Rowan
I don’t get jealous… unless it comes to Seth Bautista and beautiful blondes, apparently.
Joining him on these interviews should kill my feelings for him, not make them stronger. I shouldn’t want to protect him from Victoria’s wrath—but gods, I do. They were immature on both sides, and I can’t root for either of them.
Or perhaps that’s the jealousy speaking again.
Despite it all, I feel bad for Seth. It’s clear he won’t let himself have a relationship, and I suppose that’s hypocritical of me, considering that I have no time for love myself. My relationships have always fallen flat, and it would be a lie to say I don’t know why.
He doesn’t realize it, but he’s hexed me too—with unrequited feelings I’m too chicken to tell him about.
Perhaps our next interview will give us more information. After meeting with Victoria, I have nothing. He believes she didn’t hex him. I do, too.
I follow Seth into his home, and he insists on carrying every bag by himself. If he weren’t wearing layers to keep warm, I could enjoy the vision of his arms rippling—as it is, all I see is the sherpa-lining of his coat and the back of his beautiful head.
But I’m just here for the soup. Right.
“Mom,” Seth calls into the house, using one foot to push his boot off the other. “I’d better find you relaxing.”
“I am, I am.” Liezel is planted on the couch with a horror movie playing. She’s always loved scary movies—the scarier, the better—and she watches them with a straight face. The bravest woman I know.
I approach her before Seth does, fixing her with a warm smile. “I haven’t seen this one yet. Is it good?”
“So far, but I feel like I already know the ending.”
“No spoilers.” I bend down and give her a half-hug, one that doesn’t require her to rise from the couch. “It’s good to see you.”
“Always good. Are you staying for dinner?” She looks away from the screen, turning her attention to me. “What about your sisters?”
“It’s only me tonight. Seth requested my help to make almondigas.”
Delicious meatball soup in savory broth, with thin noodles. At least I’ll get a good dinner out of an otherwise exhausting day.
She gives Seth a pointed look. “He won’t make you cook. Let him do it. It’s easy.”
I admire Mrs. Bautista for many reasons, but she did a good job raising her children. Some forget to teach their sons how to cook and clean, but Seth is adept at both. I would say he’s a better cook than I am.
I laugh lightly. “He won’t, but I don’t mind helping.”
She scoffs but doesn’t stop me as I peel off my outer layers and join Seth in the kitchen. The Bautista house is always warm—a little too warm in the summers for my taste, and especially toasty in the winters. Right now, it’s perfect.
Seth already has a pot on the stove, the ground pork out in a bowl, and an enormous bottle of fish sauce out.
“Tell me what to do,” I say.
“You know…” He shoves a chopping board and a yellow onion in my direction. “I would usually tell you to sit down with Mom, but after the torture you put me through today, I like the idea of bossing you around a little.”
“Ha.” I snort. “I’m sure.”
He doesn’t need to instruct me; I already know the steps. I dice the onion, just like the times our mothers would throw parties together. We were never required to help, but while the other kids ran around, I preferred to be in the kitchen with the adults. They had the best stories.
As a teenager, I would dice up carrots and onions for Liezel’s lumpia, or chop potatoes for my mom’s stew. The only difference now is that Seth is here, forming meatballs with his hands and browning them in a stainless steel pot. He hums to himself as he works.
“Seth,” I say, watching him from the corner of my eye. “Does… does Liezel know about the hex?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “No, and I don’t want her to.”
The last thing I want is to tell Seth that the hex may impact his mother, but I’ll do a lot to keep her safe. And I know he will, too.
I inhale deeply. “But what if it... Seth, we don’t know if your love life is hexed or your relationships. There’s a difference. Familial relationships are still a relationship.”
“So far, it’s just the love life.” His face grows grave, and he runs a hand over it, muttering a curse. “She has a lot going on. I don’t want to give her another reason to worry.”
I don’t have to finish the sentence. We share the same worst fear: some magical thing in our lives harming her. Mrs. Bautista is one of the few people who remains untouched by Starbrook’s magic. She’s the final motherly figure either of us has now that my mom is gone.
“Then I won’t tell her,” I whisper.
He says nothing. With the sound of dramatic horror screams drowning out my thoughts, I continue chopping.
My gaze lifts when Seth pulls off his dark blue sweater. The shirt underneath rises, revealing a sliver of his stomach. It’s over, too. The fabric falls back around his midriff, and his arms flex beneath his white T-shirt as he flips the meatballs.
It’s nothing. So, why is there a pulse between my thighs?
He turns to look at me and smirks. “See something you like?”
And just like that, the spell is broken. He’s back to being a teasing, all-too-flirtatious fool who got himself hexed.
I narrow my eyes. “Not particularly, no.”
Laughter falls past his lips as he turns away, lifting and dropping his shoulders. This time, I can’t help but wonder if the flex of his arms is on purpose. “If you say so.”
I look away. “Onion is done.”
“Thanks. Can you put it in a bowl?”
“Mhm.”
I slip past him to grab a bowl, our bodies brushing as I go.
His front presses to my back, and for a moment, his hand lands on my hip.
When I first began gaining weight, I was insecure about the extra padding that collected there.
If I hadn’t already worked through that little adjustment phase, the slight groan that falls from Seth’s mouth as his fingers dig in would do the trick.
How would it feel for him to hold me there when I’m wearing less? To feel his calloused fingers on my smooth skin?
“Careful,” he whispers harshly. “The pot is hot. Don’t want you burning yourself.”
“I-I know. I’m not that clumsy.”
“Just trying to keep you safe.” His voice softens. “Like you do for me.”
Looking back at him would be too bold. I keep my back to him as I scurry to the other side of the kitchen. It’s safer this way. More space. We’re friends—barely friends and only because of forced proximity from our childhood. Now, he’s only hanging out with me so I can break his hex.
I’m nothing to him. Gods, I wish he meant nothing to me, but every touch wakes up my soul, and I want more… but I can never quite bring myself to ask for it.
I chop up the green onions with a little too much aggression, and even when I finish, I avoid looking at him. “You don’t need anything else from me?”
“Uh, no. Not really.”
“Cool. I’m going to sit…” I gesture to the living room and stride away.
The more distance between us, the better.
Dinner is as delicious as always, a savory meatball soup with fish sauce and onions, and the thinnest noodles.
I leave with a giant Tupperware bowl full of soup for the rest of the family.
It will probably be gone by the end of the night.
Liezel is there to act as a buffer between us—sweet Liezel, who has no clue about Seth’s hex.
Maybe it’s her right to know. My mother would want her to know, and if it’s true that the hex could transform and impact her… her health… her life…
Well, it’s not my call to make either way.
Once Liezel’s movie is over and she’s retired to her bedroom, I bolt to the door without speaking or talking to Seth.
“Wait!” he says.
I freeze and cringe.
“Let me walk you home.”
I turn to face him, lifting an eyebrow. “I live across the street. You don’t need to—”
But he’s already pushing past me to open the door, and my face is already hot under all of my winter layers.
“Fine,” I grumble.
And he does as he promised, walking in step across the street with me.
“What if you fell? Slipped on the ice, with no one here to call an ambulance.”
“That would be unfortunate, but I’m nowhere near hip replacement age, so I would probably live.”
“Right. That’s true.”
Yet, he remains by my side.
We stop at the end of our driveway, facing one another, and there’s a wall between us. I think I put it there, but I don’t know how to feel about it. I clutch the warm soup tighter, waiting desperately for him to break the silence like he usually would.
He doesn’t.
“Good night,” I say.
Before I can turn away, he steps closer. “You’re a great friend, Ro. Thank you for everything.”
I smile tightly and lift the bowl. “And thank you for the soup.”
He lets out a laugh—finally, a genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling in a way that makes me settle into the warmth I’ve been trying to run from.
“The least I can do,” he says. “Good night.”