Embry turned around, physically putting distance between them as she’d done more than once that day, busying herself by retrieving plates and cups from the cabinet while Rye grabbed spoons for each container. “How’d you have just the right thing to fix me?”
“It’s one of my bestsellers. Stitches love it.” She offered him a plate. “It’s even more popular than the stain remover I used on the blood splatter.”
Rye accepted the plate but stopped her from rounding the counter with a palm on her shoulder. “I know I’ve demeaned your potion sales in the past, but please believe me when I say I was wrong. Those potions are good work, good magic.”
Embry looked Rye straight in the eye and raised a brow, eager to find footing in the tap-and-jab of their normal acquaintance. “I believe you called my potions a hustle and a way for me to make a profit off the less fortunate.”
“Um, yes, that. Wow. Sorry.” He did look it.
“You’ve plied me with Indian food and given me a compliment, so you’re forgiven.”
Embry’s stomach audibly growled as she ladled the delicious curry onto a bed of basmati rice and swiped a triangle of warm, buttery naan through a ribbon of wayward sauce.
“I move that we eat up, then go over the autopsy results once our stomachs have settled.”
Embry squinted at him, swallowed the naan, and snatched another piece. “I feel like we might be doing this in the wrong order. Like eating before swimming.” Her stomach growled again, as if in protest to her protest.
“Your gut is correct,” Rye said, ladling some of literally everything onto his plate. “We need the sustenance just as much as we needed a little sleep first.”
Embry chewed a heavenly bite of curry and rice. It was perfect. Warm, wonderful, and spicy enough to numb a taste bud or two. She ate several more bites and cut into the cheesecake—it really might be the perfect food—before her body perked up and she began to push for working while eating.
“Now that my stomach won’t interrupt, why don’t we revisit the suspect list over dessert so we don’t waste any more time.”
Rye frowned as he dug into his own cheesecake slice.
“Oh! Did you check your mirror? Any news—”
A creak of the floorboards cut off Embry’s sentence and snapped Rye to attention. Lazarus Woodcross appeared in the doorway, long navy robe open and trailing over a white undershirt and pajama pants. He stepped into the kitchen, one hand up and aimed their way.
“Just needed some water,” he announced. “Don’t get up.”
Embry shot to her feet anyway. “Daddy, I could’ve gotten that for you!”
Lazarus waved her off. “No, no, it’s good for me to get out of bed.”
Embry snatched his elbow, despite his protests. It was so much warmer than before—not feverish, just not clammy and sliding into worse. Thank the Goddess for magical healing spells.Her heart flailed in a happy, uncoordinated rhythm, even as she chided him, “But the stairs—what if you fell?”
“I didn’t. So nothing to worry about.” Then he manipulated her grip until he was pulling her into his arms for a hug. He smelled of magical salves and tinctures, modern medicine, and underlying perspiration. “Except for you two. I worry about you. Rye—”
“Yes, sir?”
“You and I need to have a frank discussion about your judgment because it was certainly lacking this morning when you took Embry off the grounds. You know better.”
Shit.Daddy had remembered Rye’s inclusion in Embry’s explanation.
Yet if Rye was surprised by Lazarus’s disappointment, he kept that emotion deep down. Instead, he nodded in agreement. “I do know better. Which is why I’ve lulled Embry into complacency via takeout. She has no other choice but to watch the John Hughes classic of my choice on the couch.” He flashed that charming grin of his that worked very well on everyone but Embry. “Safe at home.”
Lazarus made a face that showed that he wouldn’t accept that answer so easily. Still, he kissed Embry on the temple. “Go, sit back down. Enjoy your dinner.”
Reluctantly, Embry squeezed his hand and returned to her seat just as Rye lifted the remainder of the curry, though the delicious scent painted a picture worth a thousand words more than a to-go container. “Are you sure you don’t want any, Daddy? If you pair the chicken tikka masala with just a little bit of the rice, it shouldn’t upset your blood sugar too terribly. And you’ve been in bed for so long, it would be good to eat something.”
“No, just the water, hon.” Daddy reached into the cabinet and pulled out a clean tumbler. He turned to the water dispenser built into the fridge, filled the glass, and then approached the pairwithout taking a sip. He hovered over where they sat, perched on barstools. He wore what Embry called his lawyer face—stern, curious, implacable. “You two aren’t up to something, are you?”
“Nope,” Embry answered, maybe a smidge too fast. “Just Indian food, cherry cheesecake, and some schlock from the 1980s.”
“John Hughes is not schlock,” Rye countered automatically. He was right, it wasn’t; but she was hoping their banter would placate Lazarus’s renewed interest in their plans.
Daddy took a sip, his gaze appraising them the entire time. When he was finished, he moved toward the doorway but paused. “You definitely look like you’re up to something.”
