100% That Witch - Celia Kyle Page 0,20

laughed to herself, feeling certain the strings had been inside her head instead of filling the room.

“Let’s aim for Tuesday, then?”

“Tuesday,” she said with a wave.

Ending the session felt vaguely awkward—as if some kind of physical contact was missing. A hug would have been too much, a handshake too formal. In the end, she just proffered a quiet, “Bye,” and stepped through the door.

Turning over the engine, she sat for a moment and took in the cabin nestled among the trees. Then, as she made her way back out of the forest down the winding road, she shook her head and laughed at herself.

Man! Why do the good ones always have to be taken?

Or gay.

Or both!

Eight

“Almost time,” Tiffany muttered, checking her phone for the tenth time in a row.

She had arrived at the Rhonelles’ slightly before cocktail hour, but she hadn’t wanted to knock at their door before she was expected. So she’d wandered around the neighborhood, nervously checking the clock on her phone every two minutes or so.

Now, though, the brightly lit screen told her it was almost time, and so, with her heart thundering in her chest and wishing away the pink hearts swirling around her head, she made her way up the sidewalk. She stopped in front of the dark, brooding house and felt her stomach tie itself into knots.

The house—more like a mansion than anything else, really—seemed to demand respect from passersby, and Tiffany obliged by smoothing the creases out of her black dress with one hand. It was conservative, the hem hitting below her knees, with not a hint of cleavage in sight, and she figured it would earn the approval of Rhys’s parents.

She took a deep breath and took a hard look at the house, much like a gladiator eyeing their opponent. It occupied the street in the same fashion a castle would occupy a medieval settlement, towering over the other residences. It was an imposing place, with its elegant turrets that rose from the sloping roof and frames of darkened wood that made the windows appear like tired but regal eyes. It was the kind of house one would expect to see on the cover of Necromancer’s Digest.

“You got this,” she told herself. At least the hearts had vanished.

The massive gates guarding the compound opened on their own, the hinges screeching loudly to announce her arrival, and she climbed the million or so steps that led to the front door. She rapped her knuckles against it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and put on the kind of smile a necromancer would appreciate—polite and courteous, but not too eager.

She took another deep breath, reminding herself that the night would be a success. She was certain Rhys’s parents were going to love her. Besides, this was a giant and positive step in their relationship. After all, it had been Rhys’s decision to introduce her to his parents, and that meant he was really into her, despite his cool attitude.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Rhys gave her a half-smile, took a step back, and waved her in.

Tiffany was half-expecting a kiss—at least on the cheek—but she didn’t show her disappointment when he let her pass without so much as a friendly touch. This was her first time here, so maybe he wanted to take it slow in front of his parents. Disappointing, but understandable.

He led her across the ample foyer and into the dining room, where his entire family was gathered around a mahogany wet bar.

“This is Tiffany Ufora,” he said, casually waving a hand in her direction as he rounded the bar to pour himself a scotch.

Again, she expected to be introduced as his girlfriend—or as a friend, at the very least—but she tried not to focus on that. Maybe Rhys was just nervous.

“Tiffany, this is my father, Thersites, and my mother, Wisteria.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Tiffany said, eyeing the tall couple in front of her. They were exactly how she imagined them to be.

Thersites Rhonelle wore a dark suit that made the tall man look like the textbook definition of respectable, and he had long silvery hair that tumbled to his shoulders. As for Wisteria, she wore a sober black dress that hugged her plump figure in a flattering way and highlighted the pearl necklace around her throat. The silver in her hair shone even brighter than Thersites’s. It was so bright, it seemed to outmatch the light that spilled from the chandelier above, but