“Are you guys ready to order?” she wanted to know.
I gulped. Either she didn’t hear my comment, or I was the only one in the entire city worried about a supernatural predator hunting the San Francisco streets.
We placed our orders, and Hayes sipped his coffee, staring over the rim of his mug at me. “So what’s your story, Lawson?” he said finally. “How’d you end up a secretary at a place like the UDA?”
I rested my arms on the table, lacing my fingers together. “Sophie. Lawson sounds way too Law & Order. And, I’m not a secretary. I’m an administrative assistant. An executive assistant if you really want to get technical.” I sipped my water, pleased.
Hayes’s lip curled into another one of those delicious half smiles, and I reminded myself that this was business, and that when Parker Hayes wasn’t looking sexy and brash in his navy blues, he was kind of an anti-demon asshole.
“Sorry, of course—executive assistant. So, how’d you decide on pushing papers in the demon underground?” he asked.
“It’s amazing what you can find in the want ads,” I said, averting my eyes and tearing my napkin to shreds.
Hayes continued to eye me, and I breathed a little harder, pinned under his steady gaze.
“Well, first of all, I could get down there.”
Hayes sipped his coffee and shrugged. “So what does that mean? Lots of people can use elevators.”
“Nice. Theoretically, you can only get into the Underworld if you’ve got”—I bit my lip and glanced out the window, trying to choose my words carefully—“some supernatural in you.”
“What?” Hayes snorted. “You’re some kind of demon, too? I never would have thought….”
“Keep your voice down!” I hissed,
“Sorry. It’s just that you look so regular.”
“Awesome,” I said dryly, “regular. That’s what every woman wants to hear about herself. And no, I’m not a demon. Well, yes, I guess I am—sort of. I think.”
Our waitress came back, a large white plate balanced in each hand. She eyed me as she slid my salad in front of me, and I got a big whiff of grape-scented Hubba Bubba as she snapped a bubble.
“Can I get y’all something else?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said, smiling politely.
Hayes popped a French fry in his mouth with one hand and shook a bottle of ketchup with the other. “So what are you? A leprechaun?”
Anger roiled in my stomach, and I could feel my usually creamy white skin turning red. I dropped my fork. “I am not a leprechaun.”
“So? What are you then?” He cocked his head, looking me up and down.
“My grandmother was a mystic—a seer. But then she lost it.”
“Her power?”
“Her mind.”
Hayes chuckled, settling back into the booth. “How very Psychic Friends Network. You know, I’ve always thought that if those people really were psychic, they’d call me when I had a problem.” He grinned, enjoying his joke.
“She would have called you.”
Hayes pursed his lips.
“The palm reading, fortune telling—that was kind of her day job. But she had real powers. She was pretty well known in the Underworld for it. She could really see things.”
Hayes nodded but looked entirely unconvinced. “So, can you do it too, then? See the future and stuff?” He raised one eyebrow. “Can you read minds?”
I glared back at him. “I think I might be able to read yours.”
He laughed, shoveled another handful of fries into his mouth. “There’s that leprechaun spunk I like so much.”
I felt my lips go thin and tight. “I. Am. Not. A. Leprechaun. And no”—I wrapped my hands around my water glass and stared at the ice cubes bobbing inside—“I don’t have any powers. Yet. Or, maybe I never will. It’s kind of hard to tell. I’m working on it, though. I mean, there might be something; it just hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, after I graduated—USF”—I smiled, proud—“the only jobs open for an English major were paper boy or barista.”
Hayes leaned back in the booth and smiled kindly. “I think you’d make a great paper boy.”
I rolled my eyes, continuing. “My grandmother kind of talked me into the job initially—introduced me to Mr. Sampson and all. I thought it would be a quick thing, like a summer internship. You know, until I could write the great American novel or start teaching English in Spain. But as it turns out”—I shrugged—“I fit in really well down there, and I really like it.”
“Well, score one for the leprechaun.”
I resisted the urge to slug the smug grin off Hayes’s face.
“So where’s your grandma now? Pleased as punch you leash a dog like Sampson for a living, I’ll bet.”
I felt my muscles tighten, my arms going leaden under the anger. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know? Sampson is a werewolf, not a dog,” I said, working hard to keep my voice low and even. “And my grandmother passed away, thank you very much.” I blinked furiously, feeling the hot tears well, the growing lump choking my throat.