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Chapter 15
Gunnar
Iflippedthegrilledcheese sandwich and silently cheered at the perfectly golden brown perfection that greet me. Lillian and I had both skipped breakfast to get the wedding done by noon, and I’d heard her stomach growling as I carried her through the door.
She was still exactly where I’d set her down on the couch: the only difference was, she’d kicked off those cute boots and fallen fast asleep. She must be exhausted after the busy morning we’d had, running around on nothing but coffee. Good coffee from her stash, but still. She must be hungry too. I was.
As much as I wanted to rush into pleasuring my new wife, I also knew we had plenty of time. Especially since the first place The White Claws would look would be the penthouse. Not that they’d get up there.
I was glad I’d left the inside of the cottage relatively tidy compared to the disaster that was the grounds. I didn’t come here too often, but I’d been here just last week to get away from how revoltingly sweet all the couples were. Once again Graham had been working, and I hadn’t wanted to be a seventh wheel. So, I’d escaped here.
Now that I thought about it, Graham had been taking on many of the smaller gigs we would usually allocate to the other agents on our roster. Maybe this whole thing about not wanting a mate was a front, and he was working all the time so he didn’t have to spend his evenings alone dwelling on the past.
His failed relationship with Julia was literally decades ago. Surely, that was time enough for him to get over her. But maybe not. We all knew better than to push him when it came to women.
Because of my recent visit to the cottage, I had all the fixings on hand to make a mean grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup lunch. There were tons of options in the freezer for dinner as well. Unlike Eamon, I never got good at cooking, but I became an absolute pro at ordering in and popping premade meals into the oven.
I plated the sandwiches, cut diagonally into triangles—because cutting them into squares was blasphemy to me, I mean, really, what psychopath would do that to an innocent grilled cheese—ladled the soup into bowls, and brought the tray over to the coffee table.
Lillian was already stretching and yawning awake when I got there, making room for me to sit.
“Thanks, Gunnar. This looks great.”
We ran into a size difference problem right away. If the table was far enough from the couch for me to eat comfortably, it was a stretch for her. And if she could reach her food properly, the table was right up against my shins.
“Any rules about the cushions not being allowed to touch the rug?” she asked.
“Nope. I don’t generally have any house rules.”
She pushed the table out so it was at a comfortable distance for me, put a cushion on the floor next to me, and sat on it. “There! Hmm, no rules, eh? So, I can do…this?” She lifted her foot in a show of athleticism and rested her heel on the corner of the coffee table, far from our food.
I frowned. Her butt was on the cushion on the floor, and her toes must be at least at her shoulder height. “How is that possibly comfortable? Wait, are those frog socks?” I hadn’t actually looked at the socks too carefully when I’d stuffed them into the bag.
She took her foot off the table and crossed her legs under her. “It’s not comfortable at all. I was just testing your no-rules thing. And yes. Those are frog socks. I love frogs. A frog named Pickle was my first pet.”
“You had a frog as a pet? Are you positive you’re not part witch?” I bit into my sandwich, savoring the perfect combination of real aged cheddar and American cheese. Nothing quite got ooey gooey in grilled cheese like the processed stuff. It was a vice I planned on keeping forever.
“Actually, Iris thinks I’m a green witch, and that’s why my plants are so happy. I’m not sure if I actually do anything special with them, except hope they survive and thrive, but I’ll take it.”
Interesting. She had magic?
“The girls told me that gargoyles tend to be attracted to women with a bit of magic,” she said, looking a little askance at me as she chewed.
“I guess it could be true. I never tested that theory before.” Before she could ask me about my previous conquests I asked her my own question. “What’s this about a pet frog?”
“Two of them! Pickle and Poopmachine! I caught them as tadpoles at the park near my house when I was eight.”
“Poopmachine?” I said with a chuckle.
“Yes. And before you ask, yes, I named them myself. I know, I know. Hey, I was eight. But it did poop a lot.”
“So why was the other one named Pickle?”
“We brought them home in pickle jars. Duh! Anyway, Mom’s a high school biology teacher, and she thought it was the perfect opportunity to teach me about amphibians. So we brought them home and watched Pickle grow his little legs, and little arms. Then he absorbed his tail. I thought it was the coolest thing.”
As she spoke, her eyes lit up with the memories, and the air around her seemed to shimmer. Maybe she did have magic, and talking about these happy memories with the creatures and plants of the Earth brought it out.
“Do you know what was the first thing Pickle did as a frog?”
