Page 34 of The Witch is Back

“No, you don’t have to... I don’t like my birthday anyway.”

“You used to.”

Her eyes met his. Even without words, they spoke to him.

He felt his heart twist. “Please?”

Finally she dipped her head in a jerky nod. “Fine.”

Something unclenched inside. “Make a wish, then.”

“Stupid.” But she did blow out the candle.

A thin trail of smoke curled upward as he passed it over. Her fingers brushed his. They were cold.

“What did you wish for?”

She didn’t look at him, only slid off the stool. “I didn’t. I have everything I want. Sorry, I just realized... I have to go meet someone.”

His mood curdled. “Who?”

Her forehead pinched and he realized he had no right to ask.

He looked at the stove. “The paella is almost ready.”

“I’m not hungry. I hope your shift goes well.”

“You’re not coming?”

She shook her head and left the room, taking her cell with her.

Bastian stared at the paella pan, gut roiling, until the stench of burning caught his nostrils. Just one more thing ruined.

CHAPTER 8

Unsurprisingly, Bastian was a perfect bartender. He was always on time for his shifts, always happy to help out or bring up supplies from the cellar, always friendly with the customers. Real friendly, Emma reflected, watching from the corner of her eye as she wiped down a section of the bar. That practiced grin of his had more than a few female hearts fluttering and a lot more than a few slipping their number across the bar.

Bastian hadn’t encouraged it overtly, but the man was always on like a light bulb that had no dimmer setting.

Well, she amended, except for the times she caught him watching her. She didn’t even know what to call that expression. She didn’t delude herself into thinking it was desire. More like...he was waiting for something.

For her to drop at his feet again? She’d sooner explain to him about Sloane.

Who had, unfortunately, developed an interest in Bastian, especially after Emma had relented and explained the whole situation. She supposed it had all the components for a teenager to be enthralled—drama, unrequited love, secrets upon secrets, curses. She’d tried to downplay it all, but there wasn’t really a way to downplay it that much.

Worse still was that Leah had shown her sister a picture of Bastian when Sloane had helped out on one of her shifts at the shelter. Emma didn’t even ask how Leah had a photo of him, but she cursed that she’d shown it to Sloane. Like waving a red rag at a bull, showing a gorgeous guy to an impressionable teen. Sloane now had it in her head that Emma and Bastian’s story could be some great romance. She was also pushing to meet him, which Emma was finding harder and harder to avoid. They’d argued last night on the phone and when she’d finally hung up and ventured out of her bedroom, Bastian had been right there, checking who she’d been arguing with, was she okay, could he get her a drink...

She sighed, rubbing the cloth in slow circles as Bastian continued to talk to three women in their early twenties. He was mixing them up the bar’s witchy signature cocktails—sans real witchiness. One of them laughed, flipped her hair over her shoulder and angled closer. So obvious.

Emma firmed her jaw and scrubbed the wood with more determination. Even without this thing with Sloane, it wasn’t getting any easier. He’d been back in her life for over a week. They even had a routine going like a regular couple. He would already be up by the time she ventured out of her bedroom, usually waiting with a myriad of different breakfasts, every day a new one from a place he’d visited.

Just because she hadn’t traveled didn’t mean she had to miss out, he’d said.

She hated him more for being so genial while she felt fit to burst with resentment over the past. Resentment and a small amount of guilt, she thought with a pang, but forced it aside. No point dwelling on that.

After breakfast, he disappeared to visit with his mom or do whatever he did, and she headed to the bar to bake or do admin or to kill time so she didn’t sit at home clock-watching for the minute Bastian would turn up.

He’d made a point of always being “home” for dinner, whether that was formal sitting-at-the-breakfast-bar dinner or takeout on the couch in front of Netflix. He hadn’t argued with any of her choices, insisting she watch what she wanted.

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