“So when you came to see her, if she had been the one in the shop that day, you would have made her your familiar, wouldn’t you? It wasn’t a last minute Hail Mary decision, it wasn’t an insurance plan that kicked in because of me,” I clarify.
Rogan studies me for a moment, but I see the answer in his eyes before he voices it.
“Yes. Marx and I thought it was the best and fastest way to gain control over the situation.”
I shake my head and turn away from him. “You’re lucky it was me that day. She would have ripped you apart,” I tell him quietly, hating how alone I suddenly feel.
“Very lucky,” he repeats just as softly, but I don’t bother trying to interpret what that could mean.
With squealing tires, Rogan slides us into a parking spot dead center in front of a diner. “Seven minutes and counting,” he announces with a small hesitant smile.
I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle. “Impressive,” I admit as I climb out of the SUV. “Now I’ll daydream about breaking two hundred five of your bones and not the full two hundred six that you actually have,” I tell him as I stride for the front door.
He beats me to it and pulls it open, sleigh bells tinkling and announcing our arrival to a waitress. I shake my head at him. “I’m still not buying it,” I censure.
“Buying what?” he queries.
“That you’re a gentleman. So no need to keep up the act on my account.”
He doesn’t say anything as we’re led to a booth and handed menus. I slide into my seat, and I’m reminded of doing the same thing just yesterday, when I sat down to talk to Paul. His face flashes in my mind, and I wonder how he and Jackson are doing today. I close my eyes for a moment and send them warm, hopeful thoughts.
“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress with short salt-and-pepper hair and amiable blue eyes asks.
“May I please have some coffee? And do you have tomato soup here?”
“Yes and yes,” she tells me warmly.
“Two hundred and four bones now,” I correct, looking over at Rogan.
I order my wish list, completely over the moon when they have everything I’ve been craving. Rogan gets some kind of melt and blueberry crumble for dessert, and as soon as he orders it, I start debating if I can be pissed at him but still ask for a bite? I’m thinking yes.
“So how did you and Marx become such good friends?” I ask as the waitress brings over two bowl-sized mugs and pours almost a full carafe of coffee into them.
I start doctoring mine up, waiting for Rogan to answer the question. I can feel his hesitancy, like I can feel the waitress’s sore bones as she moves gingerly from table to table, refilling the other patrons’ drinks.
“We used to work together,” Rogan finally tells me as he shakes a few packets of sugar, tearing them all open at once and dumping them into his mug.
I ponder that answer for a moment, mostly because I practically chug my cup of coffee down, but surprise zings through me when I put things together. “You used to work for the Order?”
He nods solemnly and then demurely samples his brew. “We were on a team together. We were who the Order called when they needed elite magic to deal with something.”
“Oh, the best of the best,” I mock, and he sighs and fixes me with an unamused stare.
“Anyway, I know about the Order and the rampant corruption firsthand. Elon and I almost didn’t make it out of their ranks alive.”
A chill runs up my spine at that revelation, and I randomly have the urge to reach out and offer a comforting touch. I look down at my hands—which are cradling my coffee—and glare at them as though they’ve betrayed me.
“What’s wrong?” Rogan asks, studying me.
“Nothing,” I answer a little too quickly. With a swift shake of my head, I dispel the uninvited urge and focus back on what we were discussing. “So that’s what’s up with all the protective measures?” I ask, placing another vital piece of understanding in the puzzle that is Rogan Kendrick.
“It’s good to have protections in place with any home, but yes, Elon and I are overly cautious. We have good reason to be.”
“So all the blood protecting your house, is that yours?”
“No, I’d never be able to build up the quantities I needed if I used only my own. Certain wards or blessings required my blood, but the rest was from the blood bank. I take the units that are not transfusion quality and use them for what I need.”
“That’s smart,” I blurt and then wish I could take the compliment back when he gets a cocky grin on his face. “I mean, they probably think you’re a vampire or something, but you and the Order are already at odds, so good for you, live your best life.”
Rogan chuckles. “There’s no exposure risk there for our kind. They think I work for a contracted quality control company. They get a discount on my rate if they allow me to deal with the unusable blood.”
“For real? They pay you?” I laugh, unable to deny how sneaky and well played that is. It makes me wonder what other witches do to source ingredients and all the witchy things they need.
Our food arrives and we fall into companionable silence as we stuff our faces. I dip my sandwich into my soup and practically orgasm with the first bite. Rogan just shakes his head and tries to fight a smile as I make sweet, sweet love to my lunch without a single ounce of shame.
“Crap, now I have to figure out how to steal your coffee machine and make it like me, while also relocating this diner across the street from my house. That was so good,” I purr as I sit back and pat my happy food baby.
“It was just a grilled cheese,” Rogan points out with a judgmental chuckle.
“Just? Just he says. Dude, that was exquisite, that’s what that was.”
The waitress drops the check off in front of us with a wide smile. She’s been sneaking peeks at Rogan the whole time, and she gets this adorable blush when he catches her and gives her a toothy grin. It’s a sweet thing to do, but I’m still not falling for his act.
“You know,” I start, catching the waitress’s attention. “There’s an herbal tea that really helps with muscle and joint pain. It’s pretty much just willow bark, turmeric, ginger, and some eucalyptus, but I could bring you some if you’re interested,” I offer. “I can’t imagine it feels good to be on your feet for so many hours out of the day,” I add so I don’t make her feel self-conscious about picking up on her pain.
“It does get harder every year. I’ll try anything as long as it’s legal, doesn’t give me the runs, and keeps my head clear,” she announces, and I crack up at her candor.
“Yep, it’s all legal herbs, with no fuzzy-head side effects or the Hershey squirts,” I reassure her. I don’t mention the bone powder that’s also in it. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, in fact it’ll have her feeling like she’s twenty again. “I can bring some by for you tomorrow if that’s okay. No charge of course.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest. I’ll take all the help I can get at my age,” she teases, patting me on the arm gently before going to tend to another table.
I turn to Rogan, a satisfied smile on my face. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before they bounce back up to my eyes.