Chapter 4

4

Toil and Trouble was every bit as bad as he'd thought it would be.

Gabriel had finagled, twisted arms, pressured and bribed, and yet, as he listened to Tia Hightower list all the ridiculously named drinks on their cocktail menu, he violently wished for a dark corner to hide in.

At least the apartment by Lake Michigan was tolerable, open plan and a decent square footage. He'd left last-minute instructions for Mrs. Q—not that she needed them since she'd kept their houses since he'd been a boy—said a final goodbye to Melly, and portalled to Chicago.

As soon as he'd set foot in his new apartment, the clock had started. When he'd gestured unthinkingly to turn on the lights, a low-grade buzz had vibrated through him. According to James and a few others from the board who'd placed the binding on his powers, he was allotted a certain amount of magic a day. Each use, depending on the complexity of the spell, would increase the feedback from mild irritation to bone-rattling pain. A reminder that he should be learning to live as they lived. Gain a new appreciation and empathy for the people the company was trying to help.

The first clue it'd be tougher than even he'd predicted had come when he'd tried to use the toaster. It seemed to need some kind of degree in engineering. No matter the amount of times he pushed the lever, no matter the amount of force he used, the bread wouldn't stay down. Finally he'd just eaten it as is, irritated as the appliance seemed to mock him from its perch on the counter.

It had gone downhill from there.

Tia had met him at the door with a chip on her shoulder similar in size to the bags of ice she'd made him lug upstairs, downstairs and then upstairs again. He needed the job too much to call her out on what was clearly a challenge. Besides, although annoying, he could handle it. And he had a feeling if Tia decided to fully haze him, she'd have him stripped to his underwear and singing along to the karaoke machine in ten seconds.

Karaoke .

Spell him with a sickening curse now.

Three months, he reminded himself as he repeated the drinks back to her scowling face. He only had to make it three months.

Unimpressed with his memory, Tia gave him final directions about the register, carding people who looked below twenty-one—as if he'd know?—and playing nice with others if he could possibly manage that , before she set him loose.

He knew she expected him to fail, but he'd prove her wrong if he had to study bartending every night. Goodnights didn't fail.

He tried to remember that he liked learning new things. That was why he'd been so successful at enhancing the different departments at Goodnight's Remedies. Seeing all the parts that make up a whole, how they worked, how they could work even better. This was just one more new thing. One more bleak, miserable thing.

His first customer was a woman in a blue skirt-suit. She looked old enough to drink, but with Tia watching, he dutifully asked her for proof of age.

"You think I'm that young?" The human batted her eyelashes.

"I have to ask," he answered evenly.

She slid her ID over the counter, brushing her fingers along his and keeping hold of the card. "How old do you think I am?"

He paid no attention to her coy tone, focusing instead on sliding the ID away from her. "Forty?"

Offense simmered in eyes gone a dark blue. "I'm thirty-five!"

"If you let go, I'll verify that and get your drink."

She scowled. "You really thought I was forty?"

"You have some lines," he commented, checking the date after she finally relinquished the ID.

That interaction earned him a five-minute lecture on being friendly while keeping his damn mouth shut. When he pointed out he'd just been honest, he thought the vein in Tia's forehead would blow like one of Melly's potions.

Still, he refrained from speaking beyond what was absolutely necessary the next couple of times he'd served. Cocktails were easy enough to follow since they were essentially potions, but the measurements were strange and he had to remake some. Or all.

Tia finally kicked him out at the end of his four-hour shift and he'd never left a building faster without portalling out. He breathed in the crisp air, so different to New Orleans' sultry scent, with a measure of relief. That lasted about a minute as he turned his attention to his next task: grocery shopping.

With Mrs. Q in charge of the domestic tasks at home, he'd never done such a thing and found it strange to be surrounded by humans. Stranger still when a woman with a ponytail and jeans with a hole in the knee threatened him as he reached for the last baguette. Not that he'd been intimidated by her or by the purse she'd wielded like a nunchuck, but he'd surrendered the bread without argument.

But it wasn't just that one woman; the entire atmosphere was discomforting. The knowledge that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he didn't belong, had him hustling through the list Mrs. Q had given him. He was congratulating himself on a job well done when one of the paper bags split just outside the store.

Since he was in public and couldn't use his magic, there was no saving the eggs as they hit the ground like mini grenades, bursting on impact. All over his Ferragamo loafers.

A couple of teenagers loitering nearby on their bikes burst out laughing. Heat crawled up his neck as he tried to scoop the fallen tins and boxes into his remaining bag. And then that split.

He'd finally conjured a folding tote bag inside his pocket. Even that small fetch, something so habitual and easy, piled pressure on the base of his spine. Reminding him that this was his life for the next three months.

One day down, he told himself that night as he lay in his queen-size bed in his empty apartment. His belly grumbled—he'd burned the eggs he'd attempted to fry before settling for a ham sandwich, which, he admitted glumly, would have been better on baguette. He'd work on his cooking tomorrow. After all, tomorrow he'd only have two months, three weeks and six days to go.

Since nobody was around to see, he gave in and pulled the covers over his head.

Leah made it two days. Barely.

She timed it so that Emma would be in the back baking. She'd dressed casually, in worn, comfortable jeans and a sweater close to Gabriel's eye color. Since it was March in Chicago, her trusty peacoat went over the top, along with a thick scarf. She made sure to tuck her curls beneath her Cubs cap. Left to the wind, she'd look like one of those Raggedy Ann dolls, and that wasn't the first impression—well, first daylight impression, anyway—she wanted to make on her warlock.

Nerves jangled as she paused inside the double doors and surveyed the early afternoon crowd. There was barely anyone in, a few friend groups meeting for coffee, Emma's freshly made croissants, and conversation. They didn't do much of an afternoon trade, an area they wanted to work on at some point, but enough to get by.

Gabriel was at the bar.

Hanging back, she drank him in like a parched woman in the dead of summer.

God, he looked good. A little fancy in his three-piece gray suit and white shirt—or would it be two-piece, since he'd shed the jacket and rolled the shirtsleeves up his forearms?

Her eyes lingered there. She'd always been a sucker for a good pair of arms.

Without his mask, he was beautiful, almost too much so. If the devil could take form and tempt her to one night of sin, he would come dressed as Gabriel Goodnight.

The black waves of his hair were styled tidily, the sharp bones of his face contrasting with his soft lips, the faint shadow on his strong jaw. He still wore his tie, tucked into the shirt, under the silk vest. A fantasy made flesh.

His gaze connected with hers.

The impact was like a bolt of lightning, leaving her jittery. She watched for any recognition as she approached, but considering she'd been wearing a mask and had been glamoured when they'd last met, she knew it wasn't realistic.

Green eyes examined her as she came forward. That intense regard—no human man had ever looked at her that way. Her pulse fluttered as she drummed up a smile. "Hi."

She couldn't say his expression was welcoming, but he hadn't been all smiles before either. He'd been... Her gaze dropped to his lips, remembered them barely brushing her own.

"What can I get you?"

She bumped up her smile, wide and warm. "I'm Leah."

He stared at her without reaction.

"Leah. Turner." She gestured around them. "I own part of this place. I guess..." A small awkward laugh left her. "I'm kind of your boss?"

His gaze—God, so green, so breathtaking—flickered. "I don't think so."

What did you say to that?

She shifted her weight. "Well, it's true. Me and Emma and Tia, we all own a third. I just...wanted to come in, say welcome, make sure you're settling in okay."

"I've never heard of you."

Not even a speck of surprise at that revelation. Overprotective: look it up and there would be her friends' defiant faces.

"Really? Huh. Weird." She leaned against the bar, closer to him. "So, your name is Gabriel?"

He stood on the other side, tall, imposing, his mouth a severe line.

She kept the smile, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Uneasily waiting.

And yet, he did nothing.

She couldn't take it. She broke the silence again. "How are you finding it all?"

Still nothing.

Just as she wondered if she needed to break out her interpretive dance skills, he said, "Why haven't I heard that a..." He caught himself. "...a third person works here?"

"Owns," she corrected, straightening on a small bounce, anxious energy shooting through her from head to toes. "They must have forgotten to mention it."

He absorbed that, face cold even as his eyes flashed.

This could not be the same man from the balcony. Okay, so he hadn't exactly been the life of the party then, but he'd been livelier than this.

There'd been a connection. They'd kissed . Well, practically.

Her rose-colored glasses slipped down her nose a little.

She gave it another shot, natural optimism butting against the smoke screen he was putting up. "Are you enjoying the job?"

"It's fine," he said flatly.

"I know it can be overwhelming, all the drinks and everything, so if you need any help—"

"I don't need your help," he cut in, dismissive as hell and so sharp, Leah felt the prick of the words on her exposed skin.

She tried to keep her cool. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Once you get to know me—"

"I don't want to get to know you."

Her jaw hit the floor.

"I have to clean." Leaving her gaping, he strode to the other end of the bar, where he picked up a towel and rubbed it over the already-clean surface.

Mortified, she stared at him as anger surged in every inch of her body.

How. Freaking. Rude.

If there was one thing she hated, it was rudeness.

Well...damn it. They'd been right. Kole, Emma, Tia. The Warlock of Contempt in all his glory had just dissed and dismissed her in her own bar. Worse, she'd been weaving this romantic fantasy about how lonely and misunderstood he was because of a few stolen minutes.

And even worse , she'd argued for his job here. Like the patsy she was, she'd read into his actions and believed he could be the warlock of her dreams.

Logically, she knew a warlock and a human weren't endgame. But it had been a nice fantasy before he'd dashed any hopes she had on the rocks they served with expensive vodka.

Goddamn it. She finally got it. Warlocks sucked .

She watched him, baring her teeth inwardly. He didn't want her help, huh? Well, they'd just see about that. Gabriel Goodnight was going to learn that humans were actually decent people that should be treated with respect and would help out anyone, even a chilly asshole like him.

Leah didn't need to punch his stupidly handsome face when she could kill him with kindness.

Or at least that had been the plan, but the next week proved to her than even a kind heart could hold out only so long against a pretentious dick. And if he wanted a crash course in Humans 101, he was about to learn why you shouldn't piss one off.