Page 5 of The Turning of the Tables

I told myselfveryfirmly that I was not going to let myself be swayed by a crooked smile, no matter how adorable it was. Not again. Devin had flashed such a smile when he’d first sauntered over to the high top table I’d been sitting at in Gwar Bar the night we’d met.

The night he’d first taken me home with him.

We’d dated for a month before he’d convinced me to move in with him. Fast-forward four years, and it had been some other blond guy he’d picked up in that same bar that had moved meoutof his house. I guess he had a pattern. I tried not to think too hard about how often he’d probably done it during those four years that I hadn’t found out about.

I kept telling myself I was over that asshole.

I clearly wasn’t, since Elliot kept reminding me about Devin. Not that they were at all similar—Devin had beenGQ-poster-boy hot, which was one of the reasons I’d fallen for him and was a very good reason I should have questioned his commitment tome, since I am not that. Elliot was striking—attractive, yes, but not in a conventional sense.Devin built his physique with weights and protein powder and fad diets. Elliot clearly didn’t.

The passenger door opened, interrupting my sour reminisces. Elliot flashed me that half-smile as he climbed in, and I noticed his earrings were studs with silver feathers dangling down. They suited him.

“Thanks for this,” he said, his voice still rough, but not in an unpleasant sort of way. At least in that he didn’t remind me of Devin, who’d had a smooth, cultivated voice. The kind you’d expect to hear on the radio introducing jazz. Elliot’s voice sounded like he was as likely to growl or grunt as speak.

I told myself to stop it.

“No problem,” I replied, trying not to wince at the level of cheerfulness in my tone. Hart often gave me crap about being too cheerful, especially in the mornings. Unlike a certain elven detective, I am definitely a morning person. I wondered—before I had a chance to stop myself—whether or not Elliot was a morning person. Not that it mattered.

“I hope I’m not ruining any plans,” Elliot continued. “But I’d like to get this started tomorrow, and while I had the raw wood for the table shipped in, I’ll need some basics I didn’t bring with me.”

“No, no plans.” I suppressed a wince. At least it wasn’t a Friday, and I could plausibly argue that not having plans on a weeknight wasn’t particularly pathetic. Not that Elliot probably cared either way. “Did you have a preferred hardware store?”

“Woodcraft—there’s one here somewhere.”

“Yeah, out in Short Pump.” Short Pump was not one of my favorite places to go. It was almost always crowded, the on- and off-ramps to 64 were usually a disaster, and there was something about massive sprawling malls that just putsme on edge. Maybe because I’m a small-town guy at heart, and Short Pump just makes me think about suburban bloat.

“Is that okay?” Elliot asked. “Not too far?”

“It’s fine,” I replied, a little surprised to find that I actually didn’t mind as much as I normally would have. “There will likely be traffic out there, though, so I hope you don’t have any other plans tonight, either.”

“If it’s too much trouble?—”

“No! No,” I cleared my throat, feeling heat at the base of my neck as it flushed out of embarrassment at having cut him off a bit more enthusiastically than I’d intended. “It’s no problem. Like I said,Idon’t have any other plans.” I offered a smile, then busied myself by pulling out onto the Main Street traffic that would take us toward the highway.

“Well, these were my plans,” Elliot replied. “I’d expected that my hosts would be more… available, though, so thank you.”

“Yeah, poor Hart. This case is going to eat him,” I remarked. “A senator’s wife is a big deal, and since she’s a shifter, I guess they’re all hands on deck—while we’re most decidedlyoffdeck.” That had sounded better in my head than coming out of my mouth. I decided to try again. “Is Taavi working?”

“I didn’t want to ask him,” Elliot admitted. “He’s got midterms this week, and I’d feel guilty if he wasn’t able to study.”

That made sense. “Ah,” is what I said out loud.

“Will you let me buy you a burger? As thanks for driving?” he asked, then.

I told myself very firmly that this wasnota date. People don’t go on dates to hardware stores. And buying someone a burger—probably a fast-food one, not a gourmet one—was not an offer of a date when you were doing them a favor. “You don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling the flush creeping a little higher on my neck.

“Sure I do,” Elliot replied, sounding satisfied about something. “You have Five Guys around here?”

“We do.” Five Guys was also one of Noah’s favorites, since you could get several pounds of fries and milkshakes with a big, multilayered burger for fairly cheap—and it was actually pretty good, too.

“You like Five Guys?” he asked, then.

“Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “Which is good, since it’s one of my brother’s go-to places.”

Elliot frowned a little at that. “If you don’t want to?—”

“No, no, I like Five Guys!” I insisted. “I just—my brother’s a shifter,” I explained. “He’s into the whole more-calorie-bang-for-the-buck thing. But I do genuinely love their fries.” My neck felt like the splotches were working their way up toward my face, and I hoped they weren’t super visible in the failing light. They probably were, with my luck.

Not that it mattered. Because it didn’t matter if Elliot thought I was a total dork.