Wickedly Wonderful(54)

She lifted an eyebrow in question, but he didn’t know how to explain to her that something about being with her seemed to ground and calm him—even when she was frustrating the living crap out of him. It was as though the sunlight in her soul shined a light into the dark places in his. But there was no way he could put that into words without sounding like a complete idiot.

“Please?” he said instead. “It might even be fun. We don’t have to hang out with my friends the entire time.”

Beka nodded at Candace and her son, who were nearly back to where they were sitting. “Why don’t you ask them? I’m sure Tito would love fireworks.”

Marcus shook his head. “Past his bedtime, and I’m sure Candace has to work. Besides, I’d rather go with you. It’ll impress the hell out of my friends if I show up with a gorgeous blonde on my arm.”

Beka rolled her eyes at him, the movement barely visible behind her sunglasses, but a big grin slid across her face and a hint of a blush touched the top of her high cheekbones. “I suppose you want me to wear something low-cut with a short skirt too,” she said, choking back a laugh.

“Well, if you insist,” Marcus said. “I wouldn’t try and talk you out of it.” He held his breath, trying to remember that he didn’t really care if she came or not, that it was just to keep him from jumping every time they set off a sparkler. “So you’ll come?”

Her smile would have set the showiest fireworks display to shame. “It sounds like fun,” she said. “And I’ve got the perfect dress. It’s going to knock your socks off.”

Marcus wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but he couldn’t wait to find out.





FOURTEEN




BEKA WAS FEELING ridiculously cheerful when she arrived back at the bus. Anticipation and excitement effervesced in her blood like bubbles in a champagne glass; sparkling and popping against the edges of her aura. A rosy glow seemed to suffuse her vision, rendering the mundane world unusually bright. A seagull’s raucous cry sounded like Mozart as she climbed the steep bluff with her surfboard on her shoulder, and the ragged, hardy weeds that grew to either side of the path were suddenly more beautiful than the loveliest hothouse orchids.

By the sea god’s beard, you have got to get a grip, she told herself sternly. It’s not a date. Marcus just needs someone to ground him in a tricky situation and you were the easiest person for him to ask. It didn’t matter. The stupid grin wouldn’t leave her face anyway.

She tucked the board away on its rack in the storage space under the bus and, giving in to impulse, spun around in an impromptu dance around the clearing, only stopping when she grew dizzy.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Chewie was sitting in the open doorway of the bus, his mouth gaping open to display an impressive array of very sharp, very white teeth and a lolling black tongue. “Are you drunk? Or, I don’t know . . . possessed?”

Beka didn’t even care that her dragon was laughing at her, that’s how good a mood she was in.

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing him out of the way so she could go inside. “I just had a really nice afternoon, that’s all. It was a lot of fun watching Marcus teach Tito the basics of surfing. He’s great.” She plopped on the couch, noticing in passing that Chewie had actually put away all her magical supplies. It truly was a red-letter day.

“Who’s great?” Chewie asked slyly. “Marcus or Tito?”

Beka sat up straight. “Tito. I meant Tito, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Although it turns out that Marcus maybe isn’t quite as big a pain in the ass as I thought he was.” Beka fiddled with a blue-green cushion embroidered with bright orange fish. “He was really patient with Tito today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he kind of asked me to go into Santa Carmelita with him tomorrow night for some barbeque thing they have on the beach,” Beka added in what she hoped was a convincingly casual tone. “Some old friends of his asked him to come, and he’s apparently not too comfortable with the fireworks they’re having later in the evening and thought he’d do better if he had someone to, uh, hold his hand. Metaphorically speaking.”

“Right,” Chewie said dryly. “Metaphorical hand holding. You should be good at that. As long as there’s no actual hand holding.” He snorted, tiny flames shooting out to singe the edge of the couch. Beka extinguished the flames and repaired the damage without even thinking about it, since such things were a common occurrence when one lived with a dog who was mostly dragon.