Kick The Candle (Knight Games) by Genevieve Jack Page B

snowpants.
    “I know you have to go, Grateful, but we haven’t had a chance to talk about us.”
    Intent on my coat zipper, I refused to meet his eyes. I couldn’t start this with him right now. I shook my head and reached for my gloves.
    “This conversation isn’t over,” he murmured. “Maybe, at my party?”
    Reluctantly, I agreed. I guess I owed him that much. But for now, I was exhausted. I donned my winter layers and kissed him goodbye on the cheek. He escorted me to the elevator, and I stepped into the empty compartment.
    “I meant what I said before. Fred downstairs knows to let you up here day or night. If you ever need anything…”
    “Thanks Logan.” The doors closed between us. A wave of guilt passed through me. Why was I so careless with Logan’s emotions? I knew he had feelings for me, feelings I couldn’t return, yet like a sore tooth, I couldn’t stop poking it where it ached. I had to be more careful with him.
    I made a mental note to protect his apartment with an enchantment. The last thing I needed was some jagged-toothed supernatural nabbing Logan and using him against me. So far, I didn’t think Julius knew about our friendship. I needed to keep it that way. Medium or not, Logan wasn’t equipped to handle the life I could inflict on him.

Chapter 10
Thanksgiving

    I arrived at Dad’s brownstone in the city around a quarter to one, having already put in a half shift at the hospital. Dad wanted a traditional Thanksgiving, so I’d changed out of my scrubs and into a form fitting chocolate brown sweater with an ankle length skirt and tall boots. Since I’d promised to help him cook, I’d gathered my honey blonde waves into a messy bun.
    Dad came to the door in a suit and tie. Geesh. He was really taking this seriously. Seemed like a lot of fuss for just the two of us. I returned his hug.
    “You look great,” he said, kissing me on my forehead.
    “Well, I have good news.”
    He pulled back, raising his eyebrows. “Do tell.”
    “I have the money for the house. I’m going in for the loan as soon as possible.”
    He smiled stiffly. I expected him to argue that I shouldn’t live there or ask me how I’d gotten the money. Instead, he seemed distracted. He shifted from foot to foot in front of his traditionally decorated living room. Since I’d moved out, my dad’s house always looked “staged”, as if he could put a “For Sale” sign out front without so much as dusting. But then as the owner of one of the few historical buildings in the city, he was often asked to show the place for newspaper and magazine features. He took the privilege seriously. Usually, though, there was some hint of the man behind the décor. I instinctively looked toward the decorative cabinet on the far wall, the source of what I considered to be the house’s dirty secret. The doors were closed. The TV wasn’t on.
    “Aren’t you going to watch the game?” I couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t had the cabinet open for football on Thanksgiving.
    He shrugged. I glanced across the foyer into the dining room. Flowers. My father had purchased centerpieces. “What the hell is going on, Dad? Are you going to tell me you have cancer? I don’t think I can take a cancer diagnosis right now.”
    “I don’t have cancer.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief. “Then what is all of this?”
    Hands on hips, he pressed his lips together. “You’re going to find out sooner or later. I might as well just tell you now.”
    I bobbed my head emphatically.
    He opened his mouth but, like a cartoon, the sound of the doorbell replaced his voice. Holding up one finger, he backed into the foyer and reached for the doorknob. Who the hell was visiting my dad on Thanksgiving? If it was a client, we’d have to have a serious talk about boundaries.
    The bell ringer was a ballerina. Tall, lanky, graceful, and holding a casserole dish. Since when did ballerinas deliver Thanksgiving casseroles?
    “Seraphina, you look lovely as