Will pointed to the heap of satin and lace. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I shrugged. “Donate it. This city is full of needy people.”
“Needy sexy people?”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
Will held up a finger. “Wait one second.” He disappeared into his bedroom—what I assumed was his bedroom, as I had never been in and would not be going in, I told myself sternly. He came back out, sliding a red football jersey over his head.
“Don’t you have anything that can’t be worn on a soccer field?”
“It’s called football, love, and you should talk.”
I looked down at my Giants ensemble. “Baseball is America’s pastime.”
“Ditto football in the UK. Hold this, please?”
I put my hands out. “Ew!” I shouted, dropping Will’s socks onto the floor.
“What’d you do that for?”
“They’re socks!”
Will rolled his eyes, beelining for the kitchen. “They’re clean.” I watched as he selected a pair of long barbecue tongs, then pulled open the oven door.
“What are you cooking?” I asked, rolling up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder.
Will extracted a single sneaker, held between the tongs. He touched the sneaker delicately and grinned. “Perfect.”
“You’re baking your shoes?” I gaped.
Will extracted the other sneaker and set both on the counter. “I’m drying my shoes. We had a game in Golden Gate Park today.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a Guardian Intramural League.”
He flashed a grin. “Lucky for you, there is.”
“There is?”
“No. Now, would you hand me my socks, please?”
I picked up his socks between forefinger and thumb. Not that I’m that delicate a flower, I just didn’t have a lot of experience holding men’s underclothes. Even their ... lowest ... underclothes.
“What are you suiting up for?” I asked as Will yanked on a sock and tried to tie his shoelaces with a pair of oven mitts.
“I’m coming with you.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Why?”
“I’m your Guardian, remember?” He slipped on his second shoe and shook out of the oven mitts. “Ready?”
“Yeah, but when did you suddenly get all Guardian-y?”
Will grabbed his keys off the rack and spun them around one finger. “I thought I was pretty Guardian-y not getting you shot in the alley.” He flashed me a grin that was part admonishment, part “I told you so.”
“Yeah,” I harrumphed, “barely.”
“You know, I only work in fallen angels. That’s all I’m contracted to guard you from,” Will murmured, holding the door open for me. He locked the door behind us and we continued down the stairs and out into the frigid night.
I crossed my arms and stopped dead on the sidewalk. “What does that mean?”
“That means, love”—Will sank his keys into his car lock—“that if you wish to take your life into your own hands hunting writers, I don’t necessarily have to help you.” He opened the car door with a flourish. “Get in.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So what are you coming along for?”
“I’m not the kind of guy who lets a girl go to her doom all by herself.”
I offered Will a sarcastic smile. “What a gentleman.”
“And I got nothing better to do.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I dug a crushed bag of popchips out of my shoulder bag. I saw Will eye the bag with unrestrained horror.
“You want?” I asked tentatively.
Will grabbed the bag, wound the window down, and tossed out my chips.
“Hey!”
“You do not snack in a 1958 vintage Porsche 365.”
“When did the Boring Police make you their huffy English master?” I grumbled.
Will rolled his eyes and gunned it up California Street, his little car huffing as we rounded Nob Hill. “This it?”
I looked up at the hotel, stately in a uniquely San Francisco way. “Yup.”
Will yanked the car toward the curb, and a white-gloved bellman, who kindly opened my door, offered me a hand.
I made a mental note to hire myself a bellman, once I became filthy rich.
The valet came around and opened Will’s door. Will gave him a quick once-over before handing him the keys, holding his eye.
“She’s precious, you know.”
“I assure you we’ll take the best care of”—the valet eyed Will’s rust-colored clunker—“her.”
“What was that about?” I hissed as Will threaded his arm through mine, guiding me into the lobby.
“Have you not been paying attention, love? I’m your Guardian, and people—things, whatever—are after you.”
“And you think the valet was going to get to me through what? The giant rust stains on the side of your car?”
Will whirled to face me. “Nigella is a vintage 19—”
“I know!” I groaned.
“She just needs a little TLC to be restored back to her former grandeur.”
I rolled my eyes. “So how are we going to find Harley?”
Chapter Twenty-Two