8. Winter Magic and Investment Accounts
Winter Magic and Investment Accounts
Isubtly shift away from Ash and gesture to the onion. “I should cut this up.”
“No need.” Ash spirits it over to the skillet. With a wave of his hand, it falls into the sizzling butter, perfectly chopped.
I laugh, a little breathless. “Now you’re just showing off.”
Ash stirs the skillet, apparently taking over. “I’m shamelessly trying to impress you.”
Though he says the words evenly, I sense the flirtatious undercurrent.
Oh goodness.
I look at Rowan over my shoulder, glaring at him now. He glares right back, flattening his tufts to the top of his head.
“Go,” I mouth, jerking my head toward the bird door.
Finally, finally, I win.
With a dramatic spread of his tiny wings, he flies outside.
Ash turns when he hears the rubber flap smacking the frame. “It looks like you were right. He left.”
Casually, I lean my back against the kitchen counter and watch him cook. “He doesn’t usually stay long.”
Ash looks pleased, like maybe a subconscious part of him senses the owl isn’t just an owl and he’s glad we’re finally alone. “This is ready for the chicken.”
“I didn’t mean to invite you over to cook for me.”
“I enjoy cooking.”
Of course he does.
“Well, I enjoy eating, so it seems we have complementary interests.” I watch, intrigued, as Ash opens the glass container and once again uses his magic to move the chicken breast into the pan. “That’s a handy trick. You don’t have to rewash your hands.”
“Did you live alone before you moved?” he asks.
The change of subject surprises me. “No.”
“I suspected, as it seems cooking might not be your forte.”
“I can make…things.”
He smiles. “Things like what?”
“Oh, you know. Eggs, sandwiches, frozen stuff…” And pre-bagged salads.
Mostly, though, my mother cooked. Like a good pixie daughter, I was content to live at home, waiting patiently for the pixie man of my dreams to sweep me off my feet.
But I don’t want to admit that to perfectly put-together Ash.
“What did you do for a living before moving here?” he asks.
“I worked in a gift shop near the beach.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.” I wait a beat before curiosity gets the best of me. “How old are you?”
“I turned thirty last month.” He flips the chicken, using his magic again. “Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
“No.” Because he started it, I give in to my burning curiosity and ask, “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“You seem like the type who would already be married with his first or second child. Did you get off schedule somewhere?”
“I haven’t met the right woman yet.”
“This probably hasn’t escaped your notice, but there are a lot of fae women in this town.”
He turns to look at me, his deep brown eyes meeting mine. “I’ve noticed one of them.”
Sparkles. All the sparkles.
And am I blushing? Good heavens.
He returns his attention to the skillet. “The rest, I grew up with. I know I’m not compatible with any of them.”
“Is it because you’re fussy?”
Ash laughs, startled, and turns back. “I’m not fussy.”
“When we first met, you gave me a list of rules and a bill in my welcome basket, and you insulted my cottage garden.”
He looks baffled. “That’s my job.”
“To insult my garden?” I grin.
A smile creeps over his lips. “The other bit. You haven’t paid it yet, by the way.”
I laugh, enjoying myself. “I’ll take my check in tomorrow.”
“See that you do.”
I roll my eyes, laughing because I think he’s joking. Okay, he’s probably not.
“The chicken is done,” he says. “Why don’t you help me make the sauce?”
“Sauce sounds complicated, and you’re already doing such a fine job of things. I think you can manage on your—what are you doing?!”
When I realize he’s about to turn on the oven, I rush in front of him, putting myself between him and the appliance.
Ash’s eyebrows shoot up like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. “I’m going to set it to a low temperature so the chicken stays warm.”
“You can’t use that one. Use the bottom one.” Like he doesn’t have eyes, I add, “There are two.”
“Why…?”
“Because…” I could say it’s broken, but that would be a lie. “Because…I don’t want you to?”
That’s certainly not a lie.
Ash takes my shoulder and scoots me to the side. Then he opens the door…and freezes. Once he recovers from his surprise, he glances my way, eyebrows raised.
I drop my face into my hands so I don’t have to look at the blackened skillet. “You were early, and I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“So, you put it in the oven?”
“Where would you have stashed it?”
“It wouldn’t have happened to me, but…outside, perhaps.”
“I couldn’t even get the window open.”
He stares at me, eyebrows twitching, until he can’t contain it anymore. He presses his lips together, turning away.
And then…his shoulders begin to shake.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Ash clears his throat. “No.”
But it’s a lie. A chuckle escapes him, growing as he turns back to face me. His mirth finally gets the best of him, and he laughs loudly, shaking his head.
I cross my arms, smiling despite myself. “It’s not that funny.”
“It is.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was a disaster.”
“But you are a disaster.”
“I’m working on it.”
Shaking his head, Ash pulls out the pan and sets it in the sink, running water into it so it can soak.
“Do you think I destroyed it?” I ask, peering at the scorched stainless steel.
“Probably not.” He motions me back to the stove. “We’ll worry about it after dinner. Let’s make the sauce.”
“Again, I don’t think you need my help.”
“I don’t.” He reaches over and tugs my arm, pulling me to the stove.
I don’t bother to fight him, though I’m still embarrassed. But I care less about the skillet when he steps up behind me, close enough I can smell him again, and begins explaining the process, using phrases like “deglaze the pan” and “reduce the liquid.”
I only half listen, distracted by the fact his jaw hovers over my shoulder.
“Are you paying attention?” he asks, using his magic to stir the simmering liquid.
“Not really.”
He turns his head, bringing his lips a whisper away from my ear. “Why?”
A pleasant tingle runs the length of my spine when the question tickles my skin, and my magic responds. It fizzles over me like sparkling water, on display yet again.
Ash inhales softly. “You’re distracting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m here to help you get your business affairs in order,” he reminds me, his words caressing my skin.
“Right.” My stomach clenches violently, my magic unpredictable.
“And we only met a few days ago,” he adds.
Consumed by his nearness and the cool smell of his magic, I swallow. “Are you reminding me or yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, which does not help the sparkling situation. “You’re sure you’re not a spring?”
My heart beats faster. “Pretty sure.”
“I’ve never done this,” he murmurs, moving his hands to my sides, testing us both.
I close my eyes. “You’re good at it for a complete novice.”
Ash chuckles. “Let me rephrase: I’ve never done this after only a few days.”
“Ah…but that’s the kind of thing men who do this sort of thing all the time say.”
“Is it?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“How can I convince you I’m a gentleman?” he asks, his cultured tone turning into a darker rumble.
I turn to face him, thinking. “Perhaps you should fumble a little. Pretend to be clumsy?”
A smirk tugs at his lips, and he meets my eyes. “I’ve never fumbled anything in my life.”
My knees wobble, and I nearly reach for him to keep my balance.
He clears his throat and nods toward the stove. “The sauce is done.”
Right. Dinner.
Swallowing my disappointment, I step aside to gather a couple of plates.
Pretending we didn’t have a moment, we sit down at the small kitchen nook table to eat.
Thoughts of romance fly from my mind when I take the first bite. “This is delicious.”
“It is,” Ash agrees.
“You’re a really good cook.”
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
I smile. “That’s such a high fae thing to say.”
He shrugs, cutting his chicken. “It’s true, though.”
“You’re a winter, aren’t you?”
Like pixies, high fae magic reflects a season.
However, there are only subtle cues that hint at their type—clues like the way their magic smells.
Being a winter, Ash’s magic would also reach its apex in the corresponding season.
But he won’t draw memories, like a pixie.
Nor will he sparkle when he’s interested in someone. His magic is uniquely high fae.
“I am,” he says. “How did you figure it out?”
“Your magic smells like snow.”
He looks up. “Snow doesn’t have a smell. It’s water.”
“Like the air then, right before it snows.” I look down at my plate. “It’s nice.”
“If we’re being poetic, suppose I’ll admit you smell like sunshine.”
I look up, smiling. “Is that repulsive to a snowman like you?”
“No.” Ash takes a sip of water. “It’s forbidden.”
I remember what Rowan said—how Ash would never be serious about me, and my mood instantly sobers. “Is everyone in your family a winter?”
Magic tends to follow family lines, but you can have a rogue season appear at any time. Two summer pixies will probably have a summer child. But they might have a spring, a winter, or an autumn. Fae genes are somewhat unpredictable like that.
“My mother is a winter. Gideon is an autumn, like our father. Anna is…” Ash frowns, uncomfortable. “We don’t know what she is.”
So, Rowan was right about that—Anna was born without magic. What if he’s right about Ash, too?
“She seems very good at her job,” I say.
Ash smiles. “Hers and everyone else’s.”
“Did the dragon find its way home?”
“It did, thankfully—though Gideon refused to issue a fine.”
Maybe autumn high fae are soft like their pixie counterparts.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, I say, “I looked up at least fifty different types of tea today. It’s far more complicated than I realized.
Did you know some farmers intentionally allow a type of insect to infect their tea crops because when they feed on the leaves, it triggers a defense mechanism in the plants and makes the tea sweeter? ”
“I did not know that.”
“And all true tea comes from one plant—Camellia Sinensis. The variations in taste are due to processing, the region in which it was grown, and the time of year it was picked. It’s amazing, really, that tea can taste different just because it was grown on, say, a mountain.”
“You seem fascinated.”
“I am. Even though this may appear obvious, I realized today that tea is, in fact, a plant.”
“You don’t say.”
“And as you might have noticed, I like plants.”
Ash’s eyes crinkle, amused. “I have noticed.”
We fall silent again, and I rack my brain for a subject—any subject. “I met Ryder today.”
Ash looks unimpressed. “I’m sorry.”
“Is he actually an elf?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I like him fine.” He pauses to cut another piece of chicken. “In small doses.”
He then turns the conversation to boring things, like estimated taxes and bookkeeping software.
I listen as I clear the plates, not understanding a word of it. As I load the dishwasher, Ash sets his laptop on the table and prepares several printouts, a notepad, and a few pens.
My chore doesn’t take nearly long enough. Reluctantly, I settle onto the chair beside him like a responsible small business owner and tell myself to pay attention.
“Of course, the amount you’ll owe will fluctuate from year to year depending on income and expenses,” he says, talking about taxes. “And this year will be even further from the average since the shop was closed for several months.”
I try to listen—I really do—but my eyes keep wandering to his handsome face.
He scrolls through an official-looking government website, pointing out important lines of text, engrossed in his lesson. But as the evening marches toward night, he yawns.
Maybe he’s just as bored as I am.
“It’s better to start an IRA sooner than later.” He stretches his neck. “With a traditional one, the taxes in the contribution are deferred, so you pay less up front, but you might want to look into a Roth IRA…”
He goes on about the differences, unaware I’m distracted.
Fascinated, I watch as he loosens the tidy, professional knot of blond hair and lets it fall. It’s long and straight…silky even.
Suddenly, Ash no longer looks like a councilman or a lawyer, but fae nobility.
I’ve never been drawn to long hair on a man, but maybe I haven’t been around the right men because Ash wears it well. Very well. If he exchanged his business attire for leather armor and strapped a bow on his back, he’d look like he stepped out of the pages of an epic fantasy novel.
“So, I think it would be wise to…” Ash trails off, pulling his eyes from the screen to look over at me, probably sensing I’m no longer following his lecture.
I rip my gaze back to the computer, but not before I see his forehead wrinkle.
“Kathleen,” he says sternly.
I frown at the web page, trying to look studious. “Hmm?”
“Are you paying attention?”
“Taxes. Investments. I’m with you.”
He angles his body toward me. “Do IRAs make you shimmer?”
This time, I hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, yes. They’re thrilling.”
“I agree, but I’m not sure they’re butterfly-inducing.”
Reluctantly, I pull my attention from the screen to look at his face. My stomach clenches as soon as our gazes meet. His dark brown eyes are focused on me and slightly narrowed, his lips parted.
I’m transfixed.
Not thinking, I lick my lips. His eyes follow the movement.
And then I feel it—his powerful high fae magic responding to mine. The air crackles between us, summer meeting winter.
Fire and ice.
I’ve never experienced anything like it before, but I’ve never gotten this close to a high fae. I’ve heard this can happen when opposite seasons connect, maybe even been secretly curious what it would feel like.
And I’m not the only one affected. Ash draws in a slow, measured breath, but it’s ragged. “We should talk about bookkeeping software.”
“Sure.”
“And you’ll need an accountant.”
“I want you.”
His lips twitch with a subtle smile. “I’m not an accountant.”
Unable to resist, I lean a touch closer. “That’s not what I meant.”
I might as well have tossed a lit match on a pile of dry wood soaked with kerosene. Ash’s magic flares, so refreshingly cool against my warm skin, I nearly groan. His eyes spark, and he reaches for me, our position awkward at the kitchen table.
“I don’t do this,” he says again, more to himself than me.
But whether he does it or not, his hand wraps around the back of my neck, his skin warm despite his season, and he pulls me forward.
Without hesitation, I lean in.
I don’t care that we’ve only known each other forty-eight hours, or that high fae don’t get involved with pixies. I just want his lips on mine and his magic chilling my fevered skin.
And we’re close—so close—when the freaking bird door smacks open, and Rowan once again graces us with his presence.