Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 33: Logan’s Presence

Penelope continues to stare at the clothing. "Then again, what if they’re laced with poison?"

Oh, Jesus.

At first I was the paranoid one. Now she’s taking the crown, leaving me to be the devil’s advocate. "Poison? Really? From clothes with the tags still on?"

"You never know. Or maybe there’s a tracker on them."

This suggestion gives me a little more pause. "Wouldn’t we be able to see them?"

"Between magic and technology, things move at a fast pace these days," she insists, her eyes wide with concern. "Maybe a tracker is now too small to be seen with the naked eye."

The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I can’t help but let out a snort. "Pippa. Seriously?"

She nods, her expression dead serious. "I’m just saying, we can’t rule anything out."

I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to address this sudden bout of paranoia. "Okay, let’s take a step back for a second." I pause, meeting her gaze. "Penelope, what’s my job?"

Without missing a beat, she responds, "Anti-Magic Security."

"Right," I say, nodding slowly. "And don’t you think that if invisible, undetectable trackers existed, I’d be aware of it? You know, given my line of work?"

Penelope’s brow furrows for a moment before she shrugs. "Well, you’re anti-magic security, not anti-spy security. There’s a difference, you know."

I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of her statement. "Anti-spy security? Is that even a thing?"

"It could be," she says defensively, crossing her arms. "You never know what those sneaky spies are up to these days."

"Sneaky spies," I repeat, shaking my head in disbelief. "Pippa, I think you’ve been watching too many spy movies."

She huffs, but I can see the corners of her mouth twitching. "Hey, someone’s got to be prepared for all eventualities. You never know when James Bond might show up asking for a martini, shaken not stirred."

I roll my eyes, but can’t suppress a grin. "I’m pretty sure if James Bond showed up at your bar, you’d be too busy ogling him to worry about invisible trackers."

"I would not!" she protests, but her cheeks flush slightly. "Okay, maybe a little. But can you blame me?"

We both burst into laughter, the tension from earlier dissipating. It feels good to laugh, even if it’s just for a moment. After everything that’s happened, this ridiculous conversation is exactly what I needed.

"Alright, super spy," I say, wiping a tear from my eye. "What do you propose we do with these potentially poisoned, tracker-infested clothes?"

Penelope eyes the bag warily. "Well, we can’t just throw them out. What if someone finds them in the trash and traces them back to us?"

I raise an eyebrow. "And how exactly would they do that?"

"I don’t know," she admits. "But better safe than sorry, right?"

I sigh, realizing this paranoia isn’t going to subside anytime soon. Somehow, I’m now the one tasked with keeping the level head in the situation. Maybe I infected her with my own doubts. "Fine. How about we just put them back in the bag and set it aside for now? We can deal with it later when we’re thinking more clearly."

Penelope nods, seemingly satisfied with this compromise. "Good idea. Out of sight, out of mind."

We carefully fold the clothes and place them back in the bag, handling them as if they might explode at any moment. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t deny the small part of me that wonders if Penelope might be onto something. After all, with everything that’s happened lately, who’s to say what’s possible?

* * *

Wearing properly non-poisoned, non-trackerized clothes borrowed from Penelope’s closet—a suit jacket that’s a little too tight in the shoulders and a skirt that hits below my knees because she’s a few inches taller than me—along with a pair of heels that are just a tad pinchy, but were ten dollars on clearance at the local supermarket, also poison- and tracker-free, I’m ready to meet the detectives.

Penelope comes with me this time, insisting that I shouldn’t meet with people on my own anymore.

She’s dressed like a lawyer, with her hair firmly pulled back and lensless glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

The moment I step into the station, my heart skips a beat. There he is—Logan Everett, standing next to the officer who questioned me earlier. My steps falter, and I feel Penelope’s hand on my elbow, steadying me.

"You okay?" she whispers.

I nod, unable to form words. My eyes are locked on Logan, drinking in his presence despite my best efforts to look away. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, his badge gleaming at his hip. The sight of him sends a confusing mix of emotions coursing through me—attraction, frustration, and a hint of anger.

The kind officer—Officer Davis, I recall—spots us and starts heading our way. Logan follows, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes my skin prickle. There’s something in his gaze, a tightness around his eyes and a slight frown that suggests he’s upset about something.

I steel myself, determined not to let his presence affect me. I’m tired of his hot-and-cold routine, the way he can go from passionate to cold in the blink of an eye. As they approach, I deliberately focus on Officer Davis, ignoring Logan completely.

"Ms. d’Armand," Officer Davis greets me with a warm smile. "Thank you for coming in. How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, given the circumstances," I reply, managing a weak smile. "This is my friend, Penelope de Lucien. She’s here for moral support."

Officer Davis nods at Penelope, then gestures to Logan. "This is Agent Everett from the Supernatural Enforcement Division. He’s connected with the case you mentioned to me earlier."

Ah. That explains Logan’s reluctant presence.

I force myself to acknowledge him with a curt nod, still avoiding direct eye contact.

"Ms. d’Armand," Logan says, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "If you’re ready, we’d like to ask you a few more questions about what you’ve found."