Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau 2)

After David Taylor stole her choices from her, I supported her need for power over her environment.

“That’s the best deal I’m likely to get.” I laughed under my breath. “I’ll take it.”

“Oh, hey, Uncle Nolan wants to talk to you.”

“Um, okay?”

The phone got passed, and Nolan came on the line. “Do you think it’s wise to leave the girls alone?”

“They’re both managers. They have keys. They know how to open and close.”

And they both needed to reclaim the shop as a safe space rather than let one night ruin their hard work.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” An edge was hidden in the polite tone. “Will they be safe?”

The urge to snap at him had me clenching my jaw, and I couldn’t figure out why when he wasn’t saying a single thing I hadn’t thought myself. I understood his concerns. I sympathized with them. I shared them.

Maybe the bracelet was working its magic on me and men in general annoyed me. Or maybe I hated for my worst fears to be voiced when I was working so hard to keep them to myself and not coddle the girls.

“They’ll work half days until I get home,” I decided, to ease them back into their usual solo routine. “The contractors are locals, all people the girls know and are comfortable with. They won’t be isolated. It will be daylight, and the shops down the street will be open. They have their cells and a landline phone in the shop. They can call for help if they need it.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” He gusted out a breath. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. What happened to them…”

A lengthy pause clued me in to how hard he was struggling to phrase what he wanted to say. “Yes?”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t sound like he meant it, not that I held it against him. “I worry for Arden.” He backtracked. “For both the girls.” He sipped his drink. “I don’t want them alone in a place where they might feel vulnerable, and I’m concerned they feel obligated to show up when they might not be ready.”

Put that way, I had trouble taking offense. “I won’t force the girls into work. It’s their choice.”

Shuffling noises broke out, and Arden reclaimed the phone. “We’re in.”

Pressure swelled in my chest, but I had to be certain. “Are you sure Camber wants—?”

“She wants,” Camber yelled from the background, then added, “a raise.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” I wiped my fingers under my damp eyes. “How much?”

“A dozen cookies per week,” she decided. “Our pick of recipes.”

“Done.” I smiled at that spark of her coming back to herself. “Anything else?”

“I demand homemade ice cream once a week,” Arden announced. “The flavors TBD.”

“Okay, now, let’s not go overboard.” I chuckled. “We have that Dickens Christmas thing next month.”

“Just be thankful we got out of the Gobble ’Til You Wobble Marathon.” Arden made gagging noises. “No sane person would agree to walk/run five miles, stopping every mile to eat a plate of Thanksgiving food. And forget water. Did you see they made the participants drink cranberry juice last year?”

“Last year,” I recalled, “three people were hospitalized with food poisoning from the potato salad.”

“I forgot about that.” She grew distracted. “Dessert is here, so I need to go. Email the to-do list, please.”

“I’ll type it up tonight and send it over in the morning.” Throat tight, I hesitated. “Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this,” she assured me, which ought to have been my job. “All of us.”

“Enjoy your dessert.”

“It won’t be as good as what you bake, but I’m sure I can find room in my stomach for it.”