CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Skye
Luke flies me and Princess Buttercup to my cottage the next morning. He holds me in a bridal carry so that I can wrap both arms around her.
Flying through the air with him brings everything that happened yesterday roaring back to life.
He made every fantasy I’ve ever had come true and then gave me an entire catalog of new sex fantasies to moon over for the rest of my days.
And the way he took care of me after! I’m surprised I didn’t turn into a literal puddle of goo when he tucked me into bed after that bath.
Warmth flushes my body, and I squirm, which makes Princess Buttercup shift uneasily.
Her tail flicks, batting at Luke’s face in a way that’s got to tickle. “Cat,” he growls, “cease that this instant.”
“This is unnatural.” My familiar hunkers closer to me, turning her head away from the view of the ground racing by below. “Cats aren’t meant to fly.”
Thank god for the interruption before my thoughts could get any sexier. It’s hard enough being this close to him and seeing him be so calm about it all, as if holding me is no big deal after having mind-blowing flying sex.
Focus on the cat, Skye, I whisper-hiss inside my head. Much, much safer.
“We can use a pet carrier next time,” I say. Luke’s flying magic holds us more securely and is far safer than any plastic box, but maybe seeing something visibly surrounding her will help.
“No,” she yowls. “No carrier.”
“Is there anything that will make it better?”
A pair of cardinals darts out of Luke’s way, the male’s wings flashing crimson as he calls out warning cheeps to his mate. Luke must look like the largest hawk ever to them.
“A bird?” Princess Buttercup’s ears perk up. “I bet a bird would make me feel better.”
“I could arrange that,” Luke says.
“Please don’t.” I shoot him a beseeching look. “The last thing I need is an up-close and personal enactment of a nature documentary on my stomach.”
“You’re the one who asked.” She settles into a kitty pout, showing off a little grumpy face that’s absolutely adorable. “I wanted to see if they taste like chicken.”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh, and share a glance with Luke.
The left side of his mouth lifts in his secret smile, the one I love so much, and my body lights up, my heart leaping against my ribs as if it wants to fly to him. Foolish squishy jelly heart, I whisper to it. Stop thinking yesterday meant more than it did.
My heart doesn’t listen, beating with hope.
He lands in my backyard, and Princess Buttercup leaps from my arms the moment we stop moving. I like to think he hesitates before setting me on my feet, his arms reluctant to let me go. His gaze drops to my mouth.
Does he want to kiss me? The thought sets my whole body alight. I strain upward, lifting onto my toes—
“There you are!” Mrs. Greely calls out.
Luke and I break apart, and I spin toward the fence separating our yards. “Mrs. Greely, hello.” Now that we’re closer to Valentine’s Day, she’s wearing a pink velour tracksuit, and Max’s collar has been changed to match.
The golden retriever snuffles at the fence, and Princess Buttercup runs over. “Hello! Can you talk, too?”
The dog gives a soft woof, and she sits and stares at him through the wooden slats, her tail flicking back and forth.
“Is everything still on course for you to decorate the town’s Valentine’s Day Dance?” Mrs. Greely spears me with narrowed eyes. “I keep knocking on your door, but you never answer it. Are you avoiding me, young lady?”
“Not at all,” I hurry to say. “I’ve still staying with a… with a friend.” I trip over the word, wanting to call Luke so much more yet not even sure if he considers us friends.
Her eyes flick past me to land on him, and she snorts. “You kids these days, so casual. Too casual.” She shakes her cane at him. “You should make an honest woman out of our Skye.”
“Skye’s already an honest woman.” His brow creases with confusion, and he adopts his stuffiest tone.
I know him well enough to know Luke hates being told he’s wrong about something.
It’s understandable—I know I always hate it.
But instead of getting flustered like I do, he gets irritated and superior.
“I don’t think anything I do will add to her inherent integrity. ”
I shove a knuckle into my mouth to muffle my laugh. He’s taken her words literally.
“Don’t act as if you don’t understand me.” She jabs her cane toward me. “Propose to her, you fool!”
Hot mortification burns through me. Fudging fudgsicles, this is embarrassing!
He growls and steps forward.
Before this can get any worse—though heaven knows how it could be any more embarrassing—I plaster a palm to his chest and say to Mrs. Greely, “Of course I’m decorating the Valentine’s Day Dance this year. I mailed you my confirmation. Did you get it?” Who knows how long snail mail takes these days.
“I did.” She doesn’t seem mollified though, continuing to give me a hard stare.
So I start to babble. “It’s one of my favorite events, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I promise I’ll decorate it just like I always do.”
“Good.” Her gaze snaps back to Luke, and she shoots him I’m-watching-you fingers. With a sharp nod, she shuffles back into her cottage, Max following.
“By the goddess,” he mutters. “She really is a terror.”
“I told you.”
“Well, I found all of that much more boring than I expected.” Princess Buttercup saunters back toward us. “Why do all the TV shows claim dogs are fierce?”
“Max is a sweet doggo,” I say. “And he’s old. His cat chasing days are behind him.” The last thing I can picture him doing is hopping the fence.
The sound of a familiar engine comes from the driveway.
“My aunts are here!” I hurry for the backdoor, fingers fumbling for the key I haven’t needed for several days.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Princess Buttercup circles my legs, eager to be spoiled by two of her favorite people in the world.
“Skye.”
I push open the door for my cat and glance back over my shoulder.
“I’ll see you this evening.” The strong lines of his face fall into resting grumpy face one, his neutral look. There it is again: proof he’s not interested. He’s not even embarrassed that Mrs. Greely demanded he propose.
“Of course,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. “I’ll find you in the pub after my Witch Bitch Spicy Book Club meeting.”
He grunts his yes grunt and leaps into the air, his wings snapping wide.
I hurry inside, kicking up the thermostat on my way to the front door.
“Darling!” Aunt Irene leans over to envelope me in a hug, smelling of gardenias. Aunt Betty tackles me from the other side, soft and rose scented. Their perfumes combine into a fragrance that speaks of love and home and belonging, and I linger in their twin embrace.
When we finally pull apart, Aunt Betty cups my cheek. “Oh, my dear. Who’s put those shadows in your eyes?”
“It’s nothing.” I lie.
Aunt Irene purses her lips, ready to protest, and Princess Buttercup fortunately chooses that moment to lose the last of her patience.
“You haven’t said hi to me yet!” She twines around all of our legs, rubbing and purring. “I’m adorable.”
“Such a pretty girl, yes you are.” Aunt Betty leans over to give my cat lots of chin scratches.
Aunt Irene follows suit, loving all over Princess Buttercup. “And so talkative. I swear she thinks she’s speaking to us.”
“You’re not wrong.” I grin. If only she knew the truth of her words! But neither of my aunts has mentioned being able to see any of the magical things happening around town, so I haven’t tried to have the “I’m a witch” conversation yet.
There’s still so much we don’t know about how being a witch works.
It seems to run in families, probably because of a fae ancestor lurking in the family tree, but it’s clearly not every member of a family, or Aunt Betty would have magic.
Unless I get my powers from my father’s side?
Also, can men be witches? Jared and some of the other men in town can see magic.
Does that mean they can also do it? And if so, are they witches or warlocks or wizards?
I like to think of witch as gender-neutral, but there might be an established terminology to follow, which means we need a non-binary term as well.
When all of this is over, I hope Luke lets me continue to do research in his witch collection.
There’s so much more I want to learn than simply controlling my own powers.
Aunt Irene pulls several canvas shopping bags out of the car. “Are you ready to get baking?”
“You know it.” I take two of them from her and carry them into the kitchen, where Aunt Betty slides a stack of covered casserole dishes into the fridge.
“Did you bring grandma’s recipe card?” I ask Aunt Irene. Grandma Summers each left us one. I got vanilla cupcakes, Aunt Betty got pumpkin spice, and Aunt Irene got the red-hot cinnamon ones, which are perfect for Valentine’s.
“I did.” She pats her purse.
The morning flies by as we work side by side, baking my vanilla cupcakes for them to enjoy while I make a batch of red-hot cinnamon ones for tonight’s Witch Bitch Spicy Book Club meeting. I’ve already coordinated with Autumn to bring her matching cinnamon cocktails.
Which is good, because I no longer have a phone, and I need to do something about that.
Once the cupcakes are in the oven, I leave the aunts cooing over Princess Buttercup and giving her far too many treats.
In the living room, I power up my laptop, log into the website for my cell phone provider, and report my phone as lost. It’s not even a lie.
But I bet no one’s ever had “because my magic left it inside a book with the rest of my clothes” as an excuse before.
Thank god I’ve got the kind of phone insurance that covers everything, even owner mistakes, so I don’t have to give an excuse.
A pop-up window tells me I can pick up my new phone today at the store out by the highway.