Page 30 of Night Shift

“Debatable.”

She looks me over again, and to my surprise, some of the anger leaves her face.

“Oh, honey.”

I dislike the word immediately.

“There is no need to pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you. I’m deciding whether this is adorable enough to forgive the loss of sensation in my extremities.”

“And?”

“No.”

I incline my head. “Understandable.”

“But I am happy for Calliope.” Petra reaches across the counter, takes one of the raspberry scones, and points it at me. “Get attached. Court her. Woo her. Buy her pastries. Whatever ancient gods do when they’re trying to get into somebody’s pants.”

“I am not attempting to⁠—”

“I don’t need details.”

“I was merely correcting⁠—”

“Still don’t need them.” She bites into the scone. “My point is, you can fall madly in love with the girl if you want. This is Blackthorn Bay. Half the town is in love with something their grandmother warned them about. But you do not get to rearrange the cosmos every time Calliope touches your junk.”

“She has not touched my⁠—”

“I SAID I DON’T NEED DETAILS.”

I close my mouth.

Petra chews, apparently satisfied.

“Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Sun.”

“I understand.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She starts toward the back door, pauses, and turns around.

“And if Dawn is late again, I’m coming back.”

“I will attempt not to destroy civilization.”

“You do that.”

She disappears through the door muttering something about primal forces being horny on main.

I decide it would be unwise to ask what that means.

For the next twenty minutes, I occupy myself with the pastries. I move the raspberry scones to the front because I suspect Calliope prefers them, then change my mind and put the chocolate ones there instead. I divide the brownies into equal portions, adjust a crooked label on the display case, and discover that waiting for one particular human to arrive is a remarkably effective way to make time—which I have never before considered scarce—move intolerably slowly.

When Calliope finally walks through the door, her hair is pinned into a lopsided knot and her scarf is patterned with improbable stars. She looks tired until she sees me.