“Your aura literally sparkles when he laughs.”
“That’s the tether. It borrows his feelings and files them under mine. Don’t blame me for the filing system.”
“No, but it doesn’t lie either.” Bea’s expression softened. “Marina. It’s okay to like him. You’re allowed to have feelings.”
“He’s arrogant. He thinks he’s better than everyone. He complained about my coffee maker for fifteen minutes yesterday.”
“And yet you’re blushing.”
Marina turned back to her mixing bowls with more force than necessary. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“You never do.” Bea sighed. “But eventually, babe, you’re going to have to admit that the grumpy dragon has gotten under your skin. And when that happens, I’ll be here with wine and ‘I told you so.’”
The morning rush brought the usual crowd: Mrs. Whitmore for her morning scone, Mr. Callahan for coffee and gossip, a steady stream of locals who’d known Marina since childhood.
Alessandro had retreated to his corner, trying valiantly to maintain his NYC work schedule despite constant interruptions. A nixie asked him about stock market predictions. A brownie wanted to know if dragons really slept on gold. A pair of twin witches debated whether dragon fire could be used in potion-making while he sat right there, increasingly tense.
Frustration radiated from him, his genuine effort to keep it contained visible in every careful nod. He’d learned from theMrs. Thornberry incident. He nodded politely, answered briefly, didn’t snap at anyone.
Progress.
Around ten, the bell chimed and a small werewolf pup barreled through the door, followed by his exhausted-looking mother.
“Mrs. Sullivan!” Marina called, then stopped. The little boy, Jamie, she remembered, all of five years old, had frozen in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on Alessandro with an expression of pure terror.
“Mama,” he whispered, too loud to be a whisper. “There’s a dragon.”
His mother looked mortified. “Jamie, we talked about this. Dragons are people too…”
“But he’s so BIG.” Jamie pressed against his mother’s legs, still staring. “He probably eats little kids.”
Alessandro’s discomfort prickled at the back of her neck, then, surprisingly, genuine distress at having frightened a child. He set down his laptop and turned slowly.
“I don’t eat children,” he said, his voice carefully modulated to something he probably thought was reassuring. It came out sounding like a hostage negotiator, but Marina appreciated the effort. “Too stringy.”
Jamie’s eyes went even wider. His mother looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.
“That was a joke,” Alessandro added quickly. “I don’t eat anyone. I eat… pastries. Like everyone else here.”
The little boy peered at him suspiciously. “You eat cookies?”
“Sometimes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
Alessandro glanced at Marina, clearly out of his depth. His silent plea was written all over his face, and she bit back a smile.
“He likes the chocolate ones with sea salt,” she offered.
“Those are MY favorite!” Jamie’s fear transformed instantly into delight. “Mama, the dragon likes MY cookies!”
“Imagine that,” his mother said dryly.
Jamie released his mother’s legs and took a tentative step toward Alessandro. “Can you breathe fire?”
“I can.”
“Can you show me?”
