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They say Satan has a sense of humor. That may explain why my life is such a joke. - Gwen Goode, lamenting recent events
Chase my dreams? Honey, I don’t even chase my tequila shots. - Gwen Goode, ordering another round
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I kept my voice even, my features composed. “I’m Gwendolyn Goode, the owner of this store. But I’m guessing you know that already, judging by the scene you’re causing.
“You know exactly what you did, bitch.” Again with the bitch business. Jeeze, could he at least come up with a new insult? This was getting repetitive.
Because while I personally am not offended by you calling me a fucking bitch, repeatedly, at the top of your voice…” My eyes narrowed a shade and my tone cooled significantly. “I’d hate for anyone watching to get the wrong idea and think you’re actually succeeding in this adorable little show of intimidation you’re putting on here.” What? I said I was a good-time girl. I never said I was a pushover. “My wife,” the man gritted out. “Someone married you?”
SICK. BURN. 💀
“Don’t just stand there saying ‘Oh’, you ruinous whore!” He snapped. At the very least, he’d found a new insult. I was looking on the bight side.
“I want to speak to your manager!” “I’m the owner. You’ve already reached the top of the totem pole, I’m afraid.” “Then I’ll call the police!” “And tell them what?” I tried, I really did, but in the end I could not quite contain my bemused smile. “That you cheated on your wife so she went to an occult shop and bought a magical potion to wet your wick?” I waved my hands in the air in what I hoped was a witchy way. “A purchase she made, might I add, of her own free will, from an upstanding, tax-paying business owner — that would be me — who you then threatened, unprovoked, in full view of a
...more
I followed the corded veins of that forearm up past the rolled cuff of a black button-down shirt,
Slutty forearms!!!
This bob immediately preceded a deep, rasping voice that made my would-be attacker — who, I couldn’t help but notice, looked just as bewildered as I did by this sudden shift in circumstances — go paler than the nightgown of a sickly Victorian child. “I believe the lady asked you to leave.”
“Two words,” he repeated, leaning forward an inch. “Thank and you. Go on, try them out. You can even tack my name on at the end, if you feel like going for extra credit.”
“I suppose you were ready to whip out a magic wand to keep him at bay.” “Funny,” I snapped. “Defensive ward?” I glared at him. He grinned. It was an annoyingly good grin. “Rune of protection?” “You know, for someone who claims to hate the supernatural, you sure know a lot about it.”
“Fine. Stand there, I can’t stop you. Peruse the crystals. I recommend the citrine, if you’re in the market.” My voice dropped to a low mutter he couldn’t hear. “Shove it up your ass for maximum potency.”
That my grief was so thick, it seemed to coat my skin, to fill up my lungs until just breathing was a chore, until dragging my body out of bed each morning felt like a Herculean task. Even now, two years on, there were days the dulling film of mourning still followed me around like my own personal raincloud.
If I’d known who she intended to introduce me to, I would’ve stayed at home with my demons.
when she left me, four months prior, a loss so unexpected, it damn near crippled me.
The grief was still too fresh, too close to the surface. I couldn’t tamp it down. Couldn’t get it in check. It was safer for everyone if I stayed home alone with my wine bottle and my bathtub, until I was once again able to function in society without having a breakdown.
“Uh huh. Is that why you bolt like a spooked horse every time I get close to you?” “Maybe you just have that effect on women.” His lips twitched. “Not historically, no.”
“Is this door alarmed?” “Mildly perturbed, last I checked, but it’s been having a tough time lately. Feeling neglected, since everyone uses the front entrance with the pretty brass bells…” I trailed off when he shot me an unamused look over his shoulder.
I also read historical romance novels, that doesn’t mean I dress in whalebone corsets and reject all knowledge of antibiotics and refuse to be in the presence of a marriageable man without a chaperone.”
Why they decided to call it ‘emotional baggage’ instead of ‘griefcase’ is simply beyond me.
I took a sip of my coffee, thinking it would steady me, and instantly regretted it. “Told you,” Cade said, laughing at the screwed-up look on my face. “Not a pumpkin-spice latte from your fancy machine.” I unscrewed my expression and forced myself to swallow. “It’s not that bad.” “It’s a criminal offense to lie to a detective, Gwendolyn.”
“Well, in that case, that’s got to be the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had. And I grew up on sticks of instant I stole from the local diner.” “Gwendolyn…” Cade’s voice was strangled with laughter. “I feel the need to point out, it’s probably not wise to admit any past criminal offenses to a detective either.”
“Graham’s not half bad, once you get to know him. He grows on you.” I snorted. “You know what else grows on you? Fungus. Bacteria. Mold. Leprosy.”
I still remember her exact words — the words that changed the entire trajectory of my existence, picked me up off my chosen path and hurled me, without recourse, down an entirely unexpected one.
I blinked the gathering tears back and grasped onto my simmering anger instead. If I stayed angry, perhaps I wouldn’t fall apart.
“Who did this?” His voice was a low rasp of rage. “Who hurt you?”
Not when he looked fully capable of committing triple homicide.
We love a man willing to kill
“I’m not a smartass,” I grumbled, somewhat affronted. “I’m a sweetheart. Everyone says so.” “I must be the exception, then.” Rude! “Are you going to proceed with this rescue mission or did you come here to insult me?”
“You don’t get to lecture me on calm. You didn’t see her down there.” My breath caught. “I’m going to hunt these fuckers down and make them regret they ever touched a hair on her fucking head,” he continued lowly. “And when I do, they’d better pray I’m in a more forgiving mood.”
“Absolutely not,” Graham said at the same time, his tone bossy as ever. I scowled at him. “Would you be reasonable?” “Not in my wheelhouse, babe.”
A special place in Hell? For me? That’s actually so thoughtful. - Gwen Goode, flattered by an enemy
My attempts at hating his guts were severely hindered by constant proximity to his muscular body and intoxicating smell and perfect taste in interior design and domineering-yet-devastatingly-appealing propensity for dishing out orders…
“It’s bad manners to sneak up on people.” “Occupational hazard. I’m used to moving in silence.”
“Do you often have to resort to threats to get women into your bed?” “Usually, I have more trouble getting them out of it.”
Graham walked directly to the other side of the bed, pulled back the duvet, and slid in beside me without a flicker of hesitation. I jerked the covers up to my chin. “What are you doing?” “Playing soccer.” I rolled my eyes. “Hilarious. I mean what are you doing here? In this bed?” “It’s my bed.” “Aren’t you planning to be a gentleman and crash on the couch?” “Nope.”
“I’ve never been much of a gentleman.” “At least you’re self-aware.” “Finally, she compliments me.” “That wasn’t a compliment. It was an insult.” “No walking it back now. You’ve admitted I have at least one admirable trait.”
“Fun fact,” a drowsy voice said from the other side of the bed. “When your eyes are open, you aren’t sleeping.” “Really?” I gasped. “I had no idea.”
“I know you love giving orders, but I’m so sorry to disappoint you—” “Doubt that.”
Some wounds alter you on a molecular level, rearrange your body-chemistry in such a way that there’s no undoing the damage.
the second he’d swallowed, he leaned down and took a bite of my sandwich before I could jerk it out of range. “Hey!” I squawked. “Would you stop doing that?!” Graham’s mouth was fighting a playful grin as he chewed. “Sorry, babe. For some reason, breakfast just tastes better when it’s yours.”
Hahaha. Love this pattern for Graham
I was a goddamned national treasure, damn it! Or, if not a national treasure, at least… a well-liked local trinket.
“You…” I broke off, too worked up to be articulate. “You…” His dark brows quirked up. “If a kiss steals the power of speech, can’t wait to see what an orgasm does.”
“It’s like the tenth circle of Hell in here.” “There are only nine.” “According to who? Dante?” She snorted. “What the fuck did he know about anything?”
I thought I’d been dead on my feet when I arrived. Now, I was thinking death might not be so bad. I needed to be horizontal ASAP — even if it was in a coffin.
“I owe you. Big time.” “True.” “What do you want? I’ll give you anything. My firstborn child—” “That seems more like a punishment than a reward.”
“This never happened.” Pushing him back with all my might, I hopped off the table, grabbed my purse, and hurtled headlong toward the door. “The fuck it didn’t,” he growled, prowling after me. “Then we’re going to pretend it never happened.” “The fuck we are!”
“Did you listen to me? Of course not. You never fucking listen.” He leaned in, so our faces were even closer. “What did you do? You marched your pert little ass straight into the middle of the chaos and took a seat at the table.”
that I was balanced on the razor’s edge of a breakdown.
Cade expelled another sharp breath. “We don’t know for sure—” “Oh, fuck off, Hightower. What do you want, a handwritten confession from the perps? Can’t connect the dots without construction paper and a pack of crayons at your disposal?”
“Don’t,” he cut me off. “So help me god, Gwen, my self-control is hanging by a fucking thread. If you throw even one sassy little line at me right now, if you try to cute your way out of this instead of telling me the goddamned truth for once in your fucking life… that thread is going to snap.” I didn’t think I wanted to see Graham’s control snap. Then again…
