Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tripp Nightshade.
What was he doing hiding in an alley with Payton yesterday? Whatever it was, he’d triggered Dailey’s green-eyed monster. Elara hadn’t gone far before she’d gotten the courage to turn back to tell Tripp where he could shove those damned dildos. The second she spun around, she saw him and Payton duck between the buildings like shady co-conspirators. From her vantage point, Elara could see it also sent a red flag up Dailey’s pole. He’d missed her approach, but she’d overheard everything, including the pain in Payton’s voice.
And that wouldn’t do!
With a wave of outrage came a feeling of empowerment, and she’d confronted him on his lie. Anyone with eyes in their head could see his tortured expression and how his attention never wavered from Payton. He was a man obsessed—and hurting, like her sister. Yet he would never understand that his overbearing attitude was the problem, in addition to his mother.
Mayor Mary-Alice Cobb was a royal bitch. As a member of Witchmere’s oldest family, she believed her ca-ca didn’t stink, but in her arrogance, she dealt out the worst-smelling crap imaginable. And she’d heaped it by the ton on Payton, who wasn’t good enough for her precious boy. Dailey had never been able to see it, which made matters worse and Payton miserable.
He had viewed his holier-than-thou directives as helping Payton rein in her inner wild child, but he’d controlled her to the point of rebellion, where escape had become a driving need. She’d fled their wedding and Witchmere, leaving Elara alone with no one for two years.
Elara hadn’t expected him to listen to her when she ordered him away. Nor had she expected Tripp’s vehement reaction afterward.
“You’ve got to stop using magic,” he’d warned. “You can’t even think in terms of wishes or the like.”
“What are you talking about?” Her unease had grown to a sickening degree, causing her stomach to churn. “I didn’t use magic. I?—”
“You did . Trickster magic, and trust me, it won’t be without consequence. We must figure out a way to undo it, and fast, or there could be lasting effects.”
His condemnation stung, and she’d have wished him to the North Pole if he hadn’t cautioned her against it. With a glare for her boots, he’d left her alone with a very shaken Payton.
And her sister now refused to speak to her.
What had she done so wrong? Stand up against a bully? Elara had asked her sister the same question and received a disbelieving stare.
“Dailey Cobb is the furthest thing from a bully that exists, El. If you thought about anyone besides Tripp Nightshade, you’d see that.” Fury had vibrated in Payton’s voice and caused it to shake. “He’s hurting because I left him standing at the altar. And he has the right to be angry. Hell, you and I would be enraged if it had happened to either of us. Considering that’s the first time he’s seen me since then, I’d say he was pretty damned restrained.”
“Payt—”
“ No! You don’t always know what’s best. You only think you do.”
Left with egg on her face, Elara had trudged back to the bookstore to comfort Florence, who hadn’t been in the mood to speak to anyone and sent her home. Now, here she was, hiding like a coward. Why was everyone against her suddenly? Yes, the attention was a massive change from being ignored, but still, it hurt to be misunderstood.
Even Hex was giving her a wide berth today. Usually, he’d weave between her ankles, but the look of distaste he gave her boots was off-putting. Whenever she approached, he ran away and jumped up on the counter.
Feeling as if she’d lost her best friend, she decided to avoid people at all costs.
A knock sounded on her apartment door.
Okay, avoidance was easier said than done.
Should she ignore her visitor?
She paused in drinking her tea.
Maybe Payton was ready to forgive her?
Elara shook her head.
Doubtful. The woman could carry a grudge until doomsday, but the possibility was there, right?
With another sip, she considered her options.
If Payton did show up to lecture her, it would result in hurt feelings. Did she dare risk another fight with the only person in the world who once gave a crap about her?
“Elara, open the door.” Tripp’s tone was sweet and coaxing as if he understood her dilemma.
“It’s open,” she called, quickly propping her feet on the ottoman and perfecting a casual pose. No need for anyone to know she was wallowing in misery.
He wasted no time entering or surveying his surroundings, and she belatedly realized he did that a lot, acting as if he were a fugitive or feared attack from every side.
“Why do you check out a room when you enter?” Elara asked, dropping her feet to the floor. “Like you’re expecting something bad to happen?”
All expression left his face, and he gave her a blank look. A very non-Tripp expression. Whatever he was hiding, it was big.
“I want to discuss the boots,” he began. “You?—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I know what you’re going to say.” She crossed to the sink, dumped her tea, and filled it with hot tap water to soak. When she glanced up, he was watching her with something akin to speculation. “You’re going to blame every bad thing that’s happened in the last couple of days on them. And I’m going to say you’re wrong.”
“Probably. But I’d like to tell you their origins, and you can decide how to proceed. Fair?”
How could she argue when he was reasonable? Had he been dickish, she’d have kicked him the hell out. She frowned. Maybe the boots had given her more courage than she’d thought.
“Would you like something to eat or drink first?” she offered.
“Coffee would be wonderful if it’s not too much trouble.” He must’ve recognized her dismayed gasp for what it was because he waved her off. “A glass of water would be better.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t stock coffee. Besides my morning latte from Wily Witches , the stuff makes me too jittery to drink.”
He smiled, and in his gesture, she recognized an emotion close to tenderness. Her eyes suddenly stung, and she reached for a glass to hide her emotional reaction. When was the last time anyone looked at her with anything remotely like tenderness? Her dad before he disappeared?
“Ellie, you’re just like your mother, my girl,” he’d say.
But in reality, Payton was a free spirit like their mother, and Elara was a practical one like their father.
“Are you okay, flitter-mouse?” Tripp’s concerned question interrupted her journey down memory lane.
“Fine.” She handed him the water and led the way to the living room.
The instant his mouth touched the rim of the glass, her brain forgot everything but the feel of his lips on hers. Was it possible to be jealous of an inanimate object? Her body grew warm as the tip of his tongue mopped up the excess moisture, and the urge to proposition him again overcame her. If he encouraged her in any way, her thin thread of control would snap, and she’d be on him faster than a starving man attacking a loaded everything bagel.
Her sex-obsessed mind resulted from too many years without a bed buddy. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have opportunities, but why partake of sweet nectar when it didn’t satisfy her hunger? Perfect-shouldered men were hard to find.
She curled her legs beneath her and burrowed into her favorite reading chair. The boot jewels pressed through the fabric of her favorite bohemian skirt, heating her skin, and Elara frowned. Shouldn’t the amethyst stones be cool to the touch?
“What is it?” Tripp asked.
“You could stand to be a little less observant,” she grumbled. “And it’s nothing. Say what you’re going to say, then go.”
His dark brows shot up, and his lips twitched, drawing her undivided attention.
Barely suppressing a groan, she reached for his glass, downed the remaining water, and pressed the cool exterior to her feverish forehead. “Is it warm in here? It feels hot.”
“It’s the power of those boots, Elara. It’s too strong for your body to contain.” He shifted from his seat, knelt before her, and touched her thigh. “I’m begging you. Take them off.”
“You keep saying that, but they’re just boots, Tripp. There’s nothing magical about them other than how gorgeous they are.”
“Yesterday, you effortlessly cast a spell in the alleyway. Whether you choose to believe it or not, you set fire to that box in the bookstore.” His fingers tightened when she would’ve protested. “You asked me how old I am. Old enough to have seen what these things can do. To recognize their signature in any room I walk into.”
“I didn’t start that fire, Tripp. I wasn’t there and wouldn’t do that to Florence.”
“I’m not saying you would, but are you sure you weren’t in the store’s proximity in the minutes before the blaze?”
“Positive.”
The pressure of his fingers wasn’t great, yet it was all she could feel through the skirt’s fabric. Like the jewels, his touch created a heat verging on burning, and Elara squirmed.
She focused on his mouth, recalling how incredible their kisses were and the passion they stirred. The temptation to experience more was mighty, as was her desire to discover if he always tasted of brownies and espresso. The air filled with the scent of baked chocolate delicacies, and Elara leaned forward, eager to find the source.
Her face connected with his palm, and she sputtered her indignation. His dimples flashed, irritating her further.
“What’s so freaking funny?” she snapped.
“Your face when you don’t get what you want,” he said, chuckling.
She toyed with the idea of rearranging his.
Tripp dropped a kiss on her nose, which Elara immediately scrubbed away.
“Don’t be mad, flitter-mouse. If or when we make love, I can promise you won’t be wearing those fucking boots.”
“Or maybe I will because I love them, and you still haven’t told me why you believe they’re the worst thing since raisins in cookies.” She crossed her arms and sat back. “Let’s hear it.”
“You don’t like raisins in cookies?” he asked, distracted.
“No. Hate them. I always mistake them for chocolate chip and wind up disappointed.” Yes, she was grouchy, but nothing was worse than having an itch for one man who refused to scratch it. “Your reason for hating my boots. Go.”