Chapter Sixteen
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In which Leora breaks her vow to not get drunk. But she does it so cutely.
Leora
If I thought the bar was fun before we had our drinks, it’s positively exciting after Poem drops them off—loudly and with much attention-drawing fanfare, to Wolfe’s chagrin.
In the short minute she was at our table, she managed to greet the three of us, hand over the drinks, ask Wolfe how Operation Stop Sucking was going, ignore me correcting her about the operation’s name, and ask outright if I was on a date—with both Wolfe and Sterne.
My story is not that type of story, and will never be that type of story, so she got a vehement no from not only myself, but the men across the table as well.
“I was just asking. Yeesh,” she’d huffed before leaving the table.
Wolfe’s eye had twitched.
Then, the floodgates opened.
Once Poem had broken the seal, we had a steady stream of visitors, and no shortage of drinks.
Currently, our sixth visitor stands at the edge of our table, smile in place and gin in hand.
I accept the drink readily and eye Wolfe, wondering if this will be the one that takes it—his patience and self-control.
I thought for sure he was going to lose it when Almond stopped by to demand praise for her work on my hair, forcing her brother to stare at me for an entire thirty seconds straight to “really get a look” before he was allowed to properly compliment her.
I don’t know who was having a harder time during that, him or my rapidly beating dreamer heart.
When thirty seconds was up, rather than say anything about my (gorgeous, work of art) hair, Wolfe pulled a video monitor out of his pocket, set it on the table, and said, “This table contains the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, and I am blessed to be in their presence.”
It was way better than saying something nice about my hair.
“It’s so nice to see you two out together,” Rory, says, hovering by our booth after offering me my third drink with the wink of a sparkling eye.
“Particularly with Miss Leora not thrown over your shoulder, Wolfe, though I’ll admit, I do love a good kidnapping.
Did a few in my day, you know. That’s how I found my wife.
” Pointedly, he raises his bushy white eyebrows.
Wolfe’s eye not only twitches, but his jaw clenches. He is so close to blowing his top.
I wait, breath bated, to watch it pop.
He inhales deeply, counts to ten out loud, and regains his composure.
I deflate.
Rory moves on.
Sterne makes a low, amused sound deep in his throat, though his eyes are aimed on the video monitor. After Almond’s departure, he snatched it from the middle of the table to set it up against the wall so that we could all keep an eye on Amia, who sits up in her bed, coloring peacefully.
I wonder at that. “Should she be going to sleep?” I ask, checking the time on my phone. 8:37. That’s seven minutes past her bedtime as I know it.
“The clock beside her bed will change colors when she needs to go to sleep,” Sterne answers, pointing to Amia’s bedside table at a clock shaped like a stoplight.
Currently, the middle yellow light shines.
“She has to be in bed by 8:30, but the clock doesn’t change to red until 8:45 to give her some time to wind down by herself. ”
“She’s good about following the clock,” Wolfe adds. “Especially tonight she will be. She practically pushed me out the door. She won’t risk me having to come back upstairs to get her to sleep.”
“Pushed you out the door?” I ask.
He nods. “She was worried you’d miss your bedtime if I was late. You remember when we were struggling to get her to bed on time for that chunk last year? So you told her that you always go to bed on time?”
Warmth suffuses me. “That’s so sweet.”
He smiles down at the video monitor. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“That would’ve been around the time we got the clock?” Sterne asks, and Wolfe confirms.
“The problem was being handled on multiple fronts,” he says. “I’m not sure which one tipped the scales in our favor, or if it was a combination of all of them, but we got there eventually.”
I melt, just a little, when Sterne mirrors Wolfe’s soft gaze at the little girl in the video feed.
She is so loved.
He is so loved.
I know that it bothers him sometimes, Amia not having her mother, but I can’t think of a more cared for child. Wolfe is not alone. He has Sterne, and his parents, and his siblings, and nearly every single person in this bar tonight standing right at his side as he raises his little girl.
Inexplicably, I think I just might cry.
I push my latest drink away from me.
Wolfe turns his head, catching the movement and questioning it with the rise of his brows. Before I can decide how to respond—I do not want to get weepy during our first ever not date—another visitor shows up at our table.
I blink at the man.
Not short, not tall, he stands in an elaborate suit, complete with a floral waistcoat and a gold-tipped cane. Thick, wavy blond hair sits atop his head, bringing forth visions of lions’ manes. His eyes, more golden than brown, crinkle down at us.
I’ve never seen him up close before.
Stars, he looks like a fae prince. How in the world does Poem’s sister work for this man day in and day out? How does she not simply expire at the sight of him every morning? He’s not even my type, and I can hardly stand to look at him for more than a glance. He’s just so pretty.
“Mayor,” Sterne greets.
Wolfe’s face transforms, not into respectful deference, like Sterne’s, or enthralled appreciation, like mine, but into something much, much more interesting.
One moment, he’s a little bit confused about my abandonment of my drink, but clearly pulled back from the edge of irritation by talk of his daughter.
The next moment, he’s staring at the eccentric mayor of October and cursing, irritation back in full swing—and some might even call it something stronger than irritation.
I don’t think it’s anger, but it certainly rides the line as he glares at the fae prince.
My eyes widen, and my skin prickles.
This is it! It’s time! It’s happening!
“Hello, constituents!” Veryan Hale greets, bowing his golden head. “I’ve come to express my vested interests in your lives and happenings.”
Wolfe repeats his curse, and Sterne’s mouth tips up in pleasure at the other man’s ire.
I all but buzz in anticipation. Will it be the mayor that Wolfe loses it on, or whatever poor soul follows him?
Our fae lord continues, “As you know, elec–”
“No,” Wolfe barks, finally.
Mayor Hale jerks as he’s silenced. “N-o?” he asks, hand to his chest. “You don’t know about the elections?”
Wolfe looks at Mayor Hale, snarls, and growls, “No, you may not have a vested interest in our lives and happenings at this exact moment.” He stands, and the mayor takes a step back to get out of his way.
“No one may take any more interest in our lives or happenings tonight,” he declares to the room at large.
An ice cube clinks on a glass, and Sonnet Devoe whispers, “Oh dear, he’s done it again.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her start to push through the crowd to get to her boss, Veryan Hale, Fae Prince of October.
“I’m at my family bar,” Wolfe continues, glaring so ferociously he’s giving Fox a run for his money, and Fox is practiced with his glare.
“I’m in my home. I’m meeting my friend. I am not here to entertain the masses, and I’m definitely not here to hold court with you all.
Most of you, I love. Most of you, I would love to talk to literally any other time, when you’re behaving with an ounce of manners.
Right now? I don’t want to talk. Unless you are personally invited to my booth, I’d like all of you to go ahead and consider yourselves unwelcome in this corner.
If you need to talk to me—not gawk at me—you can do it some other time.
” He runs narrowed eyes over the room, then falls back onto the bench next to Sterne, who sets his hand on Wolfe’s shoulder and squeezes.
I fan myself.
Sonnet reaches our table and starts to herd the mayor away. “Sorry, Wolfe,” she says. “Leora. Sterne. I apologize. He got away from me.”
Mayor Hale smiles genially down at her as she prods him away from us, his voice fading with every step they take.
“Sonnet, dear, you must stop speaking about me like I’m your child.
We’ve talked about this. If you speak of me as a child, you will think of me as a child.
I don’t want you to think of me as a child. I want you to think of me as…”
“Well done,” Sterne praises.
“Very well done,” I echo. I pick up my half-full glass and press the cold condensation against my cheek. “That was not soft like water,” I tell him. “That was rough like a raging river.” And I am here. For. It.
Soft Wolfe may make my belly swoop and my heart thunder, but raging Wolfe…
“Stars,” I mutter, eyelids drooping as I gaze at him. He starts to squirm, but it’s a little too late for that. I’ve seen the underneath now, and it’s set my skin ablaze.
I’ll take his soft. Anytime.
I will also demand his rough. Any. Time.
A pint glass clunks onto the table in front of Wolfe, courtesy of Poem. “On the house,” she says.
He rolls his eyes her way. “It’s my house,” he says.
She grins. “Exactly.”
He grumbles a thanks, and she salutes before she leaves us, whistling.
I switch my gin and tonic to my other cheek and watch her go. “Does this place sell food?” I ask, moving my gaze to Wolfe.
He clutches his new beer and eyes me cautiously. “Yes,” he says. “Did you need something?”
I study him—study features that mere moments ago were so hard as to be immovable, but now sit gentle and patient as he waits for my answer. Right now, I could work on pushing him, and he’d cave to the pressure of my fingers, featherlight on his skin.
Now I know he isn’t always pliable.
Now I know he can be an immovable force if he needs to be—a current against the rest.
My glass slides down, leaving a frigid wetness in its wake. I settle it again on the throbbing pulse in my neck.
“Yes,” I answer finally. Lowly. “I’m famished.”