WishCraft – Chapter 1
The olive told Delilah no. It went counterclockwise, and that clearly meant no.
Tonight, the olive had turned down every single man she had asked about. Maybe Gin’s was serving her past-their-expiration-date olives in their martinis.
Surely someone in this crowd was suitable, but the olive wasn’t telling. Delilah ate the little green liar and signaled the bartender for another drink. Her third. At this rate she was merely going to get drunk, by herself, and have to walk home all alone. Because the olives kept saying no.
Short, buffed nails graced the ends of the long fingers she used to push her empty martini glass to the back of the bar. She grabbed the new drink by the stem and gave it a swirl. In her mind she could see the man coming up behind her at the bar. Good-looking and full of himself—if the way he walked was any indicator—he was perfect for her.
The toothpick and olive swirled counterclockwise again.
Delilah sighed.
His elbow entered her field of vision as he leaned against the bar next to her. “Can I get you another martini?”
Yes, he was definitely full of himself. He was about as subtle as a dog scenting for a female in heat. But she wasn’t his girl.
Well, maybe.
Delilah gave him one more chance and gently shook the stem of the martini glass again. The liquid almost sloshed out, telling her she wasn’t as gentle or as sober as she thought.
The olive went counterclockwise again.
“No, thank you.” She sighed even as she spoke it. “I don’t need another martini.” I need a man who can make my olive go the other direction. She let her chin find her palm and she sat, propped up and discouraged, ignoring him until he took the hint.
He didn’t.
“Maybe you need something else . . .” He let the words and the innuendo trail off.
“No. Thank you.” Delilah may have wanted to go home with someone tonight, but she had learned a long time ago not to argue with the answers. People, even witches, could ask whatever they wanted, but you really had to take the answers you got. The universe was always right—even when the messenger was an ornery, little, pimento-stuffed, pickled fruit.
She sipped at the martini, but still Mr. I’m-your-dream didn’t leave. “I know I can make you scream.”
She closed her eyes and fought the urge to show him right there in the bar that, yes, he could make her scream. But not the way he wanted. Big, bad trouble always happened when you went against the powers that be.
Instead of screaming, she sighed again. He wasn’t just full of himself, he was a total ass. Already the olive had been proven correct. He was a definite no. What had she been thinking? So she said it again. “No, thank you.”
“I’m extra nice to blondes.” He leaned even closer, his mouth quirking at the corner as though the two of them shared a secret.
Delilah fought the urge to yank a hair from his head right there at the bar and show all the drunk patrons exactly what she could do. But casting spells in public was a bad idea. And casting while drinking was a really bad idea.
Before she could form words to express her revulsion, he reached up for her hair, trailing his fingers through the curls she’d liked so much just a few hours ago.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was low, and she was mad enough to work a little mojo into the glare she gave him. Delilah did not want him to have a piece of her. She had already given him her time and her voice, and they were far more than he deserved. She knew what could be accomplished with a single strand of hair even if this idiot didn’t. She wasn’t about to let him get one, so she added a little red into her eyes and some depth into her voice, and made certain that only he could see and hear it. She repeated her words. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”
His eyes widened and his brain was clearly fighting for comprehension through the mild beer haze he was in. At least no one would believe him if he told anyone what he saw. Finally, he backed off.
Delilah breathed out her relief. Seriously, the night had been a bust. No men. Not a single one had made it past the olive. Usually, her internal radar was in much better alignment with the universe. She could spot a liar across the room. Almost as though he had it tattooed across his forehead. She’d warned more than one friend away from a bad egg, and avoided becoming the topic of gossip or the paramour of an ass herself when men weren’t as honest as her instinct. It was simply that she’d been sure tonight was a good night to go out. Something had told her to just come here. To walk the four blocks to the bar, even though she was by herself. Even though she had to be at work at three a.m.
Her instinct told her to be here. It was supposed to be good. So why was she here with Mr. I’m-so-hot coming back again?
He slipped in next to her barstool and seemed to get comfortable. This was going to be bad.
“Are you a lesbian?”
Her mouth fell open. Delilah only managed a squeak instead of a comeback. Was he going to offer to let everyone know that she wasn’t if she would sleep with him? She hadn’t heard that one since high school.
She was about to tell him just that, when a masculine hand fell on his shoulder and a voice came from the other side of Mr. Slick.
“If you don’t leave the lady alone, she might have to become a lesbian out of self-defense.”
She must have been tipsier than she thought, because she had to start laughing at that.
The voice was soothing and determined at the same time. “Richard, really, you must leave this kind woman alone. I would never have ordered that last round if I had known it would come to this. Now, back to the table.”
With that, Mr. Hot-and-bothersome was gone.
And so was the man attached to the voice.
Bummer.
Well, she hadn’t seen him anyway. Who knew what he was?
She decided to sip at the martini, and maybe enjoy half of what she had paid for. Delilah took a few deep breaths between each taste and rubbed her finger in a small circle on the bar as she did it. The sobering spell was an old one, and she’d practiced it enough this last year that she could perform it accurately even when drunk.
She was taking her last sip when the voice came again to her right. “Three more drafts, please.” She recognized the hand as well when he held up three fingers to be sure the bartender had understood above the cacophony that was the usual music in Gin’s.
Her mouth got ahead of her brain, and she spoke before she even looked at him. “It’s bad enough that you’re friends with him. You’re giving him more beer?”
“He’s not a friend. Just a buyer that didn’t pan out.” He turned to look at her, green eyes making contact with her own, and she read the sincerity there. She also read the straight nose, full mouth, and molasses hair that was cut just long enough to bear a full curl. His voice brought her wayward thoughts of him back around. “And yet, here I am buying him the beer. I’m really sorry about him. I regret unleashing him on a bar that I used to be welcome in.”
She laughed a little at that, then reached for her martini as he turned back to the bartender.
Delilah blinked.
She didn’t remember bumping her glass. But she must have.
The olive was swishing in the half-drunk liquid.
Clockwise.
Before Mr. Green-eyes could reach for the mugs of draft in front of him, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Delilah.”
The lush smile banked by a pair of dimples hit her full in the gut. “Brandon.” His fingers curled warm around her own, just the right amount of pressure, his palm slipping flush against hers.
Delilah pulled her hand back at the small sizzle that hit her with the touch. She usually avoided palm-to-palm contact as it tended to let her see and know things she was better off not knowing. But the handshake was intended to set the evening off as less formal, almost like a business agreement.
In the moment it took her to register what she had learned from the contact—he was unattached, just looking for a good time, he worked with something involving computers, and loved grapes—his attention turned back to the bartender. He slid bills across the smooth wood and grabbed the handles of the three frosty mugs. “It was great to meet you . . . Delilah.”
With that, Mr. Clockwise-olive disappeared.
She wanted to scream. How much more frustrating could this night get? Maybe aliens could abduct her right from the barstool. Or a llama could appear and spit on her. There just weren’t that many ways for this night to get worse.
She figured she’d polish off the martini because it clearly didn’t matter if she was drunk or sober. She lived only a few short blocks from Gin’s, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to take advantage of her anyway.
Delilah held the toothpick with the lone olive out of the way while she drained the glass. Then she fixed her gaze on the last of the green liars and gave it a good stare down before she popped it into her mouth and chewed it to a pulp so it could never give another bad answer again.
Funny, it tasted just like any other olive.
It was so rare for a night to go awry like this that she just got horribly frustrated when it did. Usually there was a man. One who just wanted to get laid. One who would happily go away in the morning. But tonight was not going to be her night. Now it was late and she had to get some sleep, because she did have to get to work at three a.m.
Placing both her hands flat on the bar, Delilah gave up. She pushed away and turned to leave, not reacting fast enough to avoid the green button front shirt that was apparently hiding a granite sculpture behind it.
“Umph.” The sound she involuntarily made was muffled against the fabric and her nose started that low throb of anger at being banged.
One hand grabbed her arm to steady her and, before she could look up to see who she had literally run into, she recognized the voice. “I’m so sorry. And I was coming over here to apologize for releasing Richard on you.”
Her fingers found her nose and quickly she made the pain disappear. “Really I’m fine, and that was my fault. I had a little more than I intended.”
With the haze of pain having vanished, she could see him looking at her, searching her face. “Were you leaving?”
Okay, maybe the night wasn’t going to be such a bust after all.
Before she could respond, he spoke again. “Because I just left my partner back at the table with Richard so I could come . . . beg forgiveness from you.”
Her mouth spoke without warning, nice and loud over the din in the bar. “Are you gay?”
He frowned. “No. Are you?”
“No.” Delilah shook her head. How had it all gotten so tangled up? It had made total sense when she thought it in her brain. She pointed back to the other man sitting in the booth with Richard-the-far-too-brave. “You called him your ‘partner’.”
Brandon laughed out loud. Even teeth showed through the wide grin, and his eyes crinkled above cut cheekbones. It was a good thing he wasn’t gay.
Within a moment, he led her to a table that had miraculously cleared out. Delilah blinked. She hadn’t done that. Had he? But she found herself seated and ordering a soda and watching his eyes while he spoke. “Dan is my business partner. And Richard spent the day taking up a lot of our time only to back out on the deal at the last minute.”
Maybe that sobering spell hadn’t quite done the trick. Her brain twisted itself up at that. “So you took him out and bought him beer? Did you think he’d sign on if he was drunk?”
“No.” Brandon drained the beer that had been in his hand and ordered a soda from a passing waitress. “He’s a lot better at talking people into things when he’s sober. And he does know a lot of people who might like to get on board. So we thought we could use his contacts. We’ll see.”
Delilah nodded. On the one hand, she didn’t need all the chit-chat. On the other hand, she didn’t want to alienate the only man that the universe deemed suitable tonight. “So what do you do?”
“We build video games.”
She had absolutely no way to respond to that. She didn’t think she’d ever thought about what went into a video game. Didn’t own any. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d even played one. So she smiled, and shook her head. “I can hardly hear what you’re saying. But I live four blocks up. Do you want to go?”
A few minutes later they were out the door, the night air just a little chilly against her skin. It had been hotter than Hades when she’d walked down, so she hadn’t brought a jacket.
“Are you cold?” Brandon watched her rub at her arms as she started down Hollywood Boulevard. People passed by on either side of them, not really observing any kind of traffic pattern.
“It was warmer when I came in.” She shrugged. But he was out of his button-down shirt before she really even managed a protest. The move revealed a t-shirt underneath that looked expensive, soft, and slightly frayed as he draped the green cotton shirt around her shoulders.
Delilah grabbed at it to pull it closer. As she did, her palms brushed against the material and she felt the lingering traces of information he’d left on it: he didn’t wear it very often. She should have finished the sobering spell before she left the bar. She shouldn’t have shot the last of that martini. Because the universe was always right. So here she was, catching images that she usually avoided.
“Up here.” She pointed up Poinsettia Street and made the turn. In a block they were beyond the buildings and the businesses that made up the main drag. Condos and apartment complexes marched up the Hollywood Hills, crowding each other for space and straining to see over the adjacent rooftops.
As the two of them climbed the steep sidewalk, Brandon turned, commenting that he thought he might be able to see his own roof from her place. Delilah smiled and nodded politely, but didn’t care. She wouldn’t be going to his place, so she didn’t need to know where it was.
Inside her building, she fitted her key into the lock and pushed the door open.
He frowned down at her hand. “You really should do the deadbolt, too, you know. You should lock up better than that.”
She fought the urge to laugh. Just because there was only one lock on the door didn’t mean the place wasn’t protected. Instead, she grabbed the front of his t-shirt in her fist and invited him in by tugging on the fabric.
He didn’t need a second nudge and his mouth descended on hers, blocking out all thoughts of locks and bolts.
Delilah disengaged long enough to shed his shirt from her shoulders and leave it on the floor in the entryway before taking his hand and leading him down the hall to her bedroom.
Because this was the only way she got involved these days, and because it only happened when she let it, she was prepared. When Mr. Green-eyes peeled his t-shirt, she was waiting with a condom she had pulled from her bedside drawer.
Quickly, they stripped away their clothes and the bedcovers. Delilah was only a little surprised that he fought her for dominance. She should have been a little more firm about how it was going to go. But later, lying there, sated, she realized she hadn’t thought that far ahead.
* * *
Brandon stood, naked, and looked down at the woman dozing on the fine cotton sheets. Her fingers curled in against her palms and her hands were pulled in next to her body. She looked peaceful and docile and nothing like the hellcat who’d just wrung him out.
Wandering down her hallway, he touched his head. He still felt drunk, although the physical activity he’d just completed should have sobered him right up. Also, he’d only had beer, and not that many of them, at the bar earlier. It seemed much longer than . . . two hours? since she’d offered to bring him back here.
Brandon glanced down at his watch, the only item of clothing that he still had on after that crazy round of sex. He searched the fridge, finding a glass and a pitcher of cold water. The chill hit him as he drank it while making his way back over the soft carpet to her bedroom. For a brief moment he wondered if she had a roommate or someone he should worry about while he was walking naked through her apartment. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.
A strange light flickered in the doorway of her bedroom, and that combined with the cold water brought him fully alert. As he stepped into the opening, he was surprised to find her awake. She was sitting, facing away from him, on the side of the bed. Moreover, he was relieved that the odd light was nothing more than the glow of a candle she was lighting.
Her blonde hair was almost platinum in the amber glow, and it brushed the middle of her back in loose curls that had previously been near-perfect ringlets. Now it was a near-perfect mess, and knowing that he was the one who’d messed it was sexy as hell.
She turned to smile at him, pink lips reminding him what she’d done and where she’d done it. Her eyes were liquid and fathoms deep in the candlelight. She picked up a sprig of something and held it into the flame. Soft, gray smoke curled upward and disappeared.
Brandon didn’t think anything of it until the awful smell hit him. His nose wrinkled against his will and without thought he dove across the sheets toward her. “Don’t please. I’m . . . allergic to a lot of incense.”
That wasn’t true at all. But that stuff stank.
He grabbed it from her hand and blew out the glowing ends on the small blooms, sloshing a little of his water on the sheets as he did.
He figured he should apologize, but now that he was lying across the bed he felt the turning sensation in his brain again—like he was drunk. He closed his eyes and the world felt like a boat rocking beneath him. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been slipped something more powerful than alcohol at the bar. He’d thought only women really had to worry about that. He was getting ready to ask her if she’d noticed anything, when he realized he couldn’t remember her name.
She was leaning over him, reaching for the half-ashed stem in his fingers. She took it away and asked him what it was that he wanted.
But that was a stupid question. She had just leaned over him, naked, making him forget all about her stinky incense. The world had stopped spinning as the ends of those mussed curls tickled across his bare chest. The sheets were still tangled from the best no-holds-barred sex he could remember. And she asked him what he wanted.
So he reached out for her soft skin and showed her.
* * *
Delilah gazed at the man beside her, watching his chest rise and fall in rapid waves, much like her own was doing. She let out a breath.
The universe was right. Tonight had been her night. The olives had not deserved the way she’d cursed them.
It was midnight. Perfect timing. If she got him out of here and then passed out within twenty minutes, she could catch a neat two hours of sleep before she had to get up to go to work.
As her breathing and his slowed to a more normal rate, she moved into action. Delilah kissed her fingertips, imbuing her touch with an extra nudge, leading him to agree with her. “Thank you. That was fantastic.” She caressed his upper arm with a sweet stroke, intending him to absorb both the compliment and the suggestion a little more deeply. “But I need to get some sleep now. I have to get to work at three.”
He rolled to look at her, his eyes showing that he’d been affected by the simple magick. He smiled. “I should get some sleep, too.”
However, instead of standing, he reached for the covers, pulling them all the way up and over both of them before she could get her bearings. She tried again.
“No,” She kept her voice soft but steady and firm, “I need to sleep alone. You should go.”
His laugh rumbled low in his bare chest; he was still not agreeing. “You don’t need to sleep alone, and I’m too tired to move.” His arm came up and around her, pulling her closer and alarming her more.
Surely he wasn’t immune to her magick.
That would mean that he was stronger than her. She would have sensed that right from the start.
Again she pushed a little extra power into her touch and shoved against his chest, still barely budging him. “I have to go to work at three. That’s just a few hours.”
Delilah hadn’t even added a kick to her words. She was a little panicked by his nonchalance, which was enough to make her forget the magick that should be second nature. She was functioning on pure logic.
Unfortunately, logic didn’t work on him either.
“You shouldn’t have invited me home if you have to work that early. The room is spinning like I’m drunk, so I can’t drive. And I don’t think you really go to work in a few hours anyway. Who starts work at three a.m.?”
He snuggled in a little deeper under the white fluffy comforter and let his eyelids drift shut.
Fine, if he wanted to sleep, he could just sleep through the forgetting.
As his face relaxed, Delilah rolled herself up to sit on the side of the bed, relaxing now that she had a Plan B. With a deep breath to re-focus herself, she lit the white beeswax candle again and pulled out a fresh stick of lavender, lighting the tips of the small white blossoms.
She woke him to hand him the smoking sprig figuring she would just push him out the door while he forgot.
But he didn’t go.
Brandon sat up, coming awake with the burning lavender in his fingers. He frowned at it, crinkled his nose and blew it out. “That smells bad. Stop doing that.”
He handed her back the burnt blossoms and rolled over, tucking the covers under his chin.
What was wrong with him?
Delilah sniffed the lavender for herself. It didn’t stink. It wasn’t beautiful, but it didn’t produce a smell worthy of the faces he made.
She was startled from her wonderings of what the hell she might have done wrong by a soft snore.
The damn man was out like a light.
She should never have indulged in that second round with him. She’d worn him out and now what was she going to do?
Her shoulders slumped. She could burn the lavender and cast the spell on him. He’d forget about her and what they’d done. But he’d still be in her bed, so that was just fruitless.
After nudging and shaking him more times than she could count, Delilah gave up.
Fine, he’d believe she had to be at work at three a.m. when she woke his sleepy ass up at two fifteen.
