Witches of East End by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

was talking about her, and if this was his way of asking her out on a date, he should really know better. Let him down gently, Ingrid told herself. The poor guy was obviously in love with her, and she would not want to hurt his feelings. She wasn’t completely heartless.
    “Listen, Matt, you’re a great guy but I . . .”
    “Man! You really think Caitlin won’t go out with me?” he interrupted.
    It took Ingrid a second to recover, but the moment flashed by without the detective noticing. He was talking about Caitlin . Her coworker. The one who didn’t even read books. Ingrid thought back to when they had hired the girl. It was right about the time that the handsome lawman began his regular visits to the library. So in all that time he was interested in Caitlin, not Ingrid. She’d been so mistaken it was embarrassing. So why had her heart dipped a little when he had spoken her coworker’s name? It’s not like she cared whom he liked. Really, she was incredibly relieved. She gave him a tight smile. “Actually that sort of thing isn’t my arena. Romance, that is. You’re better off seeing my sister at the North Inn. Ask her to make you a drink from her fancy new cocktail menu. Tell her the same thing you told me and maybe she’ll help you.”
    “Is that right?” he asked.
    She nodded, and briskly ushered him out of her office. She looked at her watch. She had meant to work for only an hour but it was almost two thirty and she hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Freya had made her a tuna salad sandwich on wheat bread. Like everything Freya made it was usually delicious, but for some reason today it tasted like sand.
    Oh, well. So I was wrong. He likes Caitlin. Who doesn’t like Caitlin? Everyone in town liked Caitlin, who didn’t take books seriously and didn’t give lectures on missed library fines and proper care of manuscripts and bore people with talk about old houses and design. Caitlin didn’t engender mean nicknames like “Frigid Ingrid,” nor did people think she was aloof or strange for having a line of people clamoring for charms and spells. She was just a nice, normal girl, pretty if rather boring, the kind of girl whom Ingrid could never be, had never once been.
    After her tasteless meal Ingrid went back to her documents, determined to give Matt Noble no more thought.

chapter thirteen
    Aftershocks
     
    C ome back here, woman,” Bran growled, pulling Freya back into bed.
    “I’m late for work already, stop.” She laughed, trying to put her shoes on as he nuzzled her neck. His warm hands encircled her waist and she gave up, kicking off her sneakers and letting him pull her back under the covers.
    She had refrained from his touch since that night by the fireplace, too shamed by her thoughts of Killian. She had faked headaches, begged off due to exhaustion. But she knew he would not be denied today. Bran was leaving again that afternoon. The separation would be brief—only a few days in Stockholm this time, for which Freya was glad. She didn’t think she had it in her to be a foundation widow, and although she understood the good work he was promoting around the globe, she missed him.
    He pulled off her T-shirt and kissed the valley between her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his soft brown hair. “Don’t go,” she whispered, almost to herself.
    Bran looked up at her worriedly. “I don’t want to, believe me. I’d rather be here with you.”
    “I know. Don’t mind me.” She shook her head and looked away, toward the open window. Bran’s room faced north, and she could just glimpse the dock where the boats were anchored below.
    Bran sighed and leaned down to lick a pink nipple. She dutifully whimpered and clutched his hair, pulling him closer, and with her other hand she reached for him, finding him hard and ready, and guided him inside. He entered her then, and she clung to him fiercely; and as they bucked and panted together, he covered her face with kisses and she sucked on his