Unbearable, The Case Files of Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist (#4)
By: Cynthia St. Aubin
When you can’t grin and bear it… Paranormal Psychologist, Matilda Schmidt is sick of secrets. But when her troubled mother falls into dangerous hands, she must enlist the help of the two men who may be hiding the most: the hot-bodied demigod who’s suddenly tight-lipped about his current client, and the delicious hit man who’s been concealing much more than a gun in his pocket. Faced with the destruction of her tidy life at the paws of three rowdy werebears, and protected only by an immortal egg on the edge, Matilda will have to come riding to her own rescue, or risk a life that’s anything but happily ever after.
“What are you wearing?” Crixus’s voice was clear and unsullied by sleep—a direct contrast to my own, which hovered right at the edge of ‘do not operate heavy machinery.’ He had answered on the second ring, a good sign he wasn’t plowing Goldilocks like a spring field, or so I told myself.
“My raincoat and galoshes. But I’m taking them off as we speak.” My cell phone, thankfully, like the bed I settled onto cross-legged—had remained mostly dry.
“Anything under the raincoat?”
“Save it,” I said. “I need your magic.”
“Now you’re talking.” The smile in his voice was as radiant as the sun reaching gilded fingers into the gray dawn.
“Not that kind of magic. So far tonight, my apartment has been home to three bears, eight firemen, and one immortal egg. I’m in no mood.” Twice now, I had depended upon Crixus to undo the damage wrought upon my apartment and office by his retinue of squirrely supernatural guests. It was the one power the demigod possessed I wouldn’t mind stealing for myself.
That, and the spontaneous orgasms.
“And you didn’t invite me?”
“Since when did you need an invitation?” Crixus’s propensity to pop into my life at his leisure had been a contention of mine since we first met. My office, my car, even my bedroom, he invaded with the carefree indifference of a child hopping rides at the amusement park. And still, he managed to be frequently unavailable when I needed him.
“If I could be there, I would.” His voice lacked its usual cocktail of arrogance and caprice. He almost sounded earnest.
Cynthia St. Aubin wrote her first play at age eight and made her brothers perform it for the admission price of gum wrappers. A steal, considering she provided the wrappers in advance. Though her early work debuted to mixed reviews, she never quite gave up on the writing thing, even while earning a mostly useless master’s degree in art history and taking her turn as a cube monkey in the corporate warren.
Because the voices in her head kept talking to her, and they discourage drinking at work, she started writing instead. When she’s not standing in front of the fridge eating cheese, she’s hard at work figuring out which mythological, art historical, or paranormal friends to play with next. She lives in Colorado with the love of her life and three surly cats.
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