I turned to Cameron and smiled. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
“The plants on the patio weren’t hers, they belonged to the tenant before her, Alonzo, and she was too lazy to do anything with them. Naheer watered them from his patio. Let me pop out there a minute and see if anything’s dead.”
We watched her unlock, and then lift the sliding glass door. Apparently, it stuck a bit.
Once she was outside, I took Cameron’s face in my hands.
“You can’t be serious,” he groaned. “It’s like nineteen sixty-five in here.”
“Rudolph Valentino’s tile,” I reminded him, waggling my eyebrows.
“No, no, no,” he whimpered.
“She saged it.”
“Is that what that smell is?”
“It’s good for you. Opens the pores.”
“It does not.”
“C’mon,” I cajoled, grinning, “it’ll be nice. We’ll make it nice.”
He looked like he was in pain. “All right, to be fair, you’ll be spending more time here than me, so if you seriously like it, then it’s your call.”
“Do you hate it that much? I don’t want you to be somewhere you aren’t comfortable.”
He gestured at the space. “I can’t tell what it could look like, because all I’m seeing right now is what it’s not.”
What I saw was an open, airy space—the ten-foot ceilings helped with the illusion—that I already liked so much. “I bet I could even afford this on my own.”
“What does that mean?” he snapped, and his scowl was dark.
I shrugged. “I just don’t wanna push you into––”
“You are not pushing me into anything. The truth is I couldn’t care less where we live as long as I’m with you, so go tell her you’ll take it, get the keys, and give me one.”
“Okay. And do I get a key to your house?”
“And the alarm code, and everything else, yes.” He took another look around the place, not quite in disgust, but it was close. “Though you might pass out from a lack of weird ceiling fans and a sliding door that actually does, you know, slide.”
Stepping in close, I kissed him, and he leaned into me, hands on my sides, holding gently, careful with my body, which was starting to ache a bit. We both turned to Agatha at the same time when we heard her hum.
“Shall we go to the office, boys? I have some witch bells I made that you can have for your front door, and some palo santo sticks in case you want to give the space a once-over.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, “let’s go to the office.”
She clapped her hands. “I just knew when I heard Cameron’s dulcet tones over the phone line this was going to work out. Your voice is lovely, dear, so mellifluous.”
I nodded, and he rolled his eyes, not believing a word of it, but that was okay. This felt like home, and that was all that mattered.
Cameron booked a room at the Hyatt Regency downtown on L Street for the night, which was fancier than I thought was necessary, but as I was lying on the bed after taking a prescription-strength ibuprofen, I had to admit it was very nice. I didn’t realize I’d nodded off until I woke up and discovered I was alone under the covers. I reached for my phone on the nightstand and had pulled up his number to call him, when I noticed the note he’d scribbled on the hotel stationary. I was still trying to decipher his handwriting when the door opened and he came into the room with something that smelled heavenly.
“Hi,” I greeted him, smiling as I sat up.
“Are you ready for Mediterranean food?”
“Ah”—I grinned, picking up the pad again and turning to him—“is this word supposed to be Mediterranean?”
“What do you mean supposed to be,” he groused, putting the food down on the table and then walking over to the bed to sit down beside me. “That says Madar, and that says Mediterranean. This word is samosa, this is Bolani, this is––”
“Okay, I don’t care.” I cupped his cheek, easing him close. “Kiss me.”
His smile lit his face, made his dark midnight-blue eyes glow warmly, and when his lips met mine, I opened for him, licking into his mouth, inviting him in with a moan that was utterly carnal and needy.
He broke the kiss way before I was ready and bolted to the door, startling the hell out of me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I growled at him.
“Are you kidding?” he retorted, seemingly as annoyed as I was. “You can’t—start”—he gestured at me and the bed—“kissing me like that and…you’re hurt!”
“I’m not that hurt,” I assured him, leering, gesturing for him. “C’mere.”
“You have bruised ribs,” he reminded me, beginning to pace, “and those take––”
“So you’re saying what? You’re not gonna touch me?”
“You’re hurt!” he reiterated, like I was the one who was insane.
“I am, but all you hafta do is be careful when you ride me,” I informed him, waggling my eyebrows. “It’ll be fine.”