Free The Shoppe of Spells by Shanon Grey Page B

evaded.
    “You were born in D.C. and yet came to be raised by my biological parents. But, you were never adopted by them.” She paused, hoped he wouldn’t pick up on her emphasis.
    “It’s complicated.”
    Morgan shook her head and placed the napkin in her lap. “That seems to be a pat answer for you, doesn’t it? Well, I am in over my head here,” she chided softly, “and you’re all I’ve got for answers.”
    “In this case, answers only beget more questions.”
    Morgan actually growled in frustration.
    A different waitress approached with a large tray. She expertly swung a stand she had looped over her arm, flipped it open and set it next to the table, all the while balancing the large tray on her shoulder. Her movements were quick and efficient. Morgan winced, knowing that, had she tried that trick, all the food would have landed on the ground.
    The aroma rose from the plate as the girl placed it in front of her. A steaming slice of quiche with a side of spinach-strawberry salad adorned the plates. The waitress set a basket of fragrant herb bread in front of them. Nestled next to the bread was a crock of honey butter. Dorian broke off a piece of bread, slathered it with butter, and handed it to Morgan.
    She looked down at the fare in front of her and mentally declared a truce until she had time to savor what was in front of her. All the questions in the world—and she had some doozies—couldn’t compete with the enticing smells making her mouth water. Waiting for the waitress to finish loading their table, she glanced around her tree shelter once more. It was terribly quaint. Even romantic. Just what was he up to? Cold one moment, hot the next. He was obviously trying to impress her. And, there was no doubt, Ruthorford was gorgeous. An ideal place to live. Well, minus the small hallucination or delusion she’d had earlier. Once she was fortified with a full stomach, she intended to pin Dorian down on a lot of things, complicated or not. She slipped a bite of the quiche into her mouth and moaned.
    “That’s a common reaction to their food.”
    “God, this is heaven. And I thought last night was good.” She took another bite. “Do you eat like this all the time?”
    “No. The shop keeps me pretty busy. However, if I don’t make it by a couple times a week, Teresa will show up, food in hand.”
    “Do they have some famous chef?”
    “Actually, her husband, Bill Ruthorford, is the chef.”
    “As in Ruthorford? This Ruthorford?”
    “The one and same.” He handed her another piece of bread generously adorned with the sweet spread. When their fingers touched, he didn’t pull back. Neither did she. The current, less shocking and more throbbing, ran up her arm and settled deep in her core.
    He kept talking but watched her with darkening blue eyes. “He actually left, made a name for himself in Charleston. He came back on a visit, but because he was a little on the outs with his folks, he stayed at the Abbott Bed & Breakfast, run by none other than Teresa Abbott. And the rest, as they say, is history.” He slowly pulled back his hand.
    “So, Teresa is related to the Abbott House in Atlanta?” Her voice sounded husky when she spoke. She took a quick bite of bread and nearly choked as the velvety sweetness spread across her tongue.
    “Uh-huh.” He popped a final bite and sat back. “If I let her keep feeding me like this, I am going to be too big to get through the door,” he said, deliberately lightening the moment.
    “It’s fabulous. Thank you.”
    His expression changed. “Now,” he said pouring her more sweet tea from the pitcher that had been left on their table, “time to get down to the nitty-gritty. About the Gulatega.”
    She tensed. “The what?”
    “The creature you saw earlier.”
    “Oh, that.” She waved a nervous hand to dismiss the aberration. “That’s from my nightmares. It isn’t real. Probably too much heat.”
    “No, Morgan.” He leaned forward, demanding her