14. Magnolia
CLEMENTINE SITS CROSS-legged on my bed, methodically shooting down every single outfit I pull out of my closet. “Mags, come on. Surely you’ve got one thing in there that’s not screamingly schoolmarmish.”
I side-eye her. “Screamingly schoolmarmish? From the woman who habitually wears aprons and lab coats over T-shirts and shorts?”
“I said what I said,” she sniffs. As she pulls her thick dark hair back up into a bun and secures it with a pencil, she peers around me. “Wait a minute.”
Instantly, I’m on alert. “What?” I survey the room, half expecting a bird or some other woodland creature in here. It’s happened before. She’s like a warped Disney character sometimes, I swear it.
Clementine gets off the bed and pushes me aside, reaching into the depths of my closet to pull out a black dress I bought online one night when I’d had too much of Willow’s Take A Chance tea. “What is this delightful little number?”
Honestly, I’m just glad I keep all of Seven’s clothes in a completely different drawer that no one thinks to look in. “Willow’s fault,” is all I say to Clem.
She holds the dress up and looks at me. “Remember when you had me speak to your classroom on super-short notice and I was hopped up on love potion?” she says, a familiar spark in her eyes.
“One, that was a favor, and two, you were not hopped up on love potion.”
She laughs. “I was definitely hopped up on love potion. That and the memory of Quinton’s mouth between my legs.”
“Clementine!” I squeak.
“What?” she asks, eyes innocent and wide. “It’s true.”
My cheeks are on fire. I don’t need those visuals. “You agreed to talk to my class before Quinton even got here.”
“Well, when I did speak, I was not in my normal state of mind.”
“Irrelevant to the conversation at hand.”
“I did you a favor, and you will now return it.” She holds the dress up. “Put it on.”
“No.” I barely resist stomping my feet.
She sighs. Loudly. “Please?”
I try the last arrow in my quiver. “Even if it works, I don’t have shoes to go with it.”
“Mags. You live in a house with five other women. We’ll find shoes. Now, please try it on?” she wheedles, clasping her hands beneath her chin and making the worst attempt at begging I’ve ever seen.
I know when I’m beaten. I take the dress and change into it, and even as I’m pulling it on, I know Clementine’s going to make me wear it. The scoop neck screams for someone to look at my breasts, and the soft, stretchy material hugs every part of my body, showing off curves I never let the world see. I mean, sure, Riggs has seen me naked, but I feel much more exposed in this dress.
“Oh, you’re definitely wearing that,” Clementine announces.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m surrounded by a miniature glam squad—or torture army, depending on your perspective. Juniper sits on the floor, painting my toenails. Clementine does my makeup while Willow curls my hair. Jasmine scrolls her phone and stalks the chef of the restaurant we’re going to, mumbling incoherently while occasionally looking up and barking instructions to one sister or another.
I’m exhausted. And right as I’m about to beg all of them to please stop, Juniper narrows her eyes at Clementine.
“Spill it,” Juniper commands.
Clementine keeps her attention on the eye shadow palette, not answering, even though we all know she’s the one Juniper is talking to.
Willow pulls a strand of my hair into the curling iron and expertly coils it around. The woman is a genius with hair and always has been. She cuts all our hair, for goodness’ sake, but has never once considered becoming a stylist. “We all know you’re keeping something from us.” Her voice is light and airy like always.
“And considering how much you hate secrets…” I prompt, falling right into the pattern.
“It’s not time yet,” Clementine says, bending around and applying mascara to my eyelashes. “I promised, uh, someone, and I can’t break that promise.”
The rest of us hum as one, generally communicating that we consent to her not talking about it yet, but also that she’s got a short window of time before we all come at her with everything we’ve got.
Which, when you’re talking about a family of witches, is considerable.
“I know, I know,” Clementine says, a tiny smile kicking up on her face.
Finally, everyone is finished. My toes are dry, and I’m in very uncomfortable high-heeled sandals courtesy of Hazel’s closet, who hasn’t lived here in years but is the most footwear-obsessed of all of us. My blonde hair, which is usually in braids or hanging in limp crinkles, cascades in gorgeous, full waves halfway down my back, and my makeup looks amazing. My eyes have never looked this good. The dress is simple, yet effective. After a thorough inspection in Jasmine’s full-length mirror, I declare, “I’m a knockout.”
“Heck yeah, you are,” Clementine says.
“This guy won’t know what hit him,” Jasmine agrees. “Even though he picked the wrong restaurant to go to.”
“Let it go, Jaz,” I warn.
She holds her hands up innocently. “I’m just saying.”
The doorbell rings, and Clementine holds her hand out to stop me. “I’m getting the door. After what y’all put Quinton through, this man needs at least a fighting chance.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” I point out.
“It was just tea, Clementine!” Willow retorts as the rest of us snicker.
I take a few deep breaths and smooth my hands over my dress. I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s Riggs.
Precisely.It’sRiggs.
Whose voice is so amazing it does things—deep, body and soul things—to me that no one else can.
Who flirted with me as Seven for a year.
Who is my boss.
Who finger fucked me in his office two days ago.
Who gave me the best orgasms of my life last night.
Who I more than like, and thus, who terrifies me.
My heartbeat kicks like a mule inside my chest as head downstairs, the rest of my sisters in hot pursuit. The sound of Clementine saying hello and welcoming him in drifts up, and the only thing on my mind is to keep him from accepting a cup of tea. When I appear at the top of the stairs and his eyes land on me, the look that crosses his face when I come into view is one that I am dead certain I’ll never get over.
Because his eyes flare, then darken as he takes me in. His gaze caresses me as I continue down the stairs, starting at my cherry-red toes, wrapping around my bare calves and up to my thighs, hugged tightly by the black dress in all the right places. He lingers around my hips, then moves up to my breasts, chest, neck. When his bright eyes finally meet mine, I exhale.
Wordlessly, he moves toward me, holding his hand out to guide me the rest of the way down the steps. A small spark tingles as we touch, and his lips quirk into a knowing grin. When I’m on the ground, three inches taller thanks to these ridiculous shoes, he cups my face and pulls me to him for a kiss. I’m dimly aware of all my sisters around us, but the feel of Riggs’s lips and the tenderness of his hands wipe every trace of embarrassment I might have had away.
His eyes are pools of deep navy as he leans his forehead onto mine and whispers, “You look incredible.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
He smiles broadly in response and steps back, then seems to see the rest of my sisters. “Hello,” he chuckles.
I make the introductions, and then, because of course one of them just has to, Jasmine offers, “Would you like some tea?”
“He would not,” I answer, shooting daggers at her.
Riggs glances at me. “I don’t?”
My sisters snicker. “You know you don’t.”
“Maybe I do,” he teases, grinning at all of them.
“Maybe he does,” Jasmine agrees, then holds her hand out to him.
Right as I reach out to stop him from taking her hand—which he was absolutely about to do, dammit, Jasmine!—the door opens and Quinton walks in, breaking the spell.
Quinton’s gaze immediately finds his wife’s. “Figured I’d find you here.” Then he turns to Riggs. “Quinton Henry.”
“Riggs Finlay,” comes the response, and they shake hands.
“Don’t drink the tea,” Quinton says.
I laugh. “See? He knows.”
Quinton’s expression is rueful. “Yeah, I drank the tea. It all worked out, but seriously, be careful in this house. Also, Magnolia, you look amazing.”
“Doesn’t she?” Clementine swoons.
“It’s just peppermint tea, you know,” Jasmine says.
I snort. “It’s never just peppermint tea with you. Riggs, we should go.”
He crooks his arm for me to thread mine through. “Then let’s go.”
I glance around at my sisters, and each of them grins back at me. Clementine whispers into my head, “He’s hot! Have fun!”
It’s not until we’re in the car that I finally get a good look at Riggs. And yes, he’s hot. He wears dark slacks and a pale purple button-down, the color making his tan skin and eyes pop, his sleeves rolled up like always. His dark gray and silver hair is perfectly mussed, and the crinkles around his eyes when he looks over and smiles are panty-melting.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs, then leans over the console for another kiss.
I don’t hesitate, meeting him and inhaling his scent. I’m hit with a wave of pure lust, and a primal groan makes its way out of me. “Are you sure we need to go to dinner?” I whine.
His answering growl makes me clench my thighs. “I like you like this. And yes to dinner. If only because you’re going to need your strength for what I have planned for you tonight.”
The food is delicious,but not nearly as delicious as the man sitting across from me. For the first time, I learn about the man behind the karaoke singer and high school principal. I learn about his pops and the apparent horde of octogenarians knocking down his door at the senior living facility on a near-daily basis. I learn more about his years as a skinny kid in high school choir and his service in the Marines. How his mother, a first-generation college graduate who emigrated from Greece, was the guiding force in his life until she passed away too early. How karaoke started as a way to kill the boredom in the barracks, then a way to get dates, and then a way to sustain his sanity as he made his way through those first few years of teaching, and then his solace when his mother passed.
I tell him about growing up with six sisters and our mom. The way Ava and I became best friends in elementary school and were inseparable after that, despite the built-in friends that my sisters were for me. I tell him about the pranks we played on each other growing up, and how they’ve only gotten more sophisticated now that most of us are in our thirties and forties.
“Pranks with tea?” he asks teasingly.
“Way more than that. In a way, the pranks were practice—learning what our gifts were in a safe space.” They learned, anyway. I learned I essentially had none.
He tilts the rest of his wine back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. It’s even more erotic watching him in this small booth than it was at Al’s. “Are there more of you?”
I tilt my head. “Witches? Sure. Our particular family is spread across the country, and we come together once a year for a Gathering.”
He shifts in his seat, patient and curious.
In the not-too-distant past, I would never have shared more than this with someone outside my family. But he deserves to know what he’s getting into. What could happen. I’ve spent most of my life scared of hurting the ones I love with my voice, and it needs to stop. “There’s a lot to explain.”
“Of course there is,” he teases. “I’m the guy who moved here thinking witches weren’t a thing. And yet, here you are.”
“You need to be prepared,” I warn.
“For what?” He leans forward.
I wave a hand at myself, then him. “Me. Us. If there is an us—which,” I swallow, nerves taking hold, “Which I’d like if there was. So, I need to explain things.”
He gets the server’s attention. After we order espressos and a slice of chocolate cake to share, Riggs looks back at me. “Okay. Explain.”
My palms are sweaty. That reminds me. “Remember when you asked why your hands had been itching after we touched?”
His full lips quirk up. “How could I forget? It felt like a bad recreation of that old wives’ tale about getting money, except it was constant, and I most definitely did not get rich.”
My cheeks heat. “Our family was spelled many, many years ago that, when we touch someone who’s interested in us, regardless of whether we’re interested in them, their palms itch any time they think of us.”
He coughs. “Of course. Did I say constant? I meant intermittent.”
“Sure you did,” I grin. “Lucky for you, and the many before you, we’ve been able to make the spell less, um, intense. We can’t totally make it disappear, though.”
“What about Quinton?”
“Hmm?”
“He and Clementine are married, right? Did he have that whole hand-itching thing?” he asks, taking a bite of chocolate cake.
“No, but he and Clementine were affected by our family’s love potion.”
His eyes go wide. “Love potion? You’re not serious.”
I nod solemnly. “I am. And before you ask, no, you’ve never been exposed to the potion, or to anything else by me or my family.”
His shoulders relax as he says, “That’s good.”
“I’m not doing this right.” I hold my palm out. Take my hand, I urge.
He reaches out, almost without noticing, and a tiny bit of guilt niggles at the base of my skull for kickstarting his initiative.
“The reason no one can know about my singing is because,” I swallow and gather my resolve, “I was cursed.”