She fought the urge to mock and point at the bad-ass, mofo demon all frontin’ like he was some gangsta on a killing spree.
If he was embarrassed, he was damned good at hiding it. Clyde threw his shoulders back, sauntering toward her.
Her eyes met his when he approached her, refusing to stray beyond the dark blue of them for fear she’d catch another glimpse of his man-tool. “Use my demonic powers.”
Her chest puffed outward—defensive and at the ready. “Are you threatening me? Me?”
Gone was the confused man she’d met yesterday. Gone was that look of innocent displacement. In its stead was a jagged resolve of flashing blue eyes behind the glimmer of his square frames and teeth, clamped and on edge. “Yep.”
Hoo boy.
It was, apparently, on.
“Do you have any idea the shit I could stir up? I know people from the other side—people who’ll whip your satanic ass into a frenzy, noob.”
Clyde rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but if you’re talking about that OD’d-on-too-much-nail-polish-remover Marcella, she’s probably as much of a joke downstairs in Hell as I am. And I don’t want to point out the obvious, but I will because I’m all about fair warning. If you had someone who could help you, you’d have called them by now.”
In Clyde’s favor, that would be game, set, match.
Because she really didn’t know anyone with heavy-duty Hell powers, that was fo sho.
But her pride wouldn’t allow him to threaten her—the frig he’d threaten her—and to hell with his reasons for being here. She didn’t care anymore why he was here, just that he wouldn’t be as soon as she could make that possible. “You picked the wrong medium to tango with, brotha.” Delaney waved a finger under his nose when he drew closer, ignoring the pure maleness of him. And while she was at it, she’d ignore that waist that tapered to lean hips, and the scent of his aftershave.
His breath fanned her face when he let out a raspy sigh. “I didn’t pick anything. But I’d suggest you listen to me before things get out of hand.”
Okay, so maybe she was getting a little nervous now, but in the interest of never let ’em see you sweat, she threw her head back and laughed. “He with the duct tape glue residue all over his body said.”
Clyde let the blanket drop to his chest, securing it by tucking the ends in. “You were warned.”
Uh-huh. She’d been warned. Now she was going to take that warning and keep it ever so close to her heart as she swept the floor. Turning from Clyde, big, muscular, and okay, dweebishly hot, she went in search of her broom, ducking behind the counter to see if her dustpan was still on the shelf.
A sizzling crackle made her head snap up.
Stop.
He didn’t.
Oh, but he had.
If the roar of flames was any indication.
five
“Omigod! You feeb! You set my grandmother’s chair on fiiire!” Delaney ran for the broom, waving it in the air to slap at the flames before the smoke alarm went off.
Clyde appeared out of nowhere again with a soggy, wet towel. He handed it to her with a casual pass, then took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did,” was the cool response. “But I was actually aiming for the bookcase behind it. So, oops.”
Delaney swatted the chair with the towel, tamping out the flames shooting from the arm while large drops of water splattered over the fabric. He’d only managed to torch the one arm of it, but she was no less hacked off about it. “Oops? Like oops, my bad? This—was—an—antique—you—fucktard! Look at it!” she yelped. “You’ve ruined it. You can’t just order fabric like this anymore. Arghhhh!”
He yanked the towel from her, pressing it into the cushiony material with firm hands. “I told you I would do what it took. I’m sorry it took this, but you have this way about you that demands proof by action.”
Using the back of her hand, she pushed her hair from her forehead before nudging him out of the way, yanking the towel from his grip. Clyde’s hand grazed hers while he held strong. “Give me that, firestarter,” she huffed, pulling it from his grip. “This wasn’t just my grandmother’s chair, it was my story time chair.”
Now he looked remorseful. Good. Very good. After the fact was hugely helpful. “She read you stories in it?”
Delaney grunted with the effort to blot the now sopping wet fabric. “No. I mean, yes—when I was little. But I also hold a story time for kids once a month here at the store with sugarless wheat cookies and soy milk. How do you feel about fucking up some poor kids’ night out, you jackass?”