Page 2 of Another Man’s Treasure

No sooner have I stood than the minotaur returns, sliding a hand up my back to rest between my shoulder blades.

I grimace at the unwanted touch.

“Going so soon?” He smiles at me and jerks his head toward the door.

How the hells is he back so fast? There’s no way he even went into the bathroom.

“I’ve got work,” I say lamely.

“I’ll walk you there,” he offers.

Bluebell slaps a hand over her face.

“Not necessary, Norman,” I say to the big minotaur, summoning my right to just say no. “The vibes aren’t there, and I don’t really want to risk getting caught up in your secrets. It’s like a spider web of danger, and I’m not sure I’m up for being on the run. It doesn’t go with my hair and skin routine, if I’m honest.”

His mouth drops open, the gold ring through his snout jiggling. “Your hair and skin routine? Hearth Headquarters is covering up⁠—”

“Like I said,” I interrupt, skirting past him toward BrewHaHa’s front door, “I’m just not interested in being involved in that.”

Norman snorts and stomps a foot on the floor, crossing his giant arms over his chest as he shoots me a hoity-toity, irritated look. “Well, I came all the way here to see you, but I guess I’ll be going.”

“‘Mkay, bye then,” I say brightly, grabbing the door handle. Up above us, the building ripples her ceiling tiles outward from the pretty rustic chandelier hanging from her arched ceiling. She’s laughing at this stupid situation. Silly girl.

Norman grabs his bag and throws it over his head, careful to avoid snagging it on his giant long horns. Stalking past me without saying a word, he dips through the door and disappears up the street. Whirling around, I drop daintily into the chair opposite Bluebell, throwing myself far enough forward to rest my chin on my forearms.

She sips her latte quietly, blue bangs curling away from her forehead to frame her heart-shaped face. “That was the worst date I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to witness,” she finally says.

Laughing wryly, I look at the beautiful blue-haired witch. “Saint Ashbourne jinxed me,” I say with a bitter laugh. “He called me trash, said I’d never hold down a real relationship, and I swear I’ve never been on a good date since we broke up. I didn’t have trouble snagging normal hotties before him.”

Eight months is quite the dry spell for me.

Bluebell reaches across the wooden tabletop over hand-painted sunflowers, resting her hand on mine. “Saint Ashbourne is a royal asshole, Oz, and I refuse to let you think he’s anything other than that. But the great news is you live here, and he wouldn’t be caught dead in a cowboy town. His words, not mine. So you never have to hear him in your head again. I love you, and you’ll find the right guy one day.”

I reach for the notebook in my back pocket and withdraw it, thrumming my three fingers over the worn cover. “You’re right, bestie. Lemon’s gonna comm me any moment to ask how that date went, so I’m going to grab my favorite table and lose myself in some work for a few minutes. Maybe ask Dain to throw Goldschlager in a hot chocolate for me. Damn, I had high hopes for that one, but wow, he was weird.”

She rubs my hand again, smiling over the edge of her ceramic coffee cup.

I head to the very back of the building where a tiny nook is barely visible from the front. It’s my nook. It doesn’t have my name on it, but I’m there every morning from eight to ten, working on the plans for the spa I want to open on Main Street. Nobody takes that table because it’s mine.

Except when I get to the back, a giant male with pale green skin and shocking blond hair sits there, hen-pecking away on a keyboard like an old woman, using just his forefingers.

At my table. That everyone in Pine Gulch knows is my table.

Pale brows are scrunched above his eyes. A sharp, angular jawline ends in a dimpled chin that I’d find hot if he wasn’t loitering at My Table, trademark pending.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter, crossing my arms. Today is the worst, and it’s not like the table actually belongs to me and I can kick him out. Other monsters just know better than to sit at it. It’s an unspoken rule.

“Excuse me?”

I look back at the male. “Huh?”

He shifts backward, lifting his chin defiantly as he stares me down. Those scrunched brows and the harsh stare are now firmly directed at me. “You just said motherfucker, but I don’t know you. So I’m makin’ sure you were actually directin’ that insult at me before I do something about it.”

I scoff and shuffle my wings at my back. Lifting my chin, I shake my head. “I wasn’t talking to you.” Last thing I need is an altercation with a male who’s easily got a hundred pounds on me.

He looks around slowly. Nobody’s seated remotely close to us. Cocking his head to the side, he peruses me from head to toe. “You sure about that?”

I sigh and run both hands through my dark purple waves, eyeing him over the tops of my glasses. “It’s just that you’re at my table. Everyone knows it’s my table. Nobody bothers to sit there because it’s⁠—”