Or it would be… If my brain wasn’t hijacked by thesecondmost impossible sight of the morning.
Grumpy. The cat whohatespeople. Especially men-people. Yet there he is, sleeping on top of all that glorious bare-chestedness, the Devil’s hand resting casually on his back, both of them sound asleep, all cozied up like they’ve been snuggle buddies for a century.
I try not to let this bother me.
I also try not to notice how adorable they look, peacefully snoozing in front of the fading embers of last night’s fire, the faint smell of my magic lingering.
Wow. I really did it. I summoned the Devil last night. And now he’s here, half-naked on my couch. Petting my cat, which is sadly not a euphemism.
I take a silent step forward, then another, ogling the specimen as I might a newly discovered herb for my tea recipes. Messy black hair just begging to be touched. Perfect amount of dark stubble along his jawline. The long, lean lines of his body, a work of art against the purple velvet. The firm ridges of rock-hard abs and those sexy-as-sin v-muscles disappearing beneath the blanket like a forbidden invitation.
Memories of last night flicker through my mind—the Devil darting out to catch me when I tripped over the stools, those powerful arms lifting me to safety, the scent of him nearly overwhelming, like fire and black pepper and the darkest dark chocolate.
My hand drifts forward, reaching for him without any conscious effort on my part. It’s by sheer willpower that I don’t accidentally-on-purpose yank off that blanket and blame it on the cat.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I force myself to do an about-face, tiptoe into the café kitchen, and put on the kettle. Tea time—best way to start the day.
I head back out to my wall of ingredients, eager to make my selections for my morning brew, but something seems… off. I glance around at the gleaming counter, and that’s when it hits me.
This place was a disaster zone last night. Stools toppled, candle wax spilled across the counter, half-emptied mugs from our earlier Witch-N-Bitch all over the place. I was so exhausted after the ordeal, I barely remember getting home from the liquor store, depositing the Devil on the couch, and dragging myself up to bed, muttering something about cleaning up the evidence in the morning.
But now, there is no evidence. He cleaned everything up.
Ignoring the warmth spreading through my chest, and possibly spreading lower, I select my ingredients from the wall—green tea, holy basil for clarity and attention, peppermint to chase off the lingering brain fog, and a dash of black pepper to boost my personal power.
Focus and direction, that’s what we need today. No more fuzzy-headed, booze-addled-brain calling the shots around here.And that goes for you, too, libido. No one south of the border gets a say, got it?
No response. We’ll take that as a yes.
I’ve just started to grind the pepper when she appears in my empty teacup—another Tarot card. Queen of Swords this time, a woman who knows what she wants, cuts to the chase, and takes no shit. She sits upon her throne, sword held high, shoulders squared. Like,approach me if you must, but don’t eventhinkabout giving me any shit.
Her appearance makes me smile. It’s just the power boost I need, and the perfect magic to bless my new brew—Make Good Choices, You Stupid Bitch.
For my guest, I craft a variant of my traditional Welcome to Wayward Bay blend. Black tea with vanilla, cardamom, and cinnamon topped with a few shavings of dark chocolate.
Each blend gets its own individual serving pot, assembled on a tea tray with cups and saucers and a selection of pastries and fresh berries. I have no idea what the Devil eats or whether he even likes tea, but I’ve already kidnapped and bound him, so it’s not like I can make a worse impression, right?
You’ve got this,the Queen of Swords whispers in my mind, then vanishes.
Back in the fireplace area, the Devil is still sleeping on the couch like some kind of sex god who miraculously fell out of the skies and landed in my shop, the morning light pouring through the windows and gilding him in a golden sheen that makes him look even more otherworldly than he already is.
An accidental sigh escapes my lips, and Grumpy’s head pops up. He catches me watching him, his stone-cold hater reputation ruined, and leaps away without so much as another glance. The movement disturbs the sleeping Devil, who twitches and yawns, rolls onto his side, and slowly blinks awake.
I watch in quiet admiration as he sits up and stretches, the blanket falling away to reveal the sweatpants he borrowed from Maleek, every movement sending a zing of awareness right through me. It’s a miracle I can even stand still, that the cups and saucers aren’t rattling on the try.
It feels like hours before he finally gets his bearings and glances up. I hold my breath and smile, hoping for one in return, or maybe a nod, some tiny acknowledgment that tells me he’s not going to smite me where I stand.
But he just watches me, calm and steady. Intense. A million thoughts run through his eyes, all of them veiled, and mygoddess, he’s got adorable morning face. That slightly rumpled hair, pillow marks lining his cheek, eyes the rich, red-brown color of a cup of Earl Grey.
My thighs involuntarily clench. Aesthetically speaking, the man—Devil—whatever—is pure perfection. I bet he doesn’t even have morning breath.
He does, however, have morningwood—a thing I’ve only just now realized after the briefest glance downward—and holyHell. For the first time in my mostly battery-operated sex life, I’m starting to understand the hype over gray sweatpants.
“Something I can help you with this morning, Mushroom?” he asks, his smooth voice and sexy British accent like warm honey.
Honey I would love to have poured all over my naked boobs and licked off—
I shove the tea tray at him as if that alone can hide the beast between his legsormy embarrassment at getting caught staring at it.
