Page 71 of The Witch is Back

In any case, he voted yes to the idea of hiring someone. A witch wedding planner could pull something together in no time. He wondered if Emma had thought about it at all, if she’d dreamed what the day would be like. She probably had at twenty-one. Now...

“Even more reason for you and Emmaline—Emma—to come to dinner tonight. We can talk basics then. I’ve asked your father to dig up some names. One meeting, Bastian,” she said to his silent groan.

He only did it for effect, to be normal. In truth, he would coat himself in flowers and skip down the aisle if it meant his mom getting well.

She lifted up from where she reclined, faltering as her arms gave way. His heart stuttered. She pushed a piece of paper through the mirror. He grabbed it and glanced at the scribbles.

“Names of three wedding planners in the magical community,” his mom said, confirming his suspicions. “And how is six o’clock for dinner?”

He resigned himself to the inevitable. “Great. We’re having roast beef, right?”

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it? Unless Emma is a vegetarian?”

He thought of the other night, with her shoveling his paella into her mouth. “No, strictly a carnivore.”

“Good. I’m sorry about the early time... I just get so tired these days.”

“It’s fine, Mom.” He tried to sound lighthearted even when that heart was so heavy, it would sink to the bottom of the ocean in eight point two seconds. “You know me, I can always eat.”

“Apologize to Emma for me.”

“I don’t need to. She’s not like that.”

Something he’d said made his mom cock her head. “Oh? What is she like?”

Many adjectives came to mind, not all suitable for a mom to hear. “Nice.”

“Do me a favor: never tell her that. Nice.” His mom shook her head, frowned as if it had hurt. “What woman do you know who’d ever want to be described as ‘nice’?”

“You raised a heathen, what can I say?”

“Don’t I know it. Six o’clock,” she said, and he repeated it. “We’ll welcome her into the family.”

He ignored the weird pang in his chest as he gave his mom a nod.

An hour later, one conjured cup of Starbucks and a few episodes of Friends down, Bastian had still not successfully ignored the weird feeling his mom had given him. Like he and Emma were really getting married.

Though, if they were really getting married, he mused, leaning back against the couch and eyeballing Emma’s door, things would be different. He wouldn’t be out here on the couch, for one thing.

Images of a bed and Emma’s body had barely begun to dance in his mind when her bedroom door opened, startling him into bobbling his take-out cup. She emerged, dressed in jeans and a gray sweater that weren’t at all like the blue number she’d had on that night. He’d noticed she didn’t tend to wear colors. A damn shame. In that teal number, she’d about stopped his heart.

“Morning.” He fought not to stare. Instead he concentrated on Chester, who trotted up to Emma to say hello. She stroked his head idly. “Ah, I conjured coffee. You want?”

“I can grab some.”

“No, seriously. What’s your order?”

“You’re sure?” His exasperated noise made her grin. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll have a mocha latte.”

“Thought you didn’t have a sweet tooth.” He handed over the drink, taking care not to brush fingers. Not for any specific reason.

“When did I say that?” She headed to the kitchen and he trailed behind.

“I just never see you eat a lot of sweets.” He leaned on the infamous breakfast bar, blocking memories with determined focus.

She slid bread into the small toaster. “I didn’t know you watched what I ate.”

He watched her too much. He let it slide. “Speaking of eating, got plans for later?”

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