Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(9)

“That’s because I spent too long playing kissy face with Declan this morning.”

“Of course you did. If I had that fine specimen of manhood in my bed, I’m not sure I’d ever get out.” He finds where I stuck my bag under the desk and starts rummaging through it.

“And yet you’re still pushing Nate at me.”

“Honey, guys like Declan don’t stick around forever. Especially”—he eyes my jeans and fuzzy sweater with a look somewhere between dismay and disgust—“if you become one of those women who lets herself go once she’s got a man.” He hands me a raspberry-colored lip gloss. “Here, put this on. It’ll plump up your lips. And maybe Nate won’t notice those bags under your eyes.”

I glower at him. “I can fire you, you know.”

He snorts. “If you fire me, you’ll have to be up front every morning, charming all the customers. And honey, you might be gorgeous, but charming you are not.”

“Touché.” I take the gloss from him and start applying it—not because I have any desire to primp for the homicide detective, who is my friend and former romantic possibility, but because Travis is like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea in his head. Nothing short of full compliance will get him to move on to something else.

“Since you’re in your nasty mood, I want the record to reflect that I started the day with lipstick on.”

He peers at my lips as if looking for the evidence. “Then what happened to it all? It’s only two o’clock.”

“Declan spent fifteen minutes kissing it off me.”

“Now you’re just tormenting me,” he says with a groan.

“You deserve it.”

“Really? I’m trying to help you here. It was a long, dry spell before Declan and I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen again if you break up.”

“What makes you think Declan and I aren’t going to make it?” I ask as he sweeps shadow into the crease of my eyelid.

“I said if you break up—”

“But you meant when. I’m not an idiot. It’s written all over your face.” I tense up instinctively as I wait for the answer. I’m obviously not the only one who sees the basic incompatibility issues facing Declan and me. Travis pauses to examine me, but I get the feeling that he’s thinking more about my question than my questionable makeup choices.

“I believe,” he says finally, “that you and Declan are in very different places in your lives. And that it’s very difficult to make a relationship like that work.”

“Difficult, but not impossible.”

“No, sugar, of course it’s not impossible. Few things are if you want them badly enough. But at the same time, you need to decide what it is you really want.”

“I want Declan.”

“Of course you do. What red-blooded human wouldn’t? But is wanting him enough? I haven’t been around him that much, but even I can see that he’s haunted—and not by a ghost. That man has issues—dark issues that he’s buried deep inside himself.”

“He has a reason for them.”

“Of course he does.” He comes at me brandishing a mascara wand like a weapon. I duck, twist my head, but Travis only follows. “All the more reason for you to be careful.”

“Haunted doesn’t necessarily mean bad.” I’m grasping at straws and I know it. And I still don’t care.

“No. But it does mean difficult. Take it from someone who knows.”

That’s the thing. He does know—Travis is a magnet for guys like Declan, minus the magic, of course. Maybe that’s what this talk is really about—a cautionary tale brought on by the trouble in his own love life. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help hoping that’s what it is.

Deciding to poke around a little, I ask, “Still no word from Will, hmm?”

He drops the mascara and busies himself digging through the emergency repair kit for goddess only knows what. “Will who?”

I grab the kit, place it on the desk, then reach for his other hand. I hold on until he finally looks me in the eye. “First of all, if Will doesn’t want you, then he’s a fool. You’re the absolute best guy I know and only an idiot wouldn’t recognize that.”

He doesn’t answer, instead looking away. Travis can handle a lot of things without batting an eyelash—one of the many reasons I love having him in the front of the house—but he’s never been very good at taking compliments on anything more important than his shoes. I know he wants me to let this go, but I’m not going to. I’m not sure what it is about the men in my life and their pathological need to dodge any kind of meaningful conversation. But, this is too important, and something that’s needed to be said for way too long. So I wait patiently until he finally turns back to me.