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“Yes.”
They sat in silence for a minute, letting the reality of the situation sink in.
“You are so fucked.” Max laughed, a big, booming sound that made the phone vibrate in Liam’s palm. “How long do you have before the spell wears off?”
Not long enough. “Three days total and the clock started ticking yesterday.”
He had three days to make her fall in love with him. After that, the love spell would wear off for Red—but not for him. He’d be in love forever with a life mate who probably wouldn’t want to have a thing to do with him. He’d be a werewolf abandoned by his mate, never to find another. The family name would die with him and he would have recovered the family’s Caladbolg sword for nothing. He will have failed.
“So what are you going to do?” Maxim asked.
What else could he do? “Get her to marry me.”
“Good luck with that, jerk.” Red pushed away from him into a standing position and cradled her head between her hands. “What in the hell did you hit me with? Troll slime?”
Her skirt twirled around her strong legs as she spun away from him, giving him the briefest view of white lace panties. The semi-hard-on he’d been fighting all night woke up and said hello. He jumped up to his feet before he got another look at what would surely torment him for the rest of the day.
“Gotta go,” he snarled into the phone.
“Have fun with your one and only.” Maxim hung up without waiting for a reply.
###
Red had the worst case of cotton mouth in the history of oh-my-God-kill-me-now hangovers, but she hadn’t had a single sip of anything stronger than the bar’s watered-down OJ. She cracked an eyelid. The room didn’t spin exactly, but it glowed soft and fuzzy like a woodland pixie bonfire. In the middle, staring at her like a man ready to devour her whole—but in the good way—stood Liam. Her lips curled upward and her heartbeat went into teenage-girl-at-her-first-dance mode, all jittery and fast. It was new, this feeling, and it sent her brain into panic mode.
Fight-or-flight response engaged, Red paced as she tried to get her bearings and quell the unfamiliar giddiness making her insides fizz with... happiness? “What time is it?”
“Eight.” He stayed planted in front of the display case holding the little mermaid’s clamshell bikini top, arms crossed. He watched her with as much focus as a predator deciding whether to go in for the kill.
Refusing to act as though she were anywhere but at the very tip top of the food chain, Red crossed over to him and—ignoring the way his nearness made her belly flop—reached behind him to tilt the bikini top display so the enchanted door would open. “I gotta get out front before the night rush swallows up Charming.”
“A.M.” Liam shifted, blocking her from touching the display case.
“What?” Her hand fell to her side, hitting her hip with a resounding thump.
“It’s eight in the morning.”
Frantic, her gaze crisscrossed the treasure room searching for the true Blarney Stone, the real one not the replica tourists kissed. She spotted it in the back. It remained as gray as iron, without a hint of the green glow denoting someone was telling a lie.
“What the hell?” She scurried away from him and an ice pick of pain sliced her brain in half, knocking her off balance.
Liam’s strong arms wrapped around her before her ass hit the ground. The pain disappeared in half a blink. Gone. As if it had never existed. Relaxing her back against his strong chest in relief, she closed her eyes and sighed, unable to hold the reaction inside. The stubble on his jaw scratched her cheek as he dipped his head lower and kissed her temple.
Everything rushed back, like a movie playing on fast forward. Treasure room. Liam. Sword. Bolt of lightning straight to the chest. Bam! Darkness. Whatever this was, it smelled of magic, double-crosses and hot-dude sex pheromones.
She peeled her back off his wide chest, immediately missing his touch and internally berating herself for it. Needing space so her brain could focus on something else besides Liam’s sinewy arms and firm pecs, Red took three steps before the pounding started again. She paused by the sword, letting her fingers trace the Celtic cross carved into its grip. “Spell or a curse?”
“Spell.” He didn’t hesitate—a point in his favor.
Finally, some good news. “So it can be broken.”
Liam shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not this one.”
No. Every spell had an out. Witches loved loopholes. “Why not?”
“We’re already bound together.” His gaze held steady. No jerk to the left to signify a fib. No sinking to the floor to avoid the situation. No skittering to the right to add mental distance between them. Just a steady gaze as solid as the floor under her feet.
“Bullshit.” It came out too fast, too high. As if she were grasping at straws. Even if she was, she knew better than to let the truth slip out. Strangers couldn’t be trusted. Ever. This man, Liam, he’d done something to her that went beyond a cheap love spell. She squashed her nerves with a well-practiced mental shove. “There’s nothing tying us together.”
