“Well, the beard behind the emails,” she said, and he knew he was supposed to laugh at that, or at least acknowledge that it was a joke, but his brain was still hung up on emails and Tamsyn, and . . .
This was T.
This was the Acquirer he’d been working with for over a year now.
And he was . . . holding her hand.
Giving it a quick shake, Bowen nodded and stepped back a little, gesturing to the table. “Right. Um. Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” she said, and he pulled out her chair for her, catching a whiff of rich, citrusy perfume as she sat down.
The pub suddenly felt too warm, too crowded, and he heard himself say, “Let me grab you a drink,” before turning and heading to the bar, nearly smacking into a man wearing a very loud Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer jumper and singing along to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
The jumper may have been to blame for what happened next.
That and the panic he felt when the bartender looked at him expectantly, and Bowen realized that he probably should’ve asked her what she actually wanted to drink instead of flailing off toward the bar like an absolute tit.
He could’ve gotten her a pint.
A glass of wine.
Even a plain old gin and tonic.
Instead, he had pointed at the little easel on the bar reading rudolph’s rosé, £7 and said, “I’ll have that.”
A few minutes later, he was back at the table, and Tamsyn turned slightly in her chair, a smile already on her face.
It faded as she looked at what he was holding.
“The, um, the . . . glitter wasn’t advertised,” he told her as she took the drink with wide eyes.
“And the light-up curly straw?”
“No.”
“The fact that it looks like blood?”
“No. Or the, uh . . . the tree.”
Picking the huge sprig of rosemary out of her drink, Tamsyn gave the tumbler an experimental sniff before taking a sip.
Terrible as the thing looked, it must not have tasted bad, because Tamsyn drank again and then gave a shrug. “If you can’t drink a tacky holiday cocktail on Christmas Eve, when can you?”
Bowen had just slid back into his seat, but now he frowned, looking outside. It was still sleeting, but he could see the little shop on the corner had already closed for the night, and there was a family making their way past the pub dressed in various patterns of Christmassy tartan, the father carrying a bottle of wine underneath one arm as he laughed at something the mother was saying.
Tamsyn set her drink down and leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “Did you not know it was Christmas Eve?”
Bowen absolutely had not, but after Rudolph the Nightmare Rosé, he needed to cling to a little bit of dignity here.
“Witch,” he reminded her. “We celebrate Yule, and that was a few days ago.”
Not that he had celebrated it. He’d been too busy with the elves—bastards—and their mead, after all. In fact, Bowen wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he’d participated in Yule. Ten years ago, maybe? Before everything with Declan. Before he’d made fixing this fuck-up his life’s work.
Which was why he’d made this meeting with T.
With Tamsyn.
Who was now watching him with those bright eyes and a slightly quizzical smile, like she was trying to work him out. She’d taken off her coat and gloves while he’d been fetching that abomination currently sparkling and blinking in front of her, and the deep green turtleneck she was wearing brought out golden lights in her dark hair.
Her name suited her, pretty and soft, but there was something about it that was ringing a faint bell. Had she used it in any of their emails? She couldn’t have, or he wouldn’t have been so surprised she wasn’t a bloke. Maybe he’d read it somewhere else or heard another witch mention her.
“I have to say,” she said, resting her cheek on one hand, “I was really surprised you’d want to work with me, much less want to have drinks with me.”
“Why?”
She blinked at him. “Because . . . you’re Bowen Penhallow?”
Bowen grunted in the affirmative, and she looked even more confused.
“And . . . your family hates me?”
Now Bowen frowned. “What?” Like any magical family, the Penhallows had grudges and feuds that went back centuries, but Bowen couldn’t remember anyone named “Bligh” ever being a part of those. Unless . . .
“Do you mean my da? Simon Penhallow? Because he hates everyone.”
Including all three of his sons at the moment, he added silently. Bowen hadn’t spoken to Simon in over a year, and the saddest part of that was how sad Bowen wasn’t about it. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit to learn his father had started some kind of magical beef with an Acquirer, especially one as talented as Tamsyn.
But she just shook her head. “Rhys, actually.”
