And she was the Happy Meal.
Chapter Eight
Griffin hoisted the female corpse from the wheelbarrow he’d carted across the lawn, guilt a heavy weight on his shoulders courtesy of the untraditional second burial he was about to treat the woman to. Still, the rose garden wasn’t the most terrible place to rest your bones. Certainly beat whatever dark hellhole Nettie had planned for her pets.
Clarissa stepped away from the grave they’d dug, giving him plenty of room to toss the corpse into the six-foot hole. Wincing, he offered a silent apology for the rough handling. He felt the heat of Clarissa’s stare lasering into his forehead.
“You need to stop whatever this thing is between you and Jemma.”
He’d wondered how long it’d take her to spit out the objections he’d seen looming on the horizon. She hadn’t exactly hidden the censure in her eyes when he’d held Jemma earlier. “Isn’t that counterproductive? I thought you wanted me to have sex with her.”
“Yes. Sex. Not a relationship.” Clarissa swiped a hand across her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “You know damn well the white-picket-fence delusion you’re erecting in your head is out of the question.”
He clenched his jaw. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do. Hence the reason we’re having this conversation.” She pointed the shovel’s handle at him. “The path you’re heading down leads to nothing but trouble. I worry as it is what punishment the guild is going to slap you with.”
A current of dread zipped down his spine at the mention of the witches’ guild. “You’ve spoken with them?”
“Briefly. Domino and Willa will be stopping by tomorrow afternoon for a formal hearing.”
Jesus. That didn’t bode well.
Clarissa stroked his shoulder, the gesture stunning him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d offered him any show of comfort, much less touched him. In the early years—before she’d sent him to Jemma—there’d been traces of affection. A genuine smile. A word of praise. He used to hoard each dangled carrot in the storage box of his memory, until the day came when forgetting Clarissa’s occasional rewards was less painful than noticing their absence.
“If you do your part to convince Jemma to accept Logan, there’s a good chance the guild might go easier on you.”
Anger eroded any lingering sentimentality he might have harbored over Clarissa’s uncharacteristic display of emotion. Shit, how stupid of him to think she was capable of feeling anything inside that cold heart of hers. He took a jerking step backward, causing her hand to fall. “I won’t use Jemma as a means to cover my ass.”
Clarissa’s chest expanded with a deep sigh. “You wouldn’t be using her. In fact, you might be saving Jemma’s life.” She spoke with calm reason, knowing full well she was sinking an invisible knife in his chest. He hated her for being a master manipulator. He hated her even more for possibly being right, for knowing he’d do anything to protect Jemma. Even if it meant sharing Jemma with Logan—the last person on earth he wanted touching her.
Still, he wouldn’t coerce Jemma into doing something she had no desire to participate in. Not even for Clarissa. Certainly not for himself. “You heard her. She’s uncomfortable with the idea.”
“Because of you.”
He gaped at Clarissa and earned her humorless laugh in return. She sank the shovel into the ground and paced in front of the grave, her boots imprinting the freshly turned soil. “Jemma sees how much you’re against it—for goddess’s sake, all you’ve done is rant and rail over the suggestion. Of course she’s going to be uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to upset you.”
Could Clarissa be right? Deep down, did Jemma actually want to have sex with Logan? The possibility sat like a boulder in the pit of his gut.
Clarissa’s knowing gaze seared into him, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. “She’s seen you wearing that very expression. Tell me that doesn’t affect her.”
“What the hell do you want me to do? I can’t change the way I feel.”
“No. But you can lie. You can do whatever it takes to ease Jemma’s conscience over doing this. And you will do it. Unless you’d rather start digging another grave for Jemma.” She wrenched the shovel from the dirt and thrust it toward him. “The choice is yours.”
Sequestered in her room, Jemma stared at the small numeric buttons on her cell phone for at least ten minutes before she found the fortitude to hit the preprogrammed speed dial for her parents’ house. She’d already left a message at Nixon Investments, letting them know she’d run into a family emergency—ironically, not a fib—and needed to take an extended leave of absence. That call was a cakewalk compared to the one facing her.
Her dad picked up on the second ring. “Pumpkin, perfect timing. You can help settle the debate.”
A hot wash of tears stung her eyes. The very real possibility of never seeing her father again or hearing his familiar baritone left a gaping hole in her heart. “Let me guess. You and mom are knocking heads over Scrabble?” It was a regular occurrence in the Finnegan household. A weekend wouldn’t be complete without at least a half dozen alternating phone calls from her parents trying to win her tie-breaking vote.
“Your mother insists that frak is a legitimate word.”
“Sorry, but I’m siding with her this time.”
“Damn, you’re sure?”
In the background, Jemma could hear a whoop of glee, and she rushed to get the difficult stuff out of the way before her mom started in on her victory dance. “Dad, listen. I’m going to be out of town for a while. Do you think you could stop by my place and pick up my mail? Maybe water my plants while you’re at it?” Not that she really cared about any of that crap. In the event of a possible zombie apocalypse, dead houseplants were kind of irrelevant. Still, she needed to convince her parents that everything was hunky-dory so they didn’t flip out and decide to jump on the next plane to Savannah.
“What’s going on, Jemma Sue?”
Oh shit, her dad had called her by her full name. Not good. He only did that when he was either suspicious or worried. She sucked in a deep breath and quickly fabricated a white lie guaranteed to ease her father’s mind. “Griff surprised me with an impromptu trip.”
“Guess that explains the voicemail I picked up from him earlier.” A chuckle floated through the line. “He better be taking you to someplace nice to make up for me having to find a replacement manager on such short notice.”
After a long pause she realized her dad wasn’t merely speaking rhetorically. He expected to know where they were going. “Oh he is. We’re going to…” Panicked, she racked her brain for a good touristy location. Her gaze fell on the porcelain French poodle figurine sitting on the dresser. “Paris!” She winced at her over-the-top exuberance, praying her dad wouldn’t notice.
“About damn time the two of you came to your senses. Are you getting hitched over there? Mind you, your mother will be furious if she’s deprived the chance of buying a new dress.”
Jemma distinctly heard her mom’s ecstatic, “What?” and began making crackling noises in the phone’s receiver. “Reception going…crkk…wonky. Call ya…crcrkk…later.” She stabbed the End button with her finger and groaned. “Great, now Griff will have to make an honest woman out of me and marry my ass.”
Again, that was assuming they would survive Nettie and her flesh-craving pets. She started to slump on the bed but remembered her grubby clothes, which in turn made her remember she’d forgotten to apply any deodorant that morning. She cautiously peeled back the neckline of her T-shirt and sniffed. “Oh man, and here I was giving Uncle Harold a hard time for his not-so-fresh-from-the-grave stench.”