. It was there and evident to anyone paying attention, like foam on the surface of moving water. And he could smooth that turmoil, just with the stroke of his thumb.
He drew along the line of her jaw and up to the shapely bow of her bottom lip. Her confusion ebbed, and in its place was curiosity.
She liked him touching her but wanted to know why he was. Why would he want to touch her?
“Why not?” he whispered.
“Get out of my head.” She pulled her face away from his hand.
“I’m not in your head.”
“Am I that easy to read?”
“For me? Yes. Don’t be offended by it. I’m good at it. I’ve had a lot of practice, though not with Afótama women.”
“What do you mean by practice? I have a hunch that you don’t mean for your job as a researcher.”
“The skill certainly helps in that regard, but no, that’s not what I mean.”
She picked up her croissant and took another bite. No orgasmic rolling of her eyes that time, but she did let out a little sigh. He imagined a few other things that might cause her to make that sexy little sound, and he had a mind to try each and every one of them. If she liked watching, he could certainly arrange for her to have her fill of it.
He brushed his thumb across a pastry crumb on her lip. “It’s generally not a topic I discuss in public.”
“Why not?”
Can she really be so naive?
He chose his words carefully, mindful of the open ears around them and also of her chronic inability to tamp down her psychic projections. It wasn’t normal for an adult of Afótama descent. Her lack of skill was more typical of teens who, in the throes of puberty, were brand new to telepathy. They had to think harder, louder, to be heard, and use extra concentration to listen.
“I’m a man of…certain tastes. Just as you find pleasure in chocolate, I like to allow myself the occasional delicacy.”
“Like what?”
She really doesn’t know—couldn’t read me at all.
Odd.
He tucked his fingers beneath her chin and stroked, opening his mind to her, sharing his thoughts and intentions. Touching made telepathy easier. It made private conversations quieter, and he didn’t want to be overheard.
He pushed into her mind images of her his bed, nude and bound and wearing that wide-eyed naivety on her flawless face.
Her eyes went round and her cheeks burned red, but that sharp little intake of air bolstered him to test her, teach her about submission and limits. To teach her that it wasn’t Jody’s gaze that was important, but his.
“Would you like a tour of my apartment?” He finished the dregs of his coffee and pushed the remnant of her croissant closer to her shaking hands. “I’m quite fond of the view from the balcony.”
He would have her on that balcony biting her tongue to keep from crying out if he had his way.
She stared at him a long moment, then wrapped her croissant into the piece of waxed paper between it and the white dish. “Okay. Sure.”
“Aren’t you going to finish that?”
“Probably.”
“You should finish the things you start.” He pushed back from the table and offered his elbow to her.
“My father always says that.” She stood and hooked her arm around his. “I do try. I just…lose interest sometimes.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t lose interest.”
“About what, the croissant? I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I’m always interested in chocolate.”
“No, not the croissant.” He pulled open the shop door and let her walk out in front of him. “Though I can think of some things you may be just as satisfied by.”
“I’d like to hear about them.”
“I think I’ll show you instead.”
CHAPTER THREE
He wasn’t even completely moved in, and already, Will’s apartment was far hipper than any accommodation Erin had ever seen.
“This is fucking amazing!” She lingered in the doorway trying to take it all in. The large skylights that gave the open space a bright, outdoorsy feel. The massive picture windows along the western wall that captured the afternoon sun. The highly polished dark wood floors and textured, white walls. “I feel like I’m on a rooftop, minus all the bird shit.”
“I actually do have access to the roof.” He slipped past her and pointed to a narrow metal staircase at the back of the great room.
“Fancy.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Just me and one other unit have access. I think Lora’s making better use of the roof than I plan to, though.”
Erin’s gut lurched at the sound of the name. Lora.
Will I ever catch a break?
Erin forced out a ragged exhalation and bumped the door closed. “Lora lives here, huh?”
“Yeah.” Will traversed the room to the wall with the three wide picture windows and pulled down the shades on all of them. Between two of them were French doors, which had to lead out to one of those fabulous balconies Erin always admired from the street. “She’s got a potted garden up there. She grows tomatoes and peppers, that kind of thing.”
“Must be nice.”
“She’s a good gardener, I think. She brought me nine jars of homemade tomato sauce and her special salsa. I haven’t tried the sauce yet, but the salsa was my dinner on moving night.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a dinner. You should have come over. Dad would have fed you.”
“A macrobiotic dinner?”
She cringed. The meal probably would have been some experimental letdown, and Erin would have been pissed because she would have gently suggested he serve something else, he would have lectured her about him knowing his job better than she did, and she would have excused herself for a long hike.
“Don’t worry. I was all right with what I had. I was busy moving, and chips and salsa went great with all the beer I drank to keep myself hydrated. Have a seat if you can find a place. I’ll make you a cup of coffee so you can finish your croissant.”
“I was going to save it.”
“Why save it when you can get another?”
“I…” Yes, why? She’d already gotten one, so what was one…or two more? Her father would probably never find out. And even if he did, she was a grown-ass woman. If she wanted to eat refined sugar and empty carbs by the truckload, it was her business. She was sick of being so hungry all the time. Hungry for everything. “Okay. Coffee sounds great, as long as it’s not decaf.”
He scoffed and rounded the corner into a corridor that probably led to the kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms. She hadn’t seen the inside of any of the units before, and couldn’t even guess how the floor plan was laid out.
“Will?” she called as she walked to the French doors. Peering out at the busy streets below, she took a small bite of croissant and stifled a moan. Butter is a gift from the gods.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the square footage in here?”
“About eighteen-hundred square feet.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He poked his head around the corner and shook it. “No.” He pointed to the corner where the window wall abutted with the wall along the communal hallway. Then he pointed to the opposite corner near where he stood. “There are four apartments on this floor. Two of them are small studios. The other two are family-sized. This wall runs all the way to the end of the building, and along it are the dining
room, my office, and a bedroom. The kitchen, one bathroom, and two other bedrooms are across from those.”
“Can I see?”
“Absolutely. Give yourself a tour. Granted, there’s not much to see. Furniture will be delivered piecemeal at some point staring soon. But, for the moment, I’ve got coffee and a computer. That’s half of my basic needs covered.”
“You live simply, huh?”
“I don’t know about that. I just tend to spend most of my waking hours outside of my home. I’ll get that coffee for you.” He disappeared around the corner, and this time, she followed him.
She made her way through the thrown-open double doors and spied Will to her left inside a galley kitchen kitted out with high-end appliances. She whistled low, and continued her tour. As he’d said, there wasn’t much to see. There were only a few sticks of furniture, and no decorations whatsoever. In the master bedroom, she found a pile of open luggage, and an air mattress with sheets and pillows strewn about.
“I’m convinced that—”
She jumped and clutched her chest. “Jesus Christ, make some noise when you walk up.” Turning, she saw one of his dark eyebrows inching upward.
“I’m not exactly subtle. I’m a hundred and eighty pounds and the floor groans when I walk.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You were in your head.”
“I…” She let the rebuttal fall off, because he wasn’t wrong.
Do I always do that?
She seemed to go off into La La Land frequently enough. She’d be so focused on one thing that she wouldn’t realize that a movie had ended or that a patio full of people had cleared.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m befuddled by your psychic output. You’re usually projecting at an open frequency, but right then, you were way under the radar. Almost like you weren’t on the web at all.”
“Weird.” But is it really? She could think of a few times as a teenager her parents had claimed to be projecting messages to her for her to come home that she never responded to. She’d sworn up and down she hadn’t heard them, because she hadn’t. They didn’t believe her.