A nod, and then he put the book on one of the nightstands before heading out and down the stairs. I gathered up my purse; my overcoat was hanging in the closet downstairs, so I’d fetch that on the way to the garage. Connor had left his draped over one of the dining room chairs; I assumed he was on his way to get it. Maybe it wasn’t as cold here as in Flagstaff, but I could tell it was going to get below freezing tonight.
No matter. We’d be inside someplace warm with friends, and that was all I needed.
* * *
As predicted, there was already a sizable crowd at Bocce, but Connor and I managed to squeeze in at the bar and order a glass of wine while we waited.
“I had no idea Cottonwood had this kind of nightlife,” he said, gazing around at the packed restaurant in some amusement.
“’Cause we’re just a bunch of hicks, right?”
He gave me a pained look. “That’s not what I meant.”
I sipped some of my malbec before replying. “No, I was just teasing. Bocce’s gotten written up in some pretty big magazines and newspapers, so a lot of people on vacation make a special effort to come here. Kind of sucks for us locals, but what do you do?”
“Go somewhere else?”
“You’ll retract that statement once you’ve had their mushroom pizza.”
Green eyes danced at me. I noticed one of the waitresses giving Connor the side-eye as she passed by us, and I refrained from scowling or throwing a random hex in her direction…not that I really knew how to do anything like that. The ogling was something I’d probably have to get used to. After all, he was so very stare-able.
Connor’s name got called then, so we squeezed through the crowd to the hostess station, then followed the girl on duty to a cozy table off in one corner. It was better than I’d hoped for, considering how crowded the place was. At least here we’d be able to talk without having to shout at one another.
The two of us settled in on one side of the booth, and I could feel Connor run his hand along my thigh before he reached up to put his napkin in his lap. Heat surged in me, pooling somewhere between my legs, and I gave him a mock-frown.
“It’s not fair, getting me all hot and bothered when we’re out in public like this.”
“Just making sure you’ll still be up for it when the time comes.”
“Oh, I’ll be up for it…as long as you are.”
He shot a dazzling smile at me, then bent close to my ear and whispered, “Angela, I’m already up for it.”
The heat in my core threatened to rage hotter than the wood-fired ovens in the kitchens just a few yards away. “Now you’re playing dirty.”
“Always.”
I heard my name called then, and looked away from Connor to see Sydney and Anthony weaving their way through the tables to our booth. Although of course they’d both met Connor before, if briefly, that wasn’t stopping Sydney from giving him a fast appraisal before she mouthed oh, my God at me. Good thing she was facing away from Anthony so he couldn’t see what she’d just done.
As they got to the table, Connor stood up and extended a hand. “Hi — we sort of met at the Halloween dance, but I don’t think we actually introduced ourselves. I’m Connor Wilcox.”
He said it casually, as if it really wasn’t a big deal, but of course it was. Cottonwood was still McAllister territory. I scanned the restaurant briefly to see if any clan members were there, but I hadn’t noticed any on the way in, nor when I gave the place a second look now.
But Anthony certainly didn’t know anything about that. He shook Connor’s hand briefly. “Anthony Rocha. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And I’m Sydney, but you already knew that.” She spied the two half-empty wine glasses on the table and said, “Looks like you guys got a head start. We’ll have to play catch-up.”
“That’s my Syd, all business,” I said, and she plopped down in her chair, grinning.
“Hey, if you’d had to deal with the people I did today, you’d need a drink, too.”
Somehow I doubted that managing cranky after-Christmas shoppers was quite as bad as facing down the three strongest witches in the McAllister clan, or seeing the disappointment — scratch that, dismay — on my aunt’s face when she realized who had been standing behind me in the foyer of my home. Again, though, it wasn’t something I could really discuss in front of Anthony. I’d have to wait until Sydney and I had a chance to talk in private.
“Do you want me to shoot up a flare to get the waitress over here?” I asked.
She shot me an irritated look, but luckily a flare or other signal wasn’t necessary, as the waitress came over soon afterward. We decided to get a bottle of the malbec — “for starters,” Sydney put in — and then ordered some caprese to get the meal going.