Chapter 11
ELEVEN
“ Y ou too.” The words slipped out before Clover could catch them. “I mean, you look nice. Different. Good different.” Stars above, she was babbling. Why was she babbling? This wasn’t a date. She’d explicitly told herself, Poe, and her traitorously excited magic at least fifty times that this was Not A Date.
His smile took on a dangerous edge. “Good different?”
“She means you clean up nice for a cat,” Poe supplied from behind her. “Though Clover thinks you’d look better with fewer?—”
“Time to go!” Clover grabbed her bag, shooting her familiar a death glare that promised revenge in the form of inferior treats for at least a month. “Don’t wait up.”
“Have fun on your not-date!” Poe called after them. “Try not to compose any awkward love poems!”
“Love poems?” Rook asked as they walked toward his car—a sleek black vehicle that probably cost more than her entire shop inventory.
“Don’t ask.” Heat crept up her neck. “My familiar has delusions.”
“Shame. I was looking forward to hearing them.”
She glanced up to find him watching her with that predatory attention that sent shivers down her. Right. This was fine. Just a normal afternoon attending a community picnic with an unfairly attractive alpha shifter who kept looking at her like she was something precious and rare.
Totally not a date.
The spring afternoon painted Mystic Hollow’s central park in watercolor hues—cherry blossoms drifting on the breeze, magical lights strung between trees beginning to twinkle as the sun softened toward evening. The scent of grilled food and fresh-baked pies mingled with blooming flowers and subtle magic. Music drifted through the air, accompanied by laughter and the occasional pop of recreational spells.
Picnic blankets dotted the grass, each one an island of laughter and conversation. Clover spotted familiar faces everywhere—Thane holding court by the grills, his animated gestures suggesting he was deep into one of his famous stories about magical mishaps at the academy.
Romi and Xabir sprawled on a blanket near the musicians, her head in his lap as he fed her bites of what looked like enchanted strawberries. Sabine and Banner sat with a group playing some kind of magical card game that occasionally shot sparks into the air.
“Clover!” Ilaria’s voice rang out clear and strong. Rook’s grandmother sat with the other elders beneath a massive oak tree, its branches strung with fairy lights that seemed to dance in time with the music. “Your candles are amazing. I’ve never been so tranquil. Thank you for them.”
Rook’s hand settled at the small of her back, the casual touch sending cascades of warmth through her. Not a date, she reminded herself firmly. Just a friendly gesture between... business associates who happened to have explosive magical chemistry and a tendency to find excuses to touch each other.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them. Let me know when you need more.”
“Before we get dragged into hours of discussion,” he murmured near her ear, the warmth of his words ghosting across her skin, “would you like to get something to eat?”
The suggestion saved them from immediate elder interrogation. They loaded plates with grilled vegetables that smelled heavenly, herb-roasted chicken that practically radiated magical seasoning, and several of Romi’s special pastries that sparkled suspiciously.
“Fair warning,” Rook said as they found a spot to sit beneath a weeping willow strung with magical lights, “those particular pastries tend to make people speak in rhyme for about ten minutes.”
“Voice of experience?”
His sheepish grin made him look younger, more carefree. “Sabine may have tricked me into eating three at our last family dinner. I spent half an hour accidentally composing epic poetry about quarterly reports.”
Clover’s laugh bubbled up naturally. “Please tell me someone recorded that.”
“Knowing my sister? There’s probably a magical archive somewhere.” He stretched out beside her on the blanket, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “Though I might be persuaded to give you a private performance sometime.”
She tried to focus on her food instead of how that “private performance” made her imagination run wild. The chicken really was incredible—perfectly seasoned with herbs she recognized from her own shop. She took a bite, closing her eyes to better appreciate the blend of flavors.
A low rumble made her eyes snap open. Rook watched her with an intensity that made her pulse skip, his eyes darker than usual.
“What?” She dabbed at her mouth self-consciously. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” His words carried that tiger-deep timbre that did funny things to her insides. “You just... you look like you’re really enjoying that.”
“The seasoning is perfect.” She took another bite, then realized he still hadn’t looked away. “Would you like a taste?”
The words hung between them, loaded with unintended meaning. His eyes flickered to her lips, and for a moment the picnic faded away, leaving only the charged space between them.
“Well, well!” Sabine’s voice shattered the moment. “Don’t you two look cozy?”