Layla
The man with blondish hair and the beginnings of an intentional beard is grinning at me, as he arches an eyebrow with flawless condescension.
"Well, that's possibly the first time anyone has ever shouted that at me before we even made introductions," he drawls, letting his eyes rake over me before they meet mine again.
His suit-and-tie look isn't usually my thing, but I don't think I've ever seen a man wear a suit the way he does. Sally starts fanning me, which fortunately debunks the electrical current in the air.
I should probably look into fumigating the house for residual magic before I do something stupid…like attack a man for being indecently tempting in a suit while I'm still emotionally vulnerable.
"Tell him I spent the thirties as a gangsta's prostitute, so I learned a few things. Tell him now," Sally says a little dreamily.
Pretending not to see the horny ghost at my side, since he can't see her and I already look insane, I try to play it off. "I find it best to leave the most memorable first impression possible, no matter how outrageous the memory may seem."
His grin only grows.
"So another Thorne gypsy is in town?" he muses, taking a step closer and perching at a lean on the wall as his arms cross over his really impressive chest.
"Tell him the prostitute thing," Sally says like she's still in a lusty trance.
"I'm actually Marta's niece by marriage, so there's no gypsy blood in me," I lie easily, weirdly causing both his eyebrows to bounce up in confusion. "I'm Layla Rivers," I add tightly.
He straightens and adjusts his tie, his facial expressions closing down like he's turning into an entirely different man before my eyes.
"I don't think he was expecting that," Sally rhetorically points out.
"Layla Rivers?" he asks as though he's struggling to believe that, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"Yes," I state warily, wondering why he seems to believe otherwise.
The man before me distracts me from my silent concerns when he runs a hand over the back of his neck, smiling tightly. "I'm Dorian Vansling. Head of House of Vansling," he tells me, his eyes meeting mine expectantly.
"Vansling…oh! You're one of my aunt's clients," I say with a breath of relief. Mom wouldn't be collecting enemies as clients to pass onto me. "I'm taking over the business, so I'll start sending your supplies within a week or so, unless you've already made other arrangements."
He cocks his head, his eyes studying me even more intently. "My current arrangements have been temporary and by far less sufficient than your aunt was capable of. You carry the gypsy gift?"
Very few people even believe in gypsy magic—or any magic, for that matter—anymore. Shadow Hills is one of the few exceptions. It's a tourist town for the believers, the curious, or the weekend fixers.
"No. I'm not of gypsy blood, but I do have the recipes, and a gypsy friend who helps out with the more majestic side of things," I state vaguely, using my rehearsed lines like the seasoned liar any gifted gypsy should be these days.
His lips almost give into a curve of amusement, but his eyes are no longer playful. They're full of guarded intrigue and wary curiosity.
The eyes, in case you're wondering, are the answers to the thoughts in someone's mind. Though, it's never easy to accurately read them. It's all an educated guess, based on context and observable information regarding one's surroundings.
I'm not exactly a pro at it…
When he just continues to stare like he expects more, I add, "You may have to use a little more of my recreational products for it to be as potent as Aunt Marta's, but it'll be closer than anything else you can find."
"You are so a gypsy drug dealer, you sassy little fiend," Sally scoffs, causing me to inwardly groan.
Dorian scrubs a hand over his jaw, eyes locked like he's lost in thought as he presumably tries to unravel me. It's unnerving, because it feels like he thinks I'm hiding something.
I don't like it when people seem to see right through me.
"Will you be taking over her medium clients as well?" he muses, almost as though he followed my train of thought and decided to bait me.
"I'm afraid not. Medium work is more advanced and incredibly dangerous without proper training or at least gypsy blood," I answer, smiling tightly as I once again reiterate my lie and leave it at that.
I get a vibe from him that has the hair on the back of my neck raising, even as the rest of my body seems inclined to appreciate the very sight of him.
He nods like that's acceptable and claps his hands together. "Well, then, Ms. Thorne, don't let me keep you from getting set up. If you find yourself in need of assistance, I'd be happy to let you pick a few of my maids to help you along."
"My name is Rivers. And are you offering to let me pick some of your workers as if they're property, Mr Vansling?" I ask a little bitterly, smiling a little less friendly.
From sexy to douche in under ten minutes. Not a new record, but definitely close. I've dated the ones who snap their fingers and bitch about the temperature of their soup, when I'm just happy it's not scalding my tongue right out of the microwave.
"My panties are still wet. I don't care if he is an unapologetic rich prick," Sally states seriously.
I really do hate her as much as I love her.
His lips twitch again. "I pay them generously. I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
"I've got this," I tell him, reminding myself I know his name because he was a big-spending client of my mother's.
Douche or not, his account alone will pay the bills and most of my living expenses.
"Very well. But if you change your mind, you have my number and address. Feel free to use either," he states, a sardonic grin briefly ghosting his lips.
"I'll let you know when your order is ready," I tell him dismissively.
His grin spreads like he expected that answer. "For a moment, Layla Rivers, I think you almost liked me. How very novel."
He turns and struts away, leaving that weird remark lingering in the air.