Page 31 of The Witch is Back

Feeling a flush of embarrassment, he spotted another picture frame, this one of the Amazon. He pointed. “More bugs, torrential rainfall, but amazing cultures hidden in there. You’d love the flora.” He figured that was a safe bet since her home was outfitted with plants. At least that hadn’t changed. A feeling of gladness warred with the ever-present doubt.

He moved his eyes along the other picture frames, spotting Edinburgh Castle, a Bali island, the Great Wall of China, Sydney Opera House...

“Why haven’t you traveled?” he asked, turning to face her. She clearly wanted to.

Her gaze on his was steady as she appeared to search for an answer.

“I have responsibilities” was what she finally opted for. “Some of us do.” As he absorbed the insult’s punch, she gestured at the couch. “I don’t have a spare room.”

“I’ve slept on worse.” Besides which, he could always transmogrify it into a bed if it proved lumpy. He slid his rucksack off his shoulder, placed it next to his temporary bed. “Thanks for this, Emmaline. I know it feels a little weird now, but it’ll work out.” He hoped.

Her look turned doubtful, but she didn’t speak against him. “Your shift starts at eight, so you have time if you want to go into the city.”

“Sure, we can do that.” He was easy. “Somewhere you want to go for dinner?”

She blinked. “Ah...”

“Italian still your favorite?”

“No. I mean, yes, but... I meant if you wanted to go into the city. Alone.”

He took the second hit on the chin. “You really don’t like me, huh.” It would be hypocritical to get upset since he had so many unanswered questions about her. Guess he was hypocritical. He forced a smile. “How about I cook?”

A beat passed. “You’re serious?”

“Sure. I’ve learned some things. Do you like paella?”

He headed for the kitchen, swerving to avoid Chester, who spat out a bone he was carrying, dropping down and proceeding to gnaw on it with low grumbles of glee.

Emma trailed him. “You cook?”

“I mean, I’m no master chef, but I can throw ingredients together.” He motioned to the stools. “You can watch and talk to me.”

She didn’t move.

“Please?”

With slow resignation, she slid onto a stool. A beer appeared in front of her and she closed her hand around it, lifting it up to drink.

Another surprise. Emmaline was a common beer drinker. He bet that would have made Clarissa screech if she knew.

He conjured a paella pan and the ingredients he needed. “You got a sharp knife, cutting board?” He got them out when she pointed. “So. Tell me. Why did you open a bar?”

Silence met his question.

His knife slid through the chorizo as he chopped, concentrating on that, allowing her time to face the fact that she’d have to talk to him for this to work. And it had to work.

When she spoke, her voice was taut. “Why not a bar?”

“You don’t seem the bar type.”

“And what type am I?”

He shrugged. “The bakery type.” Indicating the antique teacups everywhere, he added, “Or a tearoom.”

Her eyes narrowed but Goddess knew what he’d said wrong.

Then she said, “Predictable. Boring.”

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