Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
He was beaming at me. “I’m sure you’re very happy and in love, but I truly wish you weren’t married. You’re absolutely charming.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely as the door opened and Dane stuck his head in.
“Oh God,” Carwood gasped.
“Dane,” I greeted him, “may I introduce Carwood Brower. This is his first time in your lovely home. He works at the Field Museum. Isn’t that interesting?”
He squinted at me and then turned to Carwood. “What do you do at the museum, Mr. Brower?”
“Carwood, please,” he said shakily.
“Carwood,” Dane amended, stepping in, closing the door behind him, crossing his arms and waiting.
He explained to Dane about what he did, about his PhD, and how he also curated the different books on folklore in the museum bookstore.
“Really. Well, my youngest son is entranced by Japanese folklore at the moment, and I purchased an excellent volume on the yokai for him the last time I was at the museum. Perhaps you could suggest some others he might enjoy. The one by Matthew Meyer, which must have been your choice, was a big hit.”
“Yes I—I would love to.”
He turned to me then as I continued to eat my lasagna and Caesar salad. “What precisely are you doing in here?”
“Well, you know how clumsy I am, and when I was on my way to my seat, I tripped into Carwood and got tomato sauce on his shirt.”
“You did?”
“I did.”
“I see.”
“You know you should speak to that wife of yours about Italian for these kinds of things.”
“I should, should I?”
I nodded.
“None of that explains your presence here.”
“I had to get him cleaned up, didn’t I? I mean, it was all my fault.”
“It wasn’t, though,” Carwood told Dane. “Not really. I’m the clumsy one, not him.”
“That hardly matters,” Dane apprised him in that imperious tone he had. “A stain had to be dealt with. I completely understand.”
“It’s almost done, and then we’ll be out.”
He nodded. “Well, the ravioli in cream is being served now, so I’ll bring you both some in a small bowl. Would either of you like a glass of water?”
“I’ll have some red wine, please,” I told him and then looked at my new friend. “Carwood, what do you want?”
“I––”
“Yes?” Dane prodded him.
“The sangria looked amazing, Mr. Harcourt, but I can––”
“You’ll wait until the shirt is done, and please, call me Dane.”
When he left, the expression on Carwood’s face was utterly bemused.
“What?”
“I just—he’s not anything like I thought he was. On the way over, my brother explained all about Aja and how brilliant she was and about her husband, one of the greatest architects of our generation. I was honestly terrified to meet both of them, but at the door, Aja was so lovely and charming, but Mr. Har—Dane, seemed so cold.”
I nodded.
“But he’s not, is he?”
“He just takes a minute to get to know.”
“I suspect that we caught him off guard, being in here.”
“I would agree.”
“Are you friends with him or his wife?”
“Both, and more than friends. He’s my brother.”
“No he’s not,” he breathed out.
“Oh, but he is.”
“But you don’t look anything like him.”
“Sadly true. I always wanted the gray eyes.”
“Oh no, your brown ones are just beautiful.”
“Car,” I teased him. “You’re very charming. Why is there no one special? Do I need to fix this for you?”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s very kind, Jory, but do you see all of this?” he asked, gesturing to himself. “Not a lot of men find this attractive.”
I made a face. “I think perhaps you’ve been dipping your toe into the wrong end of the dating pool. You’ll have to give me your number so we can stay in touch. They call me the love god, you know.”
He was shaking his head and grinning from ear to ear when my husband stuck his head into the laundry room.
“Hi,” I greeted him.
“Hi,” he replied, scowling and turning to Carwood. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Carwood whispered, taking in every chiseled line of Sam Kage as he stepped into the room with two bowls of ravioli and a plate of garlic bread. “You must be the husband.”
Sam nodded, putting all three dishes down on the washing machine before pulling two spoons, wrapped in cloth napkins, from his back pocket. “I am. And you are?”
“I’m the man who spilled tomato sauce down the front of my shirt, and instead of letting my brother and sister-in-law see me, and become mortifyingly embarrassed, your charming husband brought me in here to take care of it.”
“Got it,” Sam said, ceasing his bristling, giving Carwood a grin before turning to me. “You were gone, I started looking—you know how it goes.”
“I do,” I assured him, lifting my chin for the kiss which Sam gave me. He then turned and leaned back against the counter. “I’m Sam Kage. Who are you?”
So Carwood went through it all again.
“My daughter’s a witch. I bet you two would have a lot to chat about.”