“Is she human?”
“Witch Guardian hybrid,” I said. “She’s cool though.”
A moment of silence. “Very well. But keep her close. There’s a meeting at five. There will be a few dozen wolves here at least.”
Duly noted. “Of course. Thanks again, Abe.”
After wrapping up the conversation, I headed back to the bar. Ria was in the same spot she’d been in, but now, Emory leaned over the counter before her, voice low, both of them snickering. I caught the word “smegma” and decided that was not a conversation I wanted in on.
I walked to Brooke a few seats down. Her glasses laid on the counter beside her basket of chicken tenders, eyes stuck to the page of the book in her hands.Bridget Jones’s Diary.
Propping my elbows on the counter, I craned in slightly, trying to glimpse at the blurb on the back. “Worth picking up?”
“Depends on how you feel about feminine sexual expression,” she murmured, scanning the rest of her sentence before folding over the corner of the page and clapping it shut. “I’m enjoying it though.”
I gave a smirk. “I bet you are.”
She tried to hide her blush by lifting her Pepsi to her lips. “There’s a movie coming out about it in a few weeks. My coworkers wanted me to come along and watch it with them, but I don’t watch a movie without reading the book first.”
“‘Course not. That’s a literary crime.” I glanced at the book. “But you just committed another, you know.”
“Hey, this is my personal copy,” she said. “If I want to dog ear my pages, I’m gonna dog ear my pages.”
“Fair. But remind me to never let you borrow one of my books.”
“I wouldn’t do it to someone else’s. But my books are meant to be loved.”
“If your definition of love is vandalizing it, I think you’ve got something twisted, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks reddened again.
I couldn’t help my smirk. It was adorable how easy it was to make her blush.
“Anyway,” she said, “any good news?”
“We’ve got a meeting with the alpha on Friday and with a priestess in the city Wednesday.”
Brooke tucked her book into her bag. “Sounds good. Where at?”
“The Glass Nightingale,” I said in a mock British accent. She let out a quiet laugh. I smiled. “Her name’s Guinevere. She’s a classy lady, so I’m assuming The Glass Nightingale is too. I guess that means dress accordingly.”
She glanced me over. “Do you own anything outside of jeans and T-shirts?”
“I do, actually.” My smile widened. “And the slot’s for two hours, so I’m also assuming we’ll be eating. So come hungry.”
The humor in her face dwindled.
“What?” I asked.
She shook her head, forced her smile back up, and quickly collected her things into her bag. “Nothing. I’m just getting sleepy, and I have a long drive home. Thank you, though. For everything.”
It was definitely something. But I wasn’t going to push. “Yeah, likewise.”
“What time are we meeting Guinevere?”
“Six,” I said. “It’s on the pier. Parking might be a bitch, so teleporting might be a better option for you?”
“Six on the pier the day after tomorrow,” she repeated, as if making a note in her memory. “I’ll see you then.”