Oracle: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Series (A Diana Hawthorne Supernatural Mystery Book 1), Carissa Andrews [read my book .txt] 📗

on the other side of the table. Makes for an easier way to have a conversation,” I say, pointing to the empty seat.

“Eh, where’s the fun in that?” he grins.

There’s a strange playfulness in his energy—if I can call it that. I can’t read his aura, but I still feel it somehow. Plus, the smirk on his face broadens the longer he sits beside me.

Amy shoots me a strange—aren’t you a little old to be so awkward?—kinda look as she heads out the door with Ren’s cup in hand.

“So, what exactly did you want to talk about? I doubt world peace—and I already said no to helping you on your case,” I say, returning my gaze to him, and feeling the need to throw that in there.

Blake shifts closer; the scent of aftershave or cologne wafting around us. It’s a heady kind of smell, making me want to lean into him and take a better whiff.

Before he answers, he grins again, then takes a slow, deliberate sip of his own coffee.

“What exactly is Diana’s usual?” he finally asks, pointing to my coffee cup and ignoring my question completely.

“It’s the campfire mocha,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Normal variation, or your own special blend?”

I shift in my seat, twisting a bit to look him in the eye.

“White chocolate, not milk chocolate,” I say, a slow grin spreading across my lips.

“Interesting—” he says, nodding in approval. “I happen to like my coffee black as my soul, but if I did add chocolate, it would be of the white variation.”

“Ewww. Black coffee. Really?” I say, sticking out my tongue and making a face.

“What’s so wrong with that?” he chuckles. “Nice look for you, by the way.”

I shove him.

“Oh shut up. Black coffee is wrong on so many levels,” I say, shivering.

“Enlighten me,” he says, tipping his head and taking another swig.

“The only reason to drink coffee is for the sugar and caffeine. When you take away the sugar, you only have the caffeine—and I can get the same effect drinking tea, or a shot of an energy boost drink. So, no.”

I shake my head and lift my own cup to my lips.

“Good to know,” he says, nodding. He takes another sip of his coffee and waits.

“Gross,” I mutter, unable to hide my grin.

“You get used to it. Besides, too much sugar isn’t good for you,” he adds.

“Oh boy, you’re not one of those health nuts, are you?” I laugh.

“If I were, I wouldn’t be drinking coffee. Caffeine is just as bad,” he says.

“Really?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “And how would you know that if you weren’t one of those crazy health nuts?”

“Because I had a friend who blew out her adrenal glands with a coffee addiction,” he says nonchalantly.

“Yikes. Sounds brutal,” I say, glancing at my cup of coffee. “How much does one need to drink for it to be considered an addiction?”

“Way more than a cup,” he laughs.

“I figured,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Hey, you asked,” he says, shrugging.

His eyes fall to his cup while his fingertips fondle the handle. I can’t stop staring at his dark eyelashes—he has the kind most women would kill for, but they definitely suit him.

“So, have you always lived here in Helena?” I ask.

“The outskirts, technically,” Blake points out.

“Yeah, yeah. You know what I mean,” I say, shaking my head.

“Well, no actually. I used to live in Minnesota, if you can believe it,” he says, shifting in his seat.

“Eeewww. Really? Isn’t it, I dunno—freakin’ cold there?”

My mind traces back to my short stint that direction. I don’t remember the winters fondly, that’s for sure.

Blake laughs a hardy, deep laugh.

“That’s an understatement,” he says.

“Then why?”

“Family, I guess. I grew up there. But, my folks passed away and I had no other ties to Minnesota anymore. So, I decided to come down here,” he says, biting his lower lip, and eyeing his cup.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah, it’s no big deal. It’s been a few years,” he says.

“Do you mind if I ask, how?” I say, leaning in.

“Mom passed when I was younger—breast cancer runs in the family. A heart attack got Dad, though,” he says, his voice low.

Reaching out, I place a hand on his leg closest to me.

“I’m sorry Blake. I’m sure losing your parents was so hard.”

His eyes widen as he looks from me, to my hand. He shifts his eyes slightly, but nods.

“It was, especially at first,” he clears his throat, “So, what about you? Are your parent’s still around?”

There it is, the dreaded questions about me and my life—the ones I hate answering because they can unravel so quickly into a complete cluster.

I shake my head, “No, they’re gone.”

It’s the truth—though I don’t remember them at all. For the amount of time I’ve been alive, there’s no way they’ve managed to survive. Unless they’ve passed down this insane longevity to me.

“Sorry, this has, ah—taken a turn,” Blake says, scratching the back of his head.

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago for me, too.”

“I suppose it’s what drove you to helping people, huh?” Blake says, watching me closely.

I pause for a moment, considering. For the most part, it transpired gradually. My gifts have always been around and not adhering to them didn’t feel right.

“I suppose in a sense it did. But I don’t think I really had a choice. When you know things, hear things—see things—ignoring them and going on with your own life isn’t always an option. As you know,” I say, pointing to him.

Blakes eyebrows flutter upward in surprise.

“I do?”

“Well, yeah, once I could see things more clearly with Esther—I couldn’t not get involved at that point. You know?”

“Oh right—you’re still talking about you. Got it,” he says, shaking his head.

I chuckle and scrunch my nose.

“What did you think I meant?”

“I thought—I thought you meant me. That when I see things, ignoring them isn’t an option.”

“Well, I suppose that’s right too—isn’t it?” I say, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess it is.”

“Sooooo,” I say, trying to fill the awkward