Layla
As soon as I'm dressed, I notice him staring skeptically at the entryway.
"Is it safe?" he asks.
I glance inside, and then look back at him. "Good question."
He gives me a dubious look. "Are you sure you're going to be capable of recreating Marta's products?"
"Aunt Marta was gifted and admittedly better, but I'm good at what I do. I'm testing out some new stuff. Trial and error comes with new territory, but I have a gypsy to bless the stuff," I explain, feeling more confident once I'm fully covered. "But as a show of good faith, I'll run in and get you a sample pack."
The second I turn my back on him, I hear him ask, "Are you sure you're not a Thorne?"
Frowning, I glance over my shoulder, not showing any outward signs of the growing knot of worry that is spreading with each person who questions me.
"Why is that so hard to believe?"
While I have some things in common with all the Thorne gypsies, I've never had their signature features, such as the eyes, the curly hair, nor the perfectly almond skin tone.
For the most part, I have my Dad's genes. I look just like his grandmother when she was my age. I've had to hear that my entire life, no matter the age.
His jaw relaxes slightly, and I note that he looks late twenties or early thirties as he allows his sinfully playful lips to curve in a secretive grin. "No reason."
Great. He's a weirdo with soulful and secretive eyes, distracting lips, and vague responses after asking me probing questions. Does he have to wear a sleeveless shirt? Why does he have to have arm porn?
Those athletic pants should not look that sexy. He's one of those annoying people who make slouchy clothes look fashionable, while also looking like…well, a sexy savage, as Sally has pointed out. I'm not telling her that, though.
Shaking off the silly distraction, I jog up the steps and through the house, coughing a little at the lingering vapor.
Quickly, I retrieve a small box with my sample work, and bring it back out, ignoring the slight burning in my veins and the urge to strip again when I emerge.
Really glad he didn't come in now. I'd probably have lost the account.
If the lingering vapor is working that strongly on me, a normal person would probably be running around and screaming in pain.
He accepts the box of vials, but he's still staring at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. It's the way Vincent stared at me.
"I can't believe you're doing a drug deal in broad daylight," Sally says on a horrified gasp.
"Try it out and see if it's close enough. The three on the right are your recreational—"
"Drugs," Sally says like she's finishing my sentence, and I clear my throat before continuing.
"—orders. The ones on the left are for healing."
"Healing?" he asks, sniffing it and wrinkling his brow.
"My own recipe."
"Interesting," he says with a growing grin, his eyes once again raking over me. "You don't have the traditional Thorne eyes."
"Well, I'm not a Thorne." I'm not sure why he's making this an issue, but again, I trust Mom wouldn't do business with men who would kill her.
She wasn't taken by surprise because she turned her back on the wrong person. She was hunted down. That much I know, due to the vague voicemail she left me the night of her death.
"Your eyes are very unique," he goes on, taking a step too close for my comfort, staring at me so intensely, as something almost palpable in electric energy moves between us.
His eyes seem to dance with flakes of autumn embers, coming to life as I feel myself leaning forward like there's a subtle pull on my body, dragging me.
The hair on the back of my neck raises once more, while gravity plays tricks on me.
Even without touching him, I almost feel warmth from his body, and it's like my head tries to get lost when his pupils dilate.
Sally is suddenly at my side and fanning me again.
"I just came," she states in a loud whisper. "All from that look."
It's enough to defuse the weird crackles of electricity surrounding us, and I take a spacious step back while clearing my throat, as he mutters something I can't hear.
"I'll have your order delivered on Monday, should you still want it," I tell him, recovering and sounding somewhat professional, even as I battle the weird chill slithering over me.
I'm so tempted to apologize for my ridiculous amount of leaning in, but I'm afraid that'll just make it weird.
If Sally were real, I'd cut her for whatever she just did to my body.
He eyes the vials and closes the small box, before he tucks it under his arm. "Will you be delivering it yourself?" he muses.
"Yes. I've deemed Mondays and Fridays as delivery days. The rest of the time will be allotted to opening the store. At least until I have things caught up enough to hire some help."
His lips thin like he finds that confusing.
I'm not quite sure what the paradox is.
"Then until Monday, Ms. Rivers," he says before backing away.
I turn and start toward the house, unsure what to say to that, since it sort of sounds like he's still questioning my surname.
He makes some sound from behind me, but when I turn to look back, he's gone.
Sally is singing Ghost Busters once more and dancing on the porch, her back to me. I walk on by, ignoring her as she puts my name in the lyrics.
I'm officially the weird chick in this town, and I keep wondering why people act weird around me. Little hypocritical, I suppose.
"Why didn't you fuck him? He gave you all the right signals, along with that smoldering look," Sally says in utter disappointment.
"I'm almost positive you just did something to me, and you better not do it again," I caution her.
"I won't do it again," she agrees, but that doesn't mean anything. Hell, she may not even know if she did it.
"What are you doing?" Sally asks as she follows me up the stairs.
"Well, I'm going to go through more of my mother's things, and then I'm going to see if I can rework that potion that went so wrong. But first I'm going to take a cold shower," I answer as I start stripping, eager for some cool relief, thanks to the freaking potion that went awry.
"I could use a cold shower too. That savage man radiated barbaric sexual energy." She makes a scratching sign like she has claws, and then adds a little feminine roar.
Groaning, I push through to the bathroom and slam the door in her face.
It's the one room I have salted, and she can't enter because of it.
So instead, she starts singing loudly through the door as I step into the cold spray of the shower, trying not to think about the overwhelming amount of things I need to do.
Also, I hope none of my other clients happen to be insanely gorgeous. This is getting annoying.