Conversation dropped mid-sentence. Chairs creaked as their occupants shifted uncomfortably. Two people froze with paper cups halfway to their mouths.
Goldie’s smile didn’t falter. Not her real smile, but the one she kept in reserve for baby showers, bad dates, and, apparently, murder aftermaths.
“Don’t all stare at once,” she said lightly, flicking the end of her shawl over one shoulder. “I’m not cursed. Not yet.”
A ripple of uneasy chuckles answered her, the kind of brittle laughter people used to prove they were fine when clearly no one was.
Her gaze caught on a figure near the head of the table—Truckenham’s deputy, Karen Vesuvius. She sat very still, a legal pad neatly set before her, pen resting in the margin. Her glasses caught the light, hiding her eyes, but her expression was composed, unreadable.
Something tugged at Goldie’s chest. Gods and goddesses, of course she was quiet, her boss had just been murdered. She must be reeling, holding herself together by sheer will, forcing order onto paper because it was the only thing she could control.
Poor woman,Goldie thought. What a nightmare to be trapped in here, expected to function. The sight made her spine stiffen in sympathy, as if the only way to get through this meeting was to mirror Karen’s resolve: sit tall, keep notes, pretend the ground beneath them wasn’t cracking open.
“Goldie,” came a warm, steady voice, pulling her from her thoughts. “Here.”
Jonah Pell stood slowly and pulled out the seat beside him with a small, old-fashioned flourish that, in lesser hands, might have read as performative or patronizing. But Jonah made it look easy, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and was glad to spend it helping her settle.
Gods help her, his forearms should have been illegal. Rolled sleeves, strong hands, fingers that looked like they’d leave prints on her hips and spells on her skin.
Her thighs clenched reflexively. Her nipples tightened against her bra, begging for notice. She blinked hard, but her mind betrayed her anyway:
Jonah’s strong hands pressing her down into soft sheets. His voice rough and low against her throat. His mouth trailing heat down her collarbone. His eyes holding hers as he moved inside her—steady, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world for this too.
She dropped into the chair with more force than necessary and crossed her legs like it might help. It didn’t.
“Thank you!” she chirped, far too bright, snatching up the pen in front of her and gripping it like a lifeline.
I can do this. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
“Of course.” Jonah leaned in slightly, voice pitched low and steady. “I heard you were the one who… found him. Are you okay?”
It was the kind of concern that felt practical and grounding, like someone asking if your boots were warm enough before a snowstorm. His kindness was a quiet anchor.
And it was that very kindness that made a jolt of feral heat shoot straight to her core, making her spine arch almost imperceptibly in her seat.
What the fuck? Get it together, Flynn.
“I—yeah,” she stammered, trying to arrange her face into something that didn't look horny and flustered. “I mean. No. But… you know.”
Jonah glanced at her, his brow creased with the slightest hint of concern. “Do you need anything?”
Yes. I need to be fucked good and hard into next Tuesday. Please, take me now.
Sharp, golden sunlight caught the edge of his jaw, and for a second she imagined trailing her tongue down that line, licking into the hollow of his throat, sinking into his lap as she?—
Goldie inhaled sharply through her nose and immediately regretted it. He smelled like cedar and clean linen and something warm, worn-in, and quietly devastating. Her body reacted like she had just booked a private cabin in the woods with him and was mentally packing the edible body glitter.
This is not the time. There was a crime. There was literally a corpse. Down, girl.
Jonah looked at her with such open, guileless kindness, completely unaware of the absolute chaos of want currently short-circuiting her brain.
She offered a strained smile that felt like it might crack her face. “I’m okay. Really.”
Liar.Her panties were soaked. Her pulse was a frantic drumbeat in her ears. And she was one more decent, thoughtful question away from combusting in her seat in a fit of lust.
The doors swung open and Tamsin swept in, late and visibly flustered. Her usually effortless caftan was slightly rumpled, and a smear of lipstick feathered unevenly at one corner of her mouth. The low murmur of conversation in the room didn’t so much stop as it curdled.
“As you all know, Beltane has been canceled, and there’s nothing we can do. The Grove Core is an active crime scene.” She let the words hang, a clinical confirmation of what everyone was already whispering. “We don’t know how long the investigation will take, but we must prepare contingency plans for Solstice, in case the Green Holdings remain off-limits.”
