Page 22 of Vengefully Matched

“No,” said Agatha, mouth set in a firm line, face determined. “Just Hart.”

Priscilla nodded, slinking into the makeshift office and shutting the door. Agatha rubbed her thumb across her fingers in a gesture that had always reminded Priscilla of a slower version of the Hart family snap, and the room quieted, the noise outside silenced.

“A privacy spell, huh?” Priscilla slid into the chair to the right of Agatha’s computer. “I must be in big trouble.”

Sighing, Agatha sat down. “No,” she groaned. “But I am. Truly.” Was she sweating?

“Go on…”

“The International Council insisted that in light of your history, this was two strikes.”

Priscilla’s cheeks heated. “But I didn’t—that’s unfair. Evelyn was my fiancée. Leaving her had nothing to do with her role as president.”

“Hey.” Agatha’s voice was firm again. Her blue eyes determined. “I know that. I know that. It’s fucked up, but the optics aren’t good.” She swallowed. “And so I may have told them something rash. Accidentally.”

Priscilla rubbed her eyes. She wasn’t trying to murder Agatha, and she hadn’t been trying to run Evelyn out of town. And today’s explosion, at least, was totally out of her hands.

“What did you tell them?”

Agatha took a deep breath, eyes darting away and then back, as though she refused not to stare directly into Prissy’s soul. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, and Priscilla would be lying if she said she didn’t notice that Agatha’s nails were shorter now, her fingers long and nimble.

“I lied to them. I said I was your alibi. It was definitely something I should have asked you before doing. In fact, if you want, I will go back and come clean.” Agatha chewed her lip.

“What, did you tell them we were involved in some sort of weird sex ring for dendrophiles? Recording foot videos? Candling ear wax out of strangers while someone was rigging up an explosion?”

Agatha recoiled. “Good grief, why is that list so specific? I told them you couldn’t have tried to kill me, because I was with you all night. I didn’t think about how it would sound.” She paused, looking miserable. “They thought I meant we were—we are—an item.”

Priscilla burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it; it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Her admittedly hot but decidedly straight boss, dating her? How absurd.

“That… wasn’t the reaction I was expecting,” said Agatha, gripping the table and looking slightly green. Priscilla couldn’t remember having laughed this hard in days, maybe in months, not even when she got Azrael with the guillotine on his way to school and it sliced off the perfectly coiffed top of his hair—spelled, of course, not to cause bodily harm.

“It’s not that funny.” Agatha frowned. “Why are you still laughing?”

“Because,” Prissy bit out, between peals of laughter, “you’re comically into dudes named Jonathan or Conrad. Imagine, the idea of you, a preppy, man-loving heterosexual, in a relationship with me, an eclectic lesbian. I’m certain you only date people who wear boat shoes and neatly pressed polo shirts. Your parade of men who probably have apartments with far too much leather furniture, the kind that sticks to thighs and ass cheeks while wearing any kind of women’s shorts or skirts. Man-cave-loving, bro-time bros. They must have laughed you out of the room.”

Agatha’s face went ashen. “That’s very offensive.” The plants on the conference room walls shuddered.

“Oh, come off it,” Priscilla scoffed. “I’m sure Jonrad will get over the unknown insult. If he weren’t impervious to teasing, there would be no way he could don such hideous footwear. I saw the custom Sperrys he used to love.”

Agatha shook her head, mouth a thin line. “No. It’s offensive to me.”

“I’m sorry. You have great taste in pantsuits. But I remember the guy you brought to my wedding. We all do, I’m sure. More than one Council member muttered about what a jackass he was to even have around the office on occasion, the way he would show up too early and act like you were inconveniencing him by not leaving whenever suited his fancy. You do not have great taste in men.” She was a bit worried for Agatha, whose face went from unnaturally pale to a shade of scarlet that looked painful.

“His name was Jonathan, not Conrad, or Jonrad. And he was an asshole. But…” Priscilla shook her head, waiting for Agatha to call him her asshole. But Agatha took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. She swallowed. “I’m bisexual, you presumptuous ass.”

Priscilla’s jaw dropped.

Her hot boss. Her superhot, older, off-limits boss, who she had of course noticed, but not thought about too much, because it wouldn’t do to get lightheaded over beautiful straights all the time. Her hot, straight boss with her breasts and her hair and—oh goddess, this complicated things.

It was Prissy’s turn to swallow and fear the shade of her own blushing. It hadn’t just been a joke, a lark they had laughed at before firming up a more believable story. The International Council of Witchery now believed that they were dating, and would have to continue to believe that, unless Prissy wanted to face the consequences of the Council considering her willing to blow up a president to get to a job.

“Oh goddess. You told them we’re together.”

“I did.”

“Why?” A small part of her, and she wasn’t proud of it, wanted the answer to be something… hopeful.

“Because once they assumed it, I couldn’t see any other way to get them to believe you were innocent, and they wanted to summon you in the Loculus.”