“Yep.” Constance licked her fingers, her eyes sparkling. “Hot plans tonight with the mystery stud?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Leaving Con to grin like an obnoxious fool all on her own, Clarissa stalked toward the back exit. The Miata waited in the small parking lot behind the cluster of stores. She climbed behind the wheel and, after keying the engine, retracted the roof. It was a perfect night for riding with the top down. The temps were mild, for once, and the sky held not even a hint of rain. If her mind weren’t so damn backlogged with worries and frustrations, she might actually have enjoyed the drive ahead of her.
Shifting into gear, she pulled out of her space and approached the lot’s exit. She hesitated, the temptation to take a left out of the drive luring her. That way led to Tybee. To Logan, and the promise of blissful forgetfulness in his arms. It’d be at least two hours before he’d leave work though. She couldn’t wait for him in his driveway like some pathetic woman desperate for her man to come home. Not that he was her man, anyway. Besides, she didn’t want to get into the habit of running to Logan whenever things got tough. If nothing else, she would end this last week of her life with her dignity intact.
She turned right, heading for the coven house. Less than twenty minutes later, she pulled into the long, snaking drive leading to the stately antebellum mansion that she’d called home for a good portion of her life. The coven house held a wealth of memories for her. Some good, some bad. All of them in their own way contributors that ultimately shaped her into the role of mistress. What would she have been without that title, without this place? An empty shell without a soul? The possibility left a sour taste in her mouth.
Shoving her dismal musings aside, she parked within the garage, which was miraculously unblocked this time, and headed into the house. The sounds of laughter and animated chatter drew her to the parlor. She stepped inside the room, her gaze first landing on Jemma and Fiona, who were sitting on the floor amongst a veritable mountain of bridal magazines. The sheer number of the periodicals made Clarissa’s head spin.
“Oh shit.” Ms. Peach’s loud outburst managed to slice through the audible activity in the room, and everyone’s focus veered in Clarissa’s direction.
All movement seemed to freeze, automatically stirring Clarissa’s suspicions. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Peach’s expression turned shifty. “Who said anything about stuff going on? We’re just sitting here, not doing a damn thing.”
Oh hell. Had Constance already ratted her out? She scanned the room, on the lookout for anything that resembled a betting sheet. A weird noise that could have been a squeak or an arf broke the weighty silence and Clarissa frowned. “What was that?”
“We didn’t hear anything. Obviously you’re imagining things.”
Her suspicions buzzing a three-alarm warning, Clarissa glared at Peach. She opened her mouth, intent on getting to the bottom of things, just as the squeaky arf sounded again. This time she spied a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. She whipped her head in Jade’s direction and caught the teenager trying to covertly maneuver her backpack behind the couch. Even from ten feet away, it was patently clear that the backpack was wiggling—an interesting feat that an ordinary, inanimate object shouldn’t be capable of performing.
Gritting her teeth, Clarissa marched toward the couch and stared Jade down. “That better be an angry leprechaun stuffed in your bag.”
Jade gave a nervous giggle. “Oh man, talk about a scarily accurate guess.”
Clarissa held out her hand. “Give me the bag.”
Nibbling her nail, Jade glanced in Peach’s direction. Growling beneath her breath, Clarissa sidestepped the girl and swiped the bag from the floor. The unzipped flap slipped open and a small head with big floppy ears popped through the gap. Clarissa eyed the mini Floyd. “Sweet goddess, please tell me you shrank Floyd, and this isn’t really his offspring.”
“Um…”
Jade’s sheepish tone giving her all the answer she needed, Clarissa reached into the bag and pulled out the puppy. Without getting too personal in her inspection, she quickly determined it was a female. Great, just what they needed. More estrogen in the house. Apparently oblivious of the drama unfolding around it, the puppy snuffled Clarissa’s hand before licking her finger.
“See, Izzy likes you.”
Clarissa mentally rolled her eyes at Peach’s declaration and the fact that she’d already named the dog. “She’s probably just tenderizing my flesh for later. So does someone care to explain how mini Floyd ended up in Jade’s backpack?”
Of course Peach was the first to speak up. “We figured you’d throw a hissy about having a new addition to the household.”
They figured right. “Damn it, Peach.” She held up the little ball of fluff, intending to make her stance clear. “Who’s going to take care of it? Feed and bathe it, not to mention train it so it doesn’t wet or poop in the house?”
“We’ll take turns.”
“Right. Because clearly you’ve done such a fantastic job with Floyd.”
Peach’s face scrunched in her typical stubborn frown. “You don’t have the final say in everything that happens in this house.”
The statement was like salt in an open wound, and yet another reminder that her place within the coven was tantamount to a thinly erected illusion vanishing before her eyes.
“We took it to a vote,” Peach piped up again, oblivious of Clarissa’s glum musings. “Izzy stays.”
A smothering blanket of weariness settled on her shoulders. She was too tired, both mentally and physically, to argue anymore. Some battles simply weren’t worth it. She set the puppy on the floor and stepped back, spreading her arms wide. “Fine. You want to keep her, go right ahead. But I’m not picking up her damn poop, understood?”
Peach blinked, struck mute for probably the first time ever in her life. Jade filled the silent void instead. “You mean it? We can really keep Izzy?”
Clarissa knuckled her temples and nodded.
“And Floyd,” Peach demanded, finally finding her tongue. “Izzy needs a father figure. Someone to show her all the doggie ropes.”
Sweet goddess, there was a terrifying picture. Two mutts tearing up the house. The tension in her head intensified, another reminder that giving in would be easier than listening to a minimum of two hours of nonstop complaining from Peach. “He’s going to have to be fixed. No more mini Floyds running around here.”
Peach pumped her fist in victory just as Griffin strode into the parlor. He raised his eyebrows. “What’s the celebration?”
“We’re keeping Izzy. And Floyd’s getting neutered.”
Griffin grimaced. “Somehow I doubt Floyd is going to be thrilled about that part.” He glanced back at Clarissa and did a double take. “Isn’t that the same outfit you were wearing yesterday?” Not surprisingly, his observation managed to draw everyone’s scrutiny to Clarissa’s clothing.
“Sure looks like it to me.” Peach’s gaze turned calculating. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember you coming home last night.”
Son of a bitch. Clarissa chewed the corner of her lip. “I did, but it was late. You were probably already in bed.” Her headache showing signs of getting worse, she scooted past Griffin and continued down the hall to the kitchen. Grabbing an ice-cold soda from the fridge, she escaped to her office and dug in her desk for the bottle of aspirin she always kept close by. She popped two tablets and chased them down with a swig from the soda before plopping onto her chair. Pressing the pop can against her forehead, she shivered, pleasurable goose bumps cropping across her flushed skin as both the aspirin and the can’s cool condensation did their thing.