19. Freddie
Freddie
“McKinley!” I call out, smoothing the hem of my dress. “Are you almost ready, or did you fall down the drain in there?”
“One minute!” His muffled voice comes from behind the bathroom door, accompanied by the hiss of running water.
“You take longer to get ready than a teenager going to prom,” I tell the door. “If you’re in there doing a full skincare routine, I need you to know that I will never let you live it down.”
“Some of us have standards, Win,” he shoots back. “Not all of us rely on our chaotic witchy energy to get through the day.”
“That was genuinely hurtful,” I say, turning toward the mirror before he can hear me laugh.
I take myself in, tucking a loose wave behind my ear. I’d taken a round brush and a hair dryer to my hair tonight—an act of effort that borders on ceremonial for me—and it actually worked. Soft waves, some real volume, the sort of blowout I usually only manage to produce by accident.
I’m wearing a short burgundy dress, one that hugs my waist before flaring out just enough to keep it fun.
It shows off a generous hint of cleavage, the detailed moth tattoo inked over my collarbone, and the long black snake winding its way up my left thigh.
Below that, my legs are freshly shaved—a major victory—and my feet are tucked into my favorite black kitten heels.
I even took the ten extra minutes to paint my fingernails and toes a deep, matching berry red.
My makeup is basic—some mascara, a pop of blush on my cheekbones, a touch of contour, and a glossy lip.
I’ve never been great at intricate eyeshadow or precise winged liner; that was always Stella’s territory.
She used to sit me down in front of her vanity and turn my face into a canvas, laughing while I squirmed.
Standing here now, looking at my reflection, I feel…
pretty. I’d almost forgotten how good it feels to put in a little effort just for the hell of it.
My eyes are going to bleed if I have to stare at one more page of tiny font in Aria’s stupid spell book anyway.
We haven’t cracked the code on getting Callum home yet, but I know one thing for sure—a couple of stiff drinks down at the pub aren’t going to derail the universe tonight.
The bathroom door latch clicks open behind me. I turn, my hands finding the curve of my hips, and suddenly every thought I have scatters like startled birds.
Callum is standing in the doorway, drying his hands on a hand towel.
He’s wearing a fitted charcoal sweater with the crisp collar of a white T-shirt peeking out at the neck, well-fitting jeans, and that fine gold chain resting against his throat.
His hair is still damp from the shower, combed back in a way that makes me want to reach up and mess it up again, and his mustache is trimmed to absolute perfection as always. He looks effortlessly handsome.
My pulse does an erratic skip, and I want to blame the Resonance for it. It would be easier that way, cleaner, to say this feeling isn’t mine, that it belongs to whatever force decided our twisted fates should be tangled together. But standing here, looking at him now, I’m not so sure anymore.
He stops mid-step. His eyes lock onto mine, then drop, tracing an unhurried path from my kitten heels, up the length of my legs, before finally landing back on my face. For a heartbeat, his eyes widen, and the room goes still.
It makes me want to peel my own skin off. It’s electric and painstakingly vulnerable all at once, like he’s looking straight through the makeup and the dress right into the parts of me I usually keep tucked away.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his hands coming to a halt at his sides. “Win…” he clears his throat. “You look…”
“Amazing, I know.” I cut him off before he can finish, tossing my hair over one shoulder, desperate to keep things light. “No need to shower me with compliments, McKinley, I have a mirror.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just shakes his head slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Luminous, Win. You look luminous.”
A tiny smile slips past my guard before I can stop it.
“Well.” I clear my throat, scrambling for my usual footing. “You don’t look too shabby yourself. Though…do you always wear a thick sweater to the pub, loverboy? It’s gotta be at least eighty degrees in there.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but a chuckle escapes him anyway, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “I wasn’t exactly planning a night out on the town when I packed my bag.”
“Just take it off and wear the white shirt.” I step closer before I can think better of it, my hands already finding the hem of his sweater.
He raises his arms, and as the sweater drags upward, his white undershirt rides with it. My eyes instantly catch on the flash of broad, taut abs, and the faint trail of dark auburn hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
My knuckles accidentally skim over the warm, firm skin of his stomach as I yank the sweater the rest of the way off his head.
“There,” I murmur, but as the sweater leaves his body, I realize my palm is still resting flat against his ribs.
My head snaps up and I find him looking down at me, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand.
I pull back like I’ve been burned. “Sorry,” I mutter, heat rushing to my face so fast it stings. God, Freddie, pull it together. Stop acting like a moron.
A smirk spreads across Callum’s face, his eyes glinting with amusement. He rolls his shoulders, stretching out his broad chest in the plain white T-shirt. The cotton clings to him in all the right places, making the gold chain around his neck pop.
“Is that better?” he asks.
I make myself do a proper once-over. Honestly, the man could wear a burlap sack and look sexy as hell. But I force a critical look, smoothing down the short sleeves of his T-shirt over his biceps just to give my hands something to do. “Much better. You no longer look like a geography teacher.”
“Diabolical feedback.” But he’s smiling when he says it, his smirk softening into something gentler as his eyes scan my face one last time. “You look beautiful, Win. I mean it. Nobody’s going to be looking at me.”
I grin, my confidence snapping right back into place as I grab my bag and turn toward the door. “Obviously. Now come on, let’s go. All of that cheap beer won’t drink itself.”
The walk down the cobblestone hill takes ten minutes, the night air crisp enough to cut right through the light fabric of my dress.
By the time we hit the bottom of the street, the bass and chatter spills out into the dark.
The Mermaid’s Kiss is tucked between an old apothecary and a fishmonger’s shop, its weathered wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze.
The owners updated the place a few years back—strung up Edison bulbs over the exposed brick and put in a matte-black bar top—but it still smells like spilled cider and pine wood.
Inside, it’s packed. A cluster of selkies near the door, hair still damp, arguing loudly about something.
A pair of dryads tucked into the velvet booth closest to the fire, their bark-brown fingers wrapped around wine glasses.
The usual Friday mix of people who live here and people who are, in some way or another, trying to forget that they do.
My Resonance kicks up the second we’re through the door. It always does in crowds, like static before a storm. I can feel the room without meaning to. Who’s here celebrating. Who’s pretending to. Who’s been nursing the same pint for an hour and a half and has no real intention of going home.
“Freddie!”
I turn toward the bar, where Danny—the owner’s son—is wiping down the wood with a white towel. He flashes a grin. “Well, damn! The party’s actually starting now. Look at you!”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Danny boy,” I tease, resting my forearm against the cool black counter.
Danny’s dark eyes slide past me, taking in the broad, six-foot figure standing at my shoulder. He leans over the bar, extending a hand. “I’m Danny. It’s nice to see a fresh face around here.”
Callum pulls one hand out of his pocket, wrapping his broad palm around Danny’s for a quick shake. “Callum. Nice to meet you.”
“Can we get a few shots to start us off?” I ask, tapping my painted nails on the mahogany. “Dealer’s choice. Something strong.”
Callum turns his head toward me, his brow furrowing instantly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Shots already?”
I turn to face him, stepping into his personal bubble with a mischievous grin. “You’re going to have fun tonight, McKinley. I’m peeling back all those cranky onion-y layers, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Callum lets out a real laugh at that, his eyes sparkling under the lights. “Is that right? You’re on. What did you have in mind?”
I tap my index finger against my chin, pretending to ponder the options even though the plan was locked in the second we walked through the door. I point past his shoulder. “Darts.”
Callum rubs his broad palms together, a ridiculously handsome smile spreading across his face. “You might want to reconsider that, Win. I spent years in Scottish pubs every summer growing up. I don’t lose at darts.”
“Big talk for a guy who was planning on wearing a sweater here,” I shoot back. “We’ll have to see.”
We squeeze through the crowd toward the back corner where the dartboard hangs against a thick slab of cork. Within a couple of minutes, a young bartender comes over and sets a wooden tray loaded with ten shots of cinnamon whiskey on a tall high-top table right next to us.
I grab a dart, turning to face Callum with a tilt of my head. “Here are the rules, detective. We aim for the bullseye. If you miss, the other person gets to ask whatever question they want. If you refuse to answer, you take a shot.”
Callum eyes the tray, then looks at me. “And how, exactly, are we getting home after shots of whiskey?”
“We walk back the way we came,” I say, flashing him a quick wink. “Or…you can hop on the back of my broom with me.”
He doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Walking it is.”