I sigh. “You said there are customers?”
“One is that greasy dude who has been stalking Zo here lately,” Frieda says. “The pancake obsessed one?”
Great. Just . . . great. Like I need another go around with the Tracker.
Will’s pissed. “I’ll go tell him to bugger off. I’m not reopening the kitchen tonight.”
“No, I’ll do it.” I rub the spot in between my eyes.
Frieda smiles sweetly, like she’s just enjoyed stirring the hornet’s nest. “On that note, I’ll leave you two,”—she walks out of the room, raising her voice—“to that sweet, sweet love making you were just starting in on.”
I wait until the doorbell jingles before saying, “She’s tenacious.”
“That’s a kind way of putting it,” Will muses. “Now, let’s go get rid of that bloke, shall we?”
We enter the dining room together, only to be met with, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”
When you haven’t seen someone in a long time, it’s rather easy for a mind to assume they’re a ghost. Or a figment of a very overactive imagination. But I don’t think I can pawn off this incredibly uncomfortable moment, in which I’m standing with an extremely handsome man whose arm instinctively goes around my shoulders, while facing one of the most important people from my past.
Honestly? I have no idea what to do. Not one. Single. Idea.
Will snaps, “Pardon?”
Karl Graystone removes his burning hot eyes that have been cooking me inside out to laser in on Will. And then Will’s arm. His hands curl into fists and I legitimately begin to worry about this situation, already rapidly spiraling out of control, going nuclear. The weasel of a Tracker sits down at the counter and lazily smiles at me, like he knows he’s the cat who caught the canary.
Bastard.
I finally find my voice. “This—this isn’t what it looks like.”
Karl’s focus whips back to me, nearly cutting me off at the knees. “Really? REALLY? Then maybe you can explain this all to me in explicit detail. Starting with WHY THIS SONOFABITCH HAS HIS ARM AROUND YOU. And then move on to how you’re apparently trying to break health code violations by making, and I quote, ‘sweet, sweet, love!’ Wrap it all up why you look like you’ve been in a car accident!”
He makes a good point.
Most people would drop their arm and move away when faced with a furious giant of a man. But not Will. If anything, he moves a bit closer to me and says, “Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you do not get to just come in here and start throwing around orders. You can either calm down on your own, or I’ll help you do so.”
The Tracker, who’s been watching in fascination, actually sniggers. Karl, on the other hand, flushes scarlet, he’s so pissed. But it’s not his words that scare me. No—I’m more afraid of his hands and what they could do to Will. So I take a deep breath and say as evenly as I can, “I will gladly tell you everything, but you have to first promise me you won’t hurt Will.”
Will protests at the same time Karl barks, “Why should I?”
I can do this, I think. It’s going to sound prima donna-y and awful, especially in light of what I’ve done, but it’s necessary. “Because I’m ordering you to.”
The Tracker stops laughing. Karl stands there, staring at me like I’m a stranger, and it hurts. Just flat out hurts to see this disappointment in his eyes. But then, I’m good at disappointing people. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
“Lee,” he bites out after a long moment, “go outside and keep watch.”
So I was right about his name. The Tracker gets up and exits the door without another word.
Will waits until the door’s firmly closed before rounding on Karl. “Have you been siccing that prat on Chloe?”
I slide out from underneath his arm and move myself in between the two men. “Will, stop. Just—just let me—”
“Is this wanker your fiancé?” Will growls. “Because if he is, I can totally see why you got the hell out of Dodge.”
This takes both Karl and me by surprise. My Guard friend yelps, “What?!” as I throw out, “Oh my gods, NO!” And then, realizing how I might have come off as inappropriately disgusted with my vehement denial, I quickly add, “I mean, no—this is Karl. Um, Karl Graystone. He’s . . .”
One of my closest friends. My mentor. My protector. My goddaughter’s father. One of the few people in Annar that I felt was family. And I’d left him just as easily as I left everyone else.
I can’t even begin to imagine what he thinks of me.
But I try for optimism. “He’s my friend.” I thank all the gods when Karl doesn’t contradict this. “And Will, you know—” I wave my hands between us, like it somehow tells my story again, “you know why I left.”