Page 36 of Vengefully Matched

“Are you sure it’s wise to have Connie do that on the regular?”

Hart gave her a long look. “No,” she said coolly. “But I am entirely certain that it’s my call, not yours, to make about what’s the best plan of action in this particular instance.”

Agatha could, in theory, overrule her. But she didn’t have any other ideas, and somehow, the idea of pushing back in this particular instance felt, well, wrong.

She hoped her gut wasn’t leading her into the biggest mistake of her career.

Looking back at the car, her gaze caught again on the profile of Hart’s face.

She hoped it wasn’t something other than her gut leading her wrong either.

CHAPTER 12 Priscilla

Priscilla arrived at work determined to prove Constance Witherspoon wrong. She and Agatha were not meant for each other. Agatha knew nothing of her family and this town, which had been in Priscilla’s blood since the day she was born here.

So to make herself feel better, she’d come in early to prank the mini fridge in the break room so that it smelled inexplicably of tuna fish. She lingered under the pretense of making a cup of coffee to see the moment when Agatha opened it and gagged.

She might sort of like Agatha, but the woman had taken her job. Squeezing her eyes shut, she did her very best to forget the damning nature of the moose incident. The way she’d thought her magic was broken, hexed by Lex or some other meddling devil. The way she’d thought she was about to die by moose, and her mind had jumped to how at least this would be dying in a way that suited her home state, and then, dangerously, to the notion that it wouldn’t be so bad to kiss Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin before dying.

She’d traveled the world, loved every second of it, and she’d always come back home to Hallowcross because it was her place. This, the Witchery Council, Hart Manor, all of it. It was hers. This was Hart country, and Agatha was an outsider.

An obnoxiously cute outsider, but an outsider nonetheless. Agatha was currently perched on the edge of Kevin’s desk outside her office, pointing to something on a spreadsheet.

Kevin was all smiles and flexing biceps. Did the man really need to work his arm muscles to move a mouse and click something in Excel? Prissy didn’t love spreadsheets, but she’d worked with them long enough to know that this was definitely for show. He might be a nice guy, but he sure was a show-off.

“By the way, that new blouse is lovely,” Kevin was saying to Agatha, eyes raking appreciatively as though she weren’t his boss.

Priscilla glared at him.

“Oh, thank you, Kev,” Agatha cooed, and the indulgent tone of her voice made something in Priscilla recoil. No wonder Kevin refused to work for her; Agatha was offering something that she never would.

She was ashamed of herself a little bit for the suspicion, and the stereotypes associated with it, but it was what it was.

“I hate to interrupt,” she said, though she did not hate it, not one bit, “but I need to talk to you about Connie.” She paused for a second and then leaned in, letting a hand casually brush the hair back from Agatha’s face.

Agatha blushed and stood up. “Of course. My office?”

Kevin shot Priscilla a look, but she ignored it, storming after Agatha into her office. She let the heavy door slam a little too hard in her wake, loudly enough that people would certainly hear.

Let them hear.

Agatha leaned against her desk. Did she really need to lean so much? When she stood that way, she was all curves, and Priscilla hated herself a little too much for wanting things she should not want in earnest. Behind her, the plants the Council president loved so much swayed, recoiling a little.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Agatha bit out, mouth turned down, peach-tinted lip gloss scrunched into a disappointed pout.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are we faking an open relationship that includes your assistant? How very trite of us. Or is it feminist? Making sure the tired trope of a powerful man taking advantage is spread evenly across the sexes?”

Agatha stared at her. “It’s friendly flirting, not an invitation to my private boudoir.”

“I doubt your bedroom could possibly be seductive enough to deserve that moniker,” Priscilla shot off without thinking, and she did feel some remorse at the red tint to Agatha’s cheeks. The words were harsh, but then again, so was walking into the office to find her fake girlfriend throwing herself at her fucking assistant.

“That’s a bit rude to assume.” Agatha crossed her arms. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” snapped Priscilla. “Just that I feel like it might be disrespectful for you to flirt with every good-looking man who comes your way if you’re dating me. Even for pretend. It’s a stereotype.” She swallowed. That was crossing a line, but it was out there now.

Agatha flushed deeper red, and clutched the edge of her desk. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Priscilla shrugged.