Navy Seal's Match. Amber Williams Leigh

“Grab your stuff. I’ll go tell Miss Zelda you’re here. Harmony, you can call for a tow inside. Come on, Prometheus.”

      The dog reluctantly fell into step. She reached down and laid her hand against his snout when he sought her. It was still warm from Gavin’s touch.

      If she wasn’t Gavin’s type, why did she feel his eyes on her as she walked away?

       CHAPTER THREE

      “SOMETHIN’ WAYLAID ME in the shower,” Gavin announced to Mavis as he wandered into the kitchen, closely following the mental blueprint he’d drawn of Zelda’s house during the introductory tour. It wasn’t the simplest layout, but he wasn’t blind enough that he couldn’t trust his keen inner compass. It only made most tasks he’d once thought simple now frustrating and a few everyday skills, like driving, impossible.

      He found a halo of hair underneath one of the florescent lights on the other side of the high countertop. “Some kind of tree,” he elaborated.

      Mavis answered, “Eucalyptus.”

      Gavin frowned. The light had gone from the windows. There were a lot of windows in Miss Zelda’s house. The harshness of electric lighting burned the working parts of his right retina. “So the old lady’s aware she’s got plants growing in places they shouldn’t?”

      “If you call her ‘old lady,’ she’s likely to strike you dead at some point. And, yes.” He heard a rustle. Pages turning. She was reading a book. Here at Zelda’s, half past dark? “The plants are refreshing. For most people.”

      He wrapped his fingers around the edge of granite and jerked his chin at her. “What’re you doing?”

      “Studying,” she said plainly.

      Feeling around the prep space, he found a large wooden bowl. Recognizing the cool touch of a smooth apple’s surface, he palmed it and brought it to his nose to sniff. “Algebra test in the morning?”

      “In your mind, am I still a fresh-faced fourteen-year-old? Pre-tats? Pre-piercings? Prepubescent?”

      Not at all, he mused, remembering what had transpired at the inn under the bougainvillea. Ah, that bougainvillea.

      Passing the apple from one hand to the other, he countered, “Studying what?”

      “Genealogical records.” More rustling. Gavin saw the white face of a page flash as she flipped to the next.

      “Mmm.” He took a crunchy, satisfying bite from the apple.

      Her head was low over the book. Her hair fell forward at a slicing angle. “It comes with the territory.”

      “Territory?”

      “The paranormal investigation and research territory,” she explained. She lifted her face. It shone under the bright light, freckles pronounced. He could see the red bow of her mouth. It’d always been lush, like that of her mother, Adrian. The dark slant of her eyes was masked by a large set of reading glasses. Old-fashioned, from what he could tell, and cat-eye. “Didn’t Miss Zelda tell you? This is where our spooky little business comes together.”

      Gavin stopped chewing. “Here?”

      “Yes. Here.”

      He worked his jaw, deciding to study the red coating of the apple instead.

      After several seconds, Mavis said, “Is that a problem?”

      “No.” He shook his head. “No. Just...on the tour earlier, nobody mentioned athames or cauldrons.”

      “Why would it matter if there were athames and cauldrons?” Mavis wondered. “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

      “When I trip over a chair and fall on or in either, that’d be a big problem. Unless you witches have broken into the field of advanced healing.”

      “You do realize neither Zelda nor I practice Wicca, witchcraft, or anything of the spiritual or magic variety?”

      “Communing with the dead?” he said pointedly.

      “We listen,” she corrected. “It’s more science than anything.”

      Gavin lowered his voice. “And what do people who do actual science have to say about that?”

      Mavis’s sigh floated to him. She flipped more pages, with more force. “Some pay attention. Some don’t.”

      “Most don’t,” he wagered.

      “Haven’t you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain?” she asked.

      Rotating the apple as if he could study every facet, he said, “If I can’t explain it, and nobody else can explain it, why would I want to know more about it?”

      “I’m trying to decide if that makes you ignorant or irrationally skeptical,” Mavis said thoughtfully.

      “From your side of the field, I imagine everyone’s a skeptic. Except the freaks who pay you.”

      The book slammed shut. “Nobody pays us. Only scammers and con artists demand payment for the type of work we do.”

      “You work for free?”

      “Second,” she said, “while the people who call on our services do sometimes turn out to be a little nutty, it’s unfair to lump them all as freaks. Especially since a percentage suffer from any number of psychological disorders such as depression, paranoia, schizophrenia...even PTSD. EMF sensitivity alone can lead to extreme bouts of paranoia. You know as well as I do that mental illness is no joke. Am I right?”

      Gavin raised his brows but said nothing. Low blow, Freckles.

      “Miss Zelda and I take what we do very seriously,” she added. “As seriously as you did playing modern-day advanced warrior with Kyle and Benji.”

      Did she have to bring up Benji? “You argue like your brother.”

      “How’s that?”

      “Heavy on the guilt.”

      “Really? I thought I was talking truth.”

      “Sucker punching me with it.” Gavin rolled the apple onto the counter.

      “Aren’t you going to finish that?” she asked when he turned to walk out.

      “Nah. I’ve lost my appetite.”

      “May I ask why?” she said to his back.

      He stopped at the door and turned halfway back. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s poisoned?”

      It took her a second to answer. “Athames are on the left when you walk up the stairs. Good luck not tripping.”

      He chuckled, then wondered over the sound. Okay, that was twice now she’d made him laugh. Tapping his fingers against the jamb, he said, “Tell me something, Freckles. Why did you get into the paranormal racket?”

      “When you stop thinking of it as a racket,” she replied, “I’ll tell you. Maybe. Anything else?”

      “When’s the naked séance? I might need to see that.”

      “You won’t.”

      He cursed. “Are you really here working or are you keeping tabs on me for the folks?”

      “Well, now’s a good a time as any to make an entrance,” Zelda said as she breezed past him. She patted him on the biceps. Her sleeve brushed his arm. It was long and silky. She raised herself to her toes so he could hear her mutter, “For God’s sake, handsome, stop while you’re ahead.”

      “When was I ahead?” he wondered out loud.

      “Mavis thinks well of you,” she pointed out. “She rarely