Bewitched (Betwixt & Between #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,28
before I did. “You do what you need to do, Defiance Dayne. None of us can know what you’re going through. What having something like this thrust upon you must feel like. Even your grandmother, as much as she likes to think she knows everything, can’t imagine.”
A gracious smile spread across my face. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course, dear. Also, chocolate helps.” She nudged the last brownie my way.
I couldn’t help but break off a bite.
There was only one coven member left to talk with. The nervous one named Minerva. I worried I was all out of small talk.
Annette, however, was doing more than her fair share with one of the male witches, a handsome kid in his very early twenties, if that, with thick muddy curls and shimmering eyes that made him look like he was about to cry all the time. The effect was rather mesmerizing.
About three seconds before I was going to suggest we head back to the house—I had an escape to plan—Annette turned to me with a curious frown and asked from halfway across the table, “You went to bed with your boots on?”
I blinked at her. “This is just hitting you?”
“Why would you go to bed with your boots on?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Instead, I scrambled for a plausible explanation that did not involve nibbling. Or, more importantly, the fact that I may have lit all those candles with my non-existent powers. “I—I saw a mouse.” It wasn’t a total lie. I had seen one in Ruthie’s chamber.
Annette’s mouth flattened across her pretty face. “Please. Last time you saw a mouse, you named it Howard and tried to catch it so the two of you could be together forever.”
Gawd, did she forget anything?
She narrowed her eyes to accusatory blades of silver. “There is only one thing on Earth that would have you running and jumping under the covers like a kindergartener afraid of the monster under the bed.”
The rest of the table paid rapt attention to our conversation, as though hanging on our every word. Thank God this one was fairly innocuous. Compared to most.
“Maybe I am afraid of the monster under the bed.”
“After what happened in the attic? You’re not afraid of anything. You’re like a superhero, only braver.”
“You didn’t see my exit.”
“Either way, that’s not it.” She pointed a finger at me in suspicion.
“Fine then. What is it?” I asked, the challenge in my voice blatant.
She leaned toward me.
I leaned toward her.
She glowered.
I glowered.
She studied me for a few suspenseful seconds, trying to summon her non-existent psychic powers, before her bow-shaped mouthed formed a perfect circle. She reared back with a gasp. “You hooked up with Roane!”
Every pair of peepers at our table—and a few not at our table—landed on me. Some in shock. Some in curiosity, their grins reflecting their desire to hear more. And some in a poorly disguised fit of jealousy. Well, one actually. The skittish one biting her nails, Minerva.
“I most certainly did not.”
“You totally did! If you hadn’t, you would’ve denied it with regret not indignation.”
Holy hell, she was good. Maybe she really was psychic. “Define hook up.”
“Defiance Dayne,” she said, her voice edged with a warning. Not that she could do a freaking thing, but it was adorable just the same.
“Okay.” I caved. “Maybe just a little.”
“How little?” Cupping her chin, she rested an elbow on the table, her expression turning dreamy.
The fact that we were discussing my love life in front of the entire coven, after only just meeting them, would not fully sink in until later.
I hedged. A lot. And I wasn’t a hedger. “We just . . . you don’t understand. He set up this test and there were candles everywhere but I told him I wanted to test him first and he was like bring it and then he gave me cake.”
She grinned. “I bet he did.”
“No. Not like that. There was some nibbling, but that’s as far as it went.”
“Nibbling?” She clasped her hands together. “You guys are at the nibbling stage?”
“Is that a real stage?”
A male voice intruded into our heart-to-heart just when it was getting good. A male voice edged with impatience. And derision. And a hint of disgust. “Are you Defiance Dayne?”
We turned to a large man, with thinning brown hair, standing beside our table. He wore tan coveralls, a ruddy complexion, and a toxic frown.
“I am,” I said, not offering any more than that.
“I’ve left you three messages.” His voice reminded