WishCraft Read online

  Maybe nothing had been wrong.

  Maybe it was her own fault as much as anything.

  She squeezed her eyes tight to combat the twisting in her heart. That was enough for one day. Even if she could figure out what had gone so wrong with David, it wouldn’t solve a thing about Brandon.

  And the Brandon issue needed to be solved.

  Apparently without witchcraft.

  That meant that she had a date tonight.

  She’d have to call him and tell him she couldn’t go to Othello. But he would find somewhere else. He was persistent that way.

  That meant she needed something to wear. Something suitable for a date. Something suitable for telling him she couldn’t see him anymore. Something that said it was over.

  She didn’t think she owned any date clothes that said ‘it’s over.’

  Damn.

  Chapter 14

  Brandon let out a relieved sigh. “Five thirty is excellent. Thank you.”

  He smiled as he parked the desk phone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair for a moment before he called Delilah to tell her. He was going to have to come in to the office this weekend to be ready for the round of investor presentations that started on Monday. They were too important to neglect. Still, he’d gotten virtually nothing done today.

  Like usual, he’d come into work before Dan did, but this time he was whistling. Why, he wasn’t quite sure. Delilah was a handful herself and she brought a handful of problems he didn’t want to deal with. But his mouth kept saying things that kept her around.

  Dan caught him grinning and joined in. After a few comments, it was clear that Dan was pleased that Brandon had given the girl the what-for. That took a bit of effort to untangle. The smile disappeared from Dan’s face as Brandon explained that, no, he hadn’t taken Delilah out of the bar and told her off or worked her over. He had, in fact, asked her out. Brandon didn’t say he actually told her they were dating.

  Dan was not impressed.

  Then Delilah called, saying the reservations he’d wrangled at Othello wouldn’t do—as she worked there. At least he now had a place to match to the kitchen in his memory. But there was the problem of getting other reservations for a Friday night in Hollywood.

  He called every nice restaurant in town. And, no surprise, they were all booked. He was tempted to have Angela at the front desk call and make reservations for him under some famous B-list star’s name.

  Finally, he’d done the unthinkable and groveled to Dan.

  Who’d yelled.

  “Take her to Pink’s, for God’s sakes.”

  Brandon had felt his jaw clench. “She’s a chef. I can’t take her to a hotdog stand.”

  “Please, she screwed with your head.” Then he conceded, Brandon could tell by the sigh. Dan tried one last time before he really gave up. “They really are the best hotdogs in town.”

  Brandon didn’t speak.

  Dan picked up the phone and called his cousin who worked in the kitchen at Spago.

  She’d called Brandon back forty minutes later with the reservation.

  Now he had to call Delilah and tell her dinner was going to be earlier. He wasn’t going to get anything done today. Anything. Except seeing Delilah.

  Grinning like the fool he knew he was, and wondering why the date pleased him so much, he dialed her cell number. “Hey, Lilah.”

  “Hi, Brandon.”

  That was it, no inflection, no nothing—good or bad. He’d never met a woman he could read less.

  “I got us reservations at Spago. Is that all right?” Who could argue with Spago? Still, he crossed his fingers.

  “That’s fine—”

  He cut her off before she could say anything else. “They’re at five thirty. It’s a Friday, everything else is booked.”

  “Five-thirty!”

  No, he thought to himself, do not back out on me now. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. If the time didn’t work for her, then she could eat steaks off the grill on his back patio. He’d have to buy a table and chairs, but it was still only noon. He could do it. He waited.

  Finally, her voice came through. “All right. I’ll see you there.”

  She sounded ready to hang up. “I’ll be by to get you at four forty-five.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you then.”

  He hung up, wondering again what he was doing with a woman who was so much work. At least he didn’t have to rush out and buy a patio set.

  He scrounged through the office refrigerator for lunch, determined to stay in and do something—anything—work related. There was also the problem that Dan wanted to harass him over his choice in dates and Brandon didn’t want to deal with it.

  At three-thirty he called it a day and snuck out without telling Dan. Even as he did it, he wondered what his problem was. He and Dan always checked in with each other. It was the only way to keep things running. But he was gone before he could figure out why.

  At his house, he wandered through the rooms, looking at it new, as though there would be some sign indicating that Delilah had been there. The woman sure had gotten under his skin. He just hadn’t figured out yet what to do about it.

  With fresh eyes, he saw where he lived. Of course, it was totally after the fact. He hadn’t intended to run into her and wind up here. But it wasn’t too bad. Right?

  He cringed.

  Right from the front door the place began screaming ‘bachelor pad,’ and it didn’t quit screaming it. Ever.

  The living room was a shrine to a TV so big it threatened to eat the viewer. Aimed at the TV were a sofa and mismatched chairs, slouchy for watching football on Sundays. The old non-descript coffee table seemed to serve as an altar to the widescreen, and bore circular testaments to all the beers of worship that had sat on it.

  Out back, his tiny yard was enclosed with beautiful vines blooming as they climbed the wooden fencing, but he’d had nothing to do with that. The house came that way. The cement patio was home to two shiny silver testaments of manhood. There was a grill so souped up, it looked like it would take off into orbit at any moment. A matching outdoor bar with an inset fridge had a great liquor and beer collection. But there was nowhere to sit. He’d have to remedy that.

  The bedroom had only one small nightstand and a California king sized bed, made neatly for the first time in . . . well, ever.

  He stopped cold and stared.

  She’d made his bed.

  And that was why he had to keep seeing her.

  Why the woman had drugged him then lied to him about it was beyond him. Especially when she was clearly such a poor liar. That the same woman would practically catch on fire for him after he’d almost badgered her into coming home with him, and then in the morning make his bed—that was too much of a mystery. That was something he’d have to figure out before he was through with Delilah Goodman.

  He climbed into the shower and sudsed himself up. Then got out and toweled his hair dry, combing and watching it spring back into the large ringlets that more than one ex-girlfriend had been jealous of. He wasn’t so fond of them himself, but there was something about having his hair past his collar that said he was no longer under his father’s military roof.

  After he got his hair where it could air-dry, he took a look at himself in the mirror, then promptly quit. There wasn’t much he could do about the way he looked, and he wasn’t about to get into it with himself. Delilah must have found him acceptable because she’d taken him home that first night. That was as much as he needed to know.

  He pulled nice slacks and clean, shined shoes from the back of his closet. He chose a gray button down shirt, fresh from the cleaners, but only consented to wear it by sliding on one of his softest cotton tees underneath it. There would be no jacket. He only owned two, and didn’t wear them unless someone died or got married. That was part of the benefit of working for yourself.

  Four twenty.

  Time to head over to get Delilah. He wanted to be a few minutes ear
ly. To see what she did before she went out. He figured those few unguarded moments would be worth gold.

  But his car was a mess.

  She’d been in it last night. The passenger seat was clear, but the back had fast food wrappers and receipts from oil changes and car washes. Last night, the darkness had obscured a multitude of sins. Luckily, Delilah hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that it was no longer a clean car. Although to look at it now, you’d never know it had ever been detailed. There was not enough time to get it done and still be on time to pick her up. So Brandon opted to do what little he could.

  She might forgive him his general male slovenliness, but he didn’t know if she would be able to get past the fact that he ate fast food. Regularly.

  While he cleaned the junk out of the car and into the waiting trash can, Brandon wondered if he could throw himself on her mercy and get her to make him breakfast tomorrow. His mouth watered just thinking about homemade breakfasts and what would have happened if he were still around in the morning to be cooked for. Then he stopped himself and wondered if she actually had any mercy to throw himself on.

  He still managed to make it to her place a little early, but because of the building security he had to buzz up to her apartment. He found ‘Goodman’ on the list, just where it had been last time when he hadn’t known her full name. He heard the change in static as she answered and her voice lilted over the crackling speaker, still giving nothing of herself except words. She said she’d be down in just a minute.

  Brandon frowned. No way.

  His sister swore that—contrary to popular belief—there were some women who were ready on time or even early. Brandon had never met one of them. After concluding that Delilah merely told him she was ready and was actually going to make him wait in front of the building, he began to pace. Right there on the sidewalk on Franklin Avenue for all the world to see. Of course that’s what she’d done. It wasn’t like she hadn’t lied to him before. He figured some fellow male would come up and sympathize before Delilah showed up.

  So he didn’t even turn when the apartment door buzzer went off, signifying that someone had come out.

  “Is something wrong?” Her voice sounded worried.

  She worried. That was something to know. He’d begun to wonder.

  She was in a soft, red, somewhat clingy dress that begged to be touched. “You’re ready.”

  “And that’s a problem?” She scrunched her eyebrows, looking at him like he was suggesting they try to shoot pigeons out of the trees and roast them for dinner.

  “No.” He stumbled through it. “It’s not a problem.” He opened his mouth again, then thought better of it.

  Turning away, he opened the passenger door to his car for her. But when he looked up, she was still standing in the same spot.

  Her tone was almost demanding. “You were about to say something. You might as well spit it out.”

  “I’ve just never met a woman who was ready on time. Early, in fact.” Great, this was already starting out so very badly. “I didn’t say it because I was afraid you might take it as an insult to your gender.”

  Instead, she smiled. Then laughed. “No offense taken. My sister was that way.”

  She swallowed the last word as her smile changed from natural to forced. Instantly, she started moving from her spot on the sidewalk, sliding past him and into the passenger seat. She didn’t look at him at all.

  Well, he thought, things were definitely weird with Delilah around. But never boring.

  Closing her into the car he went around to let himself in and started the journey to Spago.

  Twelve blocks later she hadn’t said anything, only given him sideways looks that said she didn’t like something. At a loss to figure it out, he finally broke the silence. “What’s the matter? You hate Spago?”

  “No, I love Spago.”

  “I have spinach in my teeth?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good, because I didn’t even eat spinach today. So that would be very concerning.” He waited a beat while his attempt at humor fell flat around him. He tried again. “Really bad breath?”

  “No.” For some reason she laughed at that, the sound washing relief through him.

  “What then?”

  “Honestly?” At least she unfolded her arms and turned to face him at that point.

  All he could do was say, “Yes” and brace himself.

  “I don’t trust men in button down shirts.”

  He almost hit the brakes right there in heavy traffic on Sunset. “I was wearing a button down shirt the night we met.”

  “I didn’t trust you.” She shrugged.

  “You took me home!”

  “So?” She looked out the window. She altered the subject slightly, leading him away from the questions he was forming. “If you must know, my husband always wore button down shirts. He said they helped him present a better, smarter, more honest face to the world.”

  Brandon saw where this was going—ex-husband, button-down shirts . . . He was nodding by the time she said exactly what he expected.

  “He turned out to be a liar and a cheat of the worst sort.”

  He was still nodding, trying to figure out if he should express sympathy or outrage. He decided to try her own tactics and went solely for facts. “So you’re divorced.”

  “No.”

  That time he did step on the brakes.

  Cars honked at him as Delilah scrambled to grab for the dash, a scared look racing across her features. Well, too bad, because that one was her own fault.

  Angry at all she’d played him for, Brandon hit the gas, startling the other drivers and squealing the tires as he pulled off the road into the nearest parking spot he could find. Then he jammed his fingers into his hair.

  For a moment he just looked at her, sitting there staring all wide eyed at him like he was the crazy one. Then he yelled at her. “You’re married?”

  “No.” Her voice was calm and she finally quit looking at him like he was insane. “Widowed.”

  He blinked at her. He was so confused. That option simply hadn’t occurred to him.

  At least she didn’t look so upset anymore. “I was in the process of divorcing him when he died.”

  His mouth said, “I’m sorry” even though he really wasn’t. If the man really had cheated on his wife, then Brandon had little sympathy. He’d watched his own little sister go through half a dozen cheaters before she found her husband. So maybe Delilah’s ex had gotten what he deserved.

  That led to another train of thought. One he didn’t like much and didn’t want to believe. But, given his own history with her, he had to wonder—had Delilah been involved?

  After a deep breath, he realized he wasn’t in any danger of getting killed off tonight. He hadn’t cheated on her. It was a silly thought anyway. So he got himself together and smiled at her. “I wore the shirt to impress you. To look nice at Spago.”

  She smiled at that. It was a brilliant smile that made him forgive her for sins real and imagined.

  “So you don’t mind if I take it off?”

  Delilah went back to looking at him like he was crazy. She hadn’t said a word. For once her expression told him everything.

  “I have a nice, soft, expensive, grey t-shirt on underneath it.” He already started unbuttoning the damn thing. “You don’t mind if I go out to dinner in a t-shirt?”

  Again she looked at him like he was crazy. She shrugged. “Spago is about the food.”

  He shucked the buttons on the cuffs and peeled down the sleeves, stripping right there in car on the side of the road. If he could look past the memory loss and the questionable ex-husband, he could imagine for a moment that he’d found his dream girl. She was ready on time. Preferred him in a t-shirt. And she could cook.

  He tossed the shirt into the backseat and almost blurted out ‘what do you think of this year’s draft picks?’ but knew he’d only be disappointed if she didn’t know who they were. It would be too much to
wish that she kept up with football, too.

  He pushed his thoughts back on track. “You dressed up.” Was he trying to talk his way back into that shirt?

  She shrugged again. “It’s cotton. Feel.”

  Delilah leaned closer to him, urging him to test the fabric. Even though there was nothing sexual in her manner, his mouth watered. She didn’t need to know a damn thing about the draft.

  He reached out and, though it was a little awkward there in the car, stroked his hand down the side of her waist. Her breath sucked in and the look on her face changed from proving a point to noticing his touch. For a moment he wanted to ask if they should just turn around and skip Spago all together.

  But the whole point of this was that they should date. At his insistence. Sometimes he was really stupid. So, with great force of will, he pulled his hand away, “Yup. Soft.”

  Then he put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic.

  Chapter 15

  The blinds let in a soft glow. She liked that they allowed some sunlight in and yet still kept her private in the big city. God forbid someone might have looked in and seen her with Brandon last night. She needed her cocoon. Maybe more than most. She always figured the high fences were because there were so many people here that everyone had to lord over their own space. Even the balconies had high walls.

  But Delilah was more aware than most that wood and metal wouldn’t stop people from watching, not if they knew what they were doing. An altar, a white plate of water and a glass of red wine could see beyond a privacy fence any day. Still only the strongest would be powerful enough to scry through the spells she had cast on her apartment.

  So Delilah felt much safer here in her own place.

  Still off-kilter. But not as lost and exposed as in Brandon’s bed.

  When she’d slept last night, she’d slept well. Deeply. Contentedly.

  Then she’d woken early, her conscious mind harping at her about men. Asking her what the hell she’d gotten herself into. And what the hell she was going to do to get herself out of it.