He also sensed the tension instantly with a quick perusal of the dinner guests.
Tiptoeing around Roane’s predatorial appraisal of me, the one that got me hot and bothered—mostly hot—I hugged the man. “Hey, Chief.”
He gave me a quick hug back. “Hey, daffodil. Feeling better?”
“Much.”
“I wonder why,” Dad said, and my face heated instantly.
“Probably the shower,” Papi said, joining in.
“Or the mani-pedi,” Annette offered.
Even at forty, the thought of my dads catching me in the act mortified.
“Oh, Chief,” Annette said, “We might have a problem with a Mr. James Vogel.”
“A lot of people have a problem with a Mr. James Vogel.” The chief filled a plate with pasta from Bela Verona. “What’s he done now?”
Annette and I exchanged hapless glances before she said, “Does being rude and obnoxious count?”
“Legally?”
“We aren’t really sure he’s done anything,” I said.
“But,” Annette added, “he wants Dephne to bring someone back from the dead.”
That got the handsome man’s attention. “Tell me everything.” He sat down and waited for us to bring our food to the table. “Tell me everything.”
Plates piled high, we explained what was going on with Mr. Vogel, whom I’d almost called Mr. Voorhees not once, not twice, but three times before throughout the conversation before it was all said and done.
Scraping the last of the pasta from his plate, the chief said, “I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks, Chief,” I said, avoiding yet another near miss with Roane’s burning gaze.
From there, the evening devolved into small talk, which included Annette’s version of what happened at the psychic’s and with the witch bottle. I ignored the pocket folder that had been moved onto the toaster oven and the fact that it glowed now. Not just the seams, but the entire folder, clearly calling to me. Insisting I pay attention.
“I just want to see him,” Annette said, talking about the curtain climber we’d apparently adopted.
The chief asked if I had my powers back, and Annette had to explained in great detail how, in her humble opinion, they were still there, buried deep inside me.
Rather like I wanted Roane to be.
Not that I said that out loud. But the hungry glances he kept casting my way were making me squirm in my chair. He was a talented, talented boy. Part of me wanted to know where he’d learned his powers of seduction and if I could send off for the correspondence course so I could pull a reversal on him.
While I got busy fanning myself, the boy Nette was so desperate to see tore through the kitchen searching for a certain battle-scared cat named Incognito. Ink wanted spaghetti. Samuel wanted Ink. Giggling, he laughed and chased the poor animal off the table before Roane could get him off.
I giggled as he dashed by. “That poor cat. Samuel’s going to kill him.”
Roane chuckled softly. “It’s good for Ink. He’s become entirely too complacent. Have you seen how many mice we have?”
“We have mice?” Annette asked, suddenly wary.
One thing I hadn’t considered during my little tête-à-tête with Roane was Samuel. Thank God he hadn’t wandered into the kitchen. He was a tad young for sex ed.
Dinner was lovely. My dads listened with rapt attention to all of Annette’s tales and even a couple of the chief’s. Ruthie definitely had some skeletons in her closet. And not just the actual ones, but metaphorical ones as well. The evening was nice. And soothing. And normal, if one didn’t count the werewolf at the table.
Right before everyone got up, I looked at the handsome men who’d raised me. My gratitude for them had no bounds. “I saw the video of the big day.”
Dad graced me with a look of pure, unconditional love. “Which day, cariña?”
“The day you guys came to get me.”
They exchanged surprised glances.
“You gave up so much for me. I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. Everything you’ve given me.” The room fell silent. “Mostly your time and attention when you didn’t have to.”
Papi took my hand, and mimicked Dad’s soft accent when he said, “Always, cariña.”
Dad laughed softly. “It has been an honor, mi corazon.”
We stood, and they pulled me into a deep hug that lasted longer than it should have but shorter than I’d hoped.
“You saw the video?” Papi asked. “How was my hair?”
I laughed and gave him another hug.
“Your hair smells good,” he said, burying his face in the top of my head.
“Really?” I asked, far too desperately. “It doesn’t smell like lethargy? Or failure? Or six months of indolence?”
It was his turn to laugh