Page 61 of Tempting Fate

Chapter Twenty-Six

Emerson

I wake the next morning with a sick feeling in my stomach. My mood was definitely dampened after receiving Jamie’s text that he didn’t want to eat with us, and Patch picked up on it. He said he was more than happy to stay overnight, but that he thought it might be better if he left.

I agreed. I didn’t want to. I want to wake with both of them in my bed. I’ve never slept as well as that short nap last night and, selfishly, I want that again.

I want them again.

I sit up and shove a hand through my hair. I showered before coming to bed, but it’s dried through the night, and it’ll be unruly all day now. I sigh. I don’t even care. Did Patch and Jamie have some kind of conversation while I was out? I know I didn’t take care of them well enough after. Fuck. I was so out of it myself, so overwhelmed by my own feelings, that I became selfish and irresponsible.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Then, louder, “Fuck!”

If I’ve messed things up with both of them, I won’t be surprised. I lean over and glance at my phone. It’s already past ten, which means Jamie will be at work. No chance of speaking to him until the evening—if he is upset or angry, then I don’t want to make things worse while he’s working.

And Patch? I have one text, and my stomach flips over despite itself. I open it and can’t help my smile.

I want to see you again. Are you free tomorrow?

Am I? Like I have anything else to do. The premonition of a headache pounds behind my eyes. I need to find proof of that werewolf, but for the first time in my life, the promise of magic has nothing on what actually might be happening to me.

Can I have them both? Can I help them work through whatever already exists between them and convince them we’ll be great together?

I groan and drop my head back on my pillow. Except I don’t know that either, do I? I don’t know if we’ll work well together. I know that Jamie and I get along well. I’ve been on all of two dates with Patch. Outside of my bedroom last night, I’ve only seen them interact once and it was nothing if not awkward.

Thoroughly demotivated, I climb out of bed and head for the bathroom. Once I’m washed up and dressed, I walk into the kitchen and then stand there. I don’t want to make breakfast. I don’t want to do anything cooped up in this house right now.

I need to move.

I grab one of my cameras before I go—the chances of seeing a werewolf are low, but hey, I might get lucky—and head out onto the street. I spotted a cute café a few days ago that might be a nice place to hole up in and think for a few hours; failing that, a library will do. Something about the smell of coffee or old books is perfect.

I pass the park where the video of the werewolf was taken and only linger for a couple of minutes, searching the shadows of every bush or tree. It’s not raining today, but the roads and pavement are still dark with water, the air fresh but muted when I breathe it in.

The café is a street over from where I remember, and my lips quirk at the sign. Hallowed Grounds. Cute. A little bell jingles when I let myself inside, and then I come to a stop when I see Vince’s boyfriend—Patch’s best friend—Dax, sitting at one of the tables by the window.

He spots me, too. Can’t miss me, really. There’s hardly anyone else in here, and he’s facing the door, anyway. His smile lights up his face and he holds his hand up in a little wave.

My feet carry me over to him before I can stop myself. I don’t really know what to say. I’m not about to hash out everything about last night, of course, but I have nothing else in my head aside from a play-by-play of where things might have gone wrong.

“Hey, Em,” Dax says. He pushes out the chair opposite him. “Wanna sit?”

“I—” I glance around. It really is quiet in here. A tall, too-handsome man is standing behind the counter, arms crossed over his chest. I turn back to Dax. “Is he glaring at me?”

Dax’s cheeks colour. “Lark can be temperamental,” he says. “It’s his café. The coffee is really good.”

I glance down at the small plate in front of him. It’s devoid of everything except a small pile of crumbs. “And the cakes?”

“Drew makes them. He’s finishing in about half an hour; that’s why I’m waiting. You should get something. You know, if you’re hungry…”

My stomach growls, even as I’m about to protest. “I’m—Yeah, I might.”

“Cool. Come sit with me when you’ve ordered, okay?”

His tone has no command to it at all—that’s not the kind of guy he is—but I find myself nodding all the same. He might be a comforting presence, even if I can’t exactly explain what my issue is. Maybe I just need to be around someone I haven’t recently had sex with.

I pull a face at my thoughts as I approach the counter and Lark’s glare intensifies. Fuck. I try a smile, but that changes nothing. Okay. I veer off to look at the cakes for a moment, hyper-aware of his gaze on me.

Is he dangerous? Fuck, is this place a weird front for something? I’ve heard about that, somewhere… All those candy shops being fronts for money laundering or something like that.