I cover my grin with an open palm. Yeah, that tracks. I’d ask him what brought all this on, if I wasn’t afraid whatever I say will send him running again. Though if he means to run, he should at least wait until we’re not surrounded by the random strangers who witnessed his declaration of... what? Interest? Attraction? I’m really not sure what they just witnessed, but I liked it.
Except if a simple question is going to chase him away, we don’t have much of a future anyway, so I should just go for it. Still, I start slow. “So where have you been?”
“Missing you mostly.”
His non-answer makes me grin. Rather than push, I wait to see if he’ll fill in any of the blanks.
“I needed some time to pull my head outa my own ass.” He swings our clasped hands. “Went out to the coast so I could hear the ocean and, uh, stuff.”
The people ahead of us step aside, bringing us to the front of the line. Jett’s smiling so hard they’re glowing. “That was beautiful,” they say, a little misty. “Order whatever you want. Today it’s on the house.”
Ezra and I share a glance. His eyes narrow, and he says, “You going to make me pick a card?”
I can see why he’d be suspicious. The last thing I need right now is to turn over a card that’s a harbinger of death or something. Jett laughs, though. “Nah, your fates are written in your auras.”
“Oh for... “ Ezra shakes his head and places his order and mine, too. While we’re waiting, my phone pings. Of course.
“Shit. It’s Zach. I gotta go back to work.”
“Can I see you tonight?” Ezra’s expression has a touch of uncertainty.
I run my thumb down his cheek. “Yeah. I’ll text you when I’m about to get off.”
“I’ll get you off, Big D.” He turns into my touch, brushing a kiss against my knuckle, and I have to quickly adjust myself.
“Damn. How am I supposed to think now?”
He laughs at that, a sound that’s full of promise. Jett brings us our beverages and waves off Ezra’s attempt to pay. We walk out together, and after one more brief kiss in the doorway, I force myself to go back to work.
Inside, though, I’m as pumped as if I’d just hit a grand slam. This thing between me and Ezra is weird, unconventional, and unlike any other relationship I’ve ever been in, and for the first time since I met him, I think we might be onto something good.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ezra
Damon Clemens is coming to supper and I’m a fucking mess. I mean, my apartment’s clean enough, and there’s a nice pork tenderloin ready to go into the oven after he gets here—yes, I do know how to cook—but I want everything to be perfect.
And if I’m involved, things ain’t ever gonna be perfect.
I’ll be lucky if I don’t manage to destroy whatever good I accomplished today.
I did do good, too. Micah told me so. He spied on me, so far out of sight I didn’t know he was there until after Damon took off. Micah’s been my twelve-step buddy, although instead of alcohol, I’m weaning myself off all the crazy shit my parents taught me.
Under different circumstances, I’d call my parents and ask what the fuck they were thinking. Yeah, not gonna be doing that anytime soon. From what me and Geordi have been able to piece together, Mom’s side of the family had the psychics and Dad’s side had the sin eaters. Still can’t say those words out loud, but I don’t lose my shit when others say them, so it’s a step.
Anyway, Mom tried to beat the devil outa me and Dad tried to cram my double gift into a narrow space, and for reasons we don’t yet understand, James Smith blew the whole thing to shit.
Micah and Geordi don’t want me to go back to work at the hospital until the dead bodies stop screaming at me. Somehow, I managed to parley that into an actual medical leave of absence and even better, Dr. Chen must have worked a miracle. I’m no longer on Geneva’s shit list, although she’s pretty insistent that we go out to lunch so I can tell her what’s going on.
That oughta be fun.
For now, I’m just trying to get used to having the occasional voice in my head that isn’t my own. Geordi’s already working on my contract with SPAM—he says good psychics are rare and he’ll definitely use me—and though I don’t see how my gift/curse thing compares with Micah’s ability to turn into whatever creature he wants, I’m going with the flow for now.
Meanwhile, Damon texted me five minutes ago to say he was leaving the hospital and anticipation has my gut so fluttery it might actually take wing. The floor lamp is on its lowest setting and I’m lighting candles for the table, three slender tapers in mismatched vintage ceramic holders. The match in my hand is definitely not shaking.
Much.
He’ll be here soon, like, any minute. It’s getting hard to draw in a deep breath. I’ve got to apologize—again—and convince him that I mean it, and I’ve got to make him understand that I am that thing I can’t say out loud. More importantly, he needs to know that I’m trying hard to let that part of myself go.
