Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Still, Tobe didn’t much like the protective display from Luka. But really, Tobe didn’t like anything the legion did—including breathing.
Jolene, on the other hand, was pleased about Konstantin’s presence. She felt he would make any watchful clerics reluctant to launch another attack—they were careful to move about undetected, so they would notice him for sure. The harder Naomi made things for the clerics’ preternatural helper, the more likely said helper would come out of the metaphorical shadows and involve themselves, thus also exposing their identity.
Metal scraped tile as a large family pushed some tables together. They were clearly celebrating one of the kids’ birthdays, because the youngest was wearing a birthday badge and holding a balloon. Too cute.
Smiling, Naomi took another bite of her now half-eaten burger. Picking up movement at the nearby condiment station, she reflexively looked over . . . and froze.
Well, if it wasn’t the PI, Daniel Phillips.
Her demon squinted, irritation skittering through it. Because although he didn’t appear to be paying Naomi any attention, busy gathering up sauces and napkins, it seemed too much a coincidence that he’d be here the same time as her.
Could he have followed her here? She had sensed that she was being watched, but she’d thought it was Konstantin—it hadn’t occurred to her that she had more sets of eyes on her. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Daniel turned, seemed to idly glance her way, and did quite a convincing double-take. But not convincing enough for either her or her entity to fail to see through his act.
He boldly approached her table, his lips curved. “Oh, hello again.” He tipped his head to the side. “Remember me?”
“Nope,” she lied.
His friendly smile faltered. “We met at the tattoo studio last week. Urban Ink?”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” She lifted her cup, which was damp from condensation. “You’re the dude who has a secret thing for Tobe.”
“No. No, that genuinely isn’t the case.” He flicked a look at the chair opposite her own. “Mind if I join you?”
She slurped some of her soda through her straw. “Depends what you want.”
“I’d just rather not eat alone.” He sat down without holding out for an invitation. “You waiting for someone?”
She set down her drink. “Nope. So if you were hoping you might bump into Tobe . . .”
“Really, I’m not looking to date your anchor,” he stressed with a chuckle, peeling the crackly wrapper from his burger. “I’m honestly mated. Happily mated.”
Such a little liar. She would have thought a PI would be better at it. “Then why are you sitting here with me?” And looking at her with sex in his eyes—something that earned him a sneer from her demon.
He shrugged one shoulder. “No reason in particular.”
A loud thud was followed by a harsh curse. Naomi winced in sympathy as she noticed that a customer had dropped their tray, sending their order scattering over the tiled floor.
“My name’s Ed,” Daniel fibbed, pulling her attention back to him.
“Naomi.” She took another bite out of her burger.
“You live around these parts?”
“Yes. You?”
Shaking his head, he picked up three of his fries and shoveled them into his mouth—classy. “I’m just heading home from work after meeting with a client.”
“Client?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
“Huh.”
He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, not exactly a job that involves living life on the edge. Pays the bills, though.” He sank his teeth into his own burger. “And it means I get to exercise my creative streak.” He spoke around a mouthful of food.
Her demon pulled a face at the unpleasant sight.
“I don’t have what it takes to be a painter or sculptor or anything. But I can work art-magic with a laptop.” He paused as the nearby family began singing “Happy Birthday” while clapping in time with the tune. “What about you? You strike me as the creative type.”
Chewing the last of her burger, she barely refrained from narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I can usually spot a fellow artist. Call it a gift.”
Unease tiptoed up her spine. “I like painting my nails. Does that count?”
Mirth gleamed in his eyes. “I don’t see why not. A canvas is a canvas, whatever shape or form it takes.”
She dipped a fry in her ketchup and bit into it, her instincts tingling. It bothered her that he’d asked if she was creative. Was he assuming that she was one of Tobe’s ghost artists? There was no reason why he should. Then again, she’d been pretty defensive and tight-lipped at the tattoo studio. Perhaps it had made him suspicious.
It might be best, then, to give him a whole other reason why she’d been rude to him at Urban Ink; let him know that he wasn’t fooling her and never had.
“Something wrong?” he asked. “You seem . . . tense. I’m a good listener, if you want to offload.”