The waiter shook his head. “Not now! Sorry to get your hopes up, handsome.”
Feeling like he was on some sort of cruel roller coaster, Conall sank back into his chair. “When?” he asked shortly, actively watching for the answer.
“Tonight. She wants to do dinner. We tried to talk her into something more casual, but once she gets her head wrapped around something, it’s like trying to stop a runaway train.”
Conall looked around. “Here?” Guests at nearby tables were pretending not to eavesdrop and turned away to convenient conversations as his gaze raked over them.
“We’ll set you up in a quiet corner out of the way,” the waiter promised. “The fewer distractions the better, believe me.”
Before he could stop himself, Conall gave a helpless guffaw of laughter. “I imagine so,” he agreed.
“I’m...” The waiter’s name was probably not Brick. He extended a friendly hand, and Conall shook it firmly.
“Conall,” he said, though clearly probably-not-Brick had known who he was. Probably everyone at the resort knew who he was at this point. “What time should I be here?”
“Lydia’s got her work cut out for her,” certainly-not-Brick said mysteriously. “I think seven is as early as you can hope for.”
Conall made a note to be there at six. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.
He wasn’t sure what to make of the staff who had so clearly rallied around their strange ward. On the one hand, he’d had no fewer than three threats on his continued health if he hurt her. On the other, they persisted in calling her a gazelle, rather than allowing her the dignity of a name and seemed to treat her like a simple-minded child. The barest glimpse into her eyes made Conall sure there was much, much more to her than they were giving her credit for.
“One more thing,” not-Brick added. “Chef wanted me to let you know that he has a kitchen full of very sharp instruments and he wo
uldn’t hesitate to use them on you if you let gazelle get hurt.”
Make that four threats.
Chapter 11
Gizelle sat obediently while Lydia continued to tug gently on her increasingly tender scalp.
“I got an unexpected letter in this morning’s mail,” the swan shifter said conversationally.
“Do tell,” Laura encouraged.
“A great resort in Cabo San Lucas offered me a salaried lead spa position. Numbers before tips to take my breath away.”
Gizelle went still with worry. Would Lydia leave?
“Are you going to go?” Laura asked, so Gizelle didn’t have to.
“I thought about it,” Lydia admitted. “But I like what I have here.”
“And your mate Wrench,” Laura said, nodding sagely. “He’d have a hard time getting work there, with his criminal record.”
“It was enough that he wouldn’t have had to work,” Lydia said in wonder. “And they included a pretty top-floor condo.”
“Oooo,” Laura said, then thoughtfully added. “That’s funny. Jenny got an offer from a rival law firm today, too. Said they offered her a partnership and a signing bonus that made her jaw drop.”
“Is she going to take it?” Lydia asked as Gizelle dug worried fingers into her armrest.
Laura shrugged. “There was no option to telecommute, and Travis has zero interest in living in Los Angeles, so I don’t think it will go anywhere.”
“Funny that we both got offers, though,” Lydia said. “Let’s move to the sink.”
That was apparently meant for Gizelle, and she obediently shuffled to the sink under her crinkling smock, Lydia holding her hair up.
After she was done rinsing Gizelle’s hair of the flowery stuff it had been coated in, Lydia told stories about Christmas in Mexico, tales about parties and pinatas and Three Kings Day and cakes with toy babies baked into them.