Page 18 of Sugar, Spice, and Magical Midlife

I looked over at Ric, noticing the tension lines in his neck and forehead and the way he clutched the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. “So are you.”

“Sorry.” He shrugged, clutching the wheel tighter. “Today’s been strange.”

I let out a laugh that sounded forced. “To say the least.”

His eyebrows dipped beneath thick bangs. “Your assistant.”

“Speaks without engaging her brain.” Swallowing back a lump of granite, I twisted my fingers in my lap. Guess the awkward elephant in the truck was going to make himself noticed.

“But she obviously cares about you,” he added, his voice softening.

“She does.” I nodded, a wave of guilt washing over me for what I’d said about Ethyl, even though she’d deserved it. “She’s been like a sister to me, which is why I haven’t fired her.” More than a sister, a best friend whose grandmother had taken me in after I’d lost my parents. I would’ve gone to an orphanage if it hadn’t been for Nana Clara, and orphanages in the magical world were only a step up from mental institutions.

“Wish I could say the same for Lenny.” Ric groaned, dragging a hand through his thick hair.

After pulling into the parking lot, he turned off the ignition, and that awkward silence between us magnified without the purr of the truck engine.

“So there’s a werewolf movie that starts at seven-thirty.” He made a big show of checking his watch.

I perked at that. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to see that one.” Even though humans always got the magical realm wrong in movies, they were still fun to watch, mainly so I could make fun of them.

Before I knew it, he was out of the truck and my heart beat double-time. He’d opened the door for me when I’d gotten in, but was I supposed to wait for him to let me out? I wasn’t ahelpless damsel in distress, but I’d been absent from the dating scene for so long, I’d no idea proper protocol.

When Ric opened my door, I heaved a sigh of relief. My mother would’ve said he was a true gentleman. She’d been into old-fashioned romance. I couldn’t count the number of classic romance movies and television shows I’d watched with my mother growing up.

Thoughts of my mother nearly made me tear up as I took Ric’s arm and let him lead me toward the movie theater. Forcing myself to calm down, I heaved a slow breath, thanking Ric when he held open the glass theater door.

The theater was teeming with husks. As far as I could tell, there were no other striga (magical folk) here, and not just because I knew all the striga in Santa Fe, but because none of them had auras. All striga had auras, an unusual pale glow that clung to their skin like a shroud and could only be seen by other magical folk. During the day striga usually concealed auras with spells, because of some old dressing down tradition, but at night many liked showing off their glow. The stronger the glow, the more powerful the striga, one reason I chose to keep the concealment spell on even at night. To say my glow was powerful would’ve been an understatement. Because of my unusually strong magic, my aura was practically blinding. The only other witch I knew with a stronger aura was Des. I concealed both our auras for a few reasons, but mainly because I didn’t want to draw any attention to ourselves. Sure, powerful striga were more esteemed, but they were also more coveted, especially by nefarious creatures in the magical world.

After what had happened to my parents, I certainly didn’t want to attract the succubi’s attention, which was why I lived in Santa Fe. Despite the town’s unusual inhabitants, the magical population was surprisingly small. I felt more comfortable around husks than magical folk, anyway, mostly because succubiweren’t attracted to humans, and the soul suckers preferred to be close to their food source, large cities like London, New Orleans, or New York.

Instinct told me Ric’s magic was powerful. I wondered why he didn’t have an aura. Was he concealing his, too? If so, did it have something to do with why he wasn’t in the registry?

I serenely smiled when he purchased two tickets. I could’ve bought my own ticket. My bakery was finally doing well, but I decided to let him continue to play the role of the gentleman, knowing my mom would’ve approved.

Imagine my surprise when my perfect gentleman bypassed the concession stand and walked me straight toward the theater, his hand pressing against the small of my back.

The smell of fresh, buttered popcorn hit me like a frying pan to the head, taunting me with its sweet, salty goodness. No way was I passing up a popcorn and refreshing soda. I didn’t care if Mr. Gentleman made me pay for it myself.

I dug my heels into the carpet. “Hang on.” I nodded toward the stand. “I’m hungry.” My stomach rumbled as if to emphasize my point.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand through his hair while awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “I figured you already ate, since you work in a bakery.”

I let out an unladylike snort. “Do you think I eat donuts for dinner?”

“No.” He scratched the back of his head, his cheeks flushing. “Uh...let me get you something.” He pointed to a backlit menu hanging over the concession stand. “They have a delicious looking kale salad.”

“Kale salad?” I waved a hand down my body. “Do these look like kale salad hips to you?”

“ No.” I thought I saw a beast flash in his eyes as he gave me an appreciative smile. “They certainly don’t.”

Embarrassment heated my cheeks at the way his gaze raked over my body, and I was glad Ethyl talked me into tummy support jeans, though I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed in my bit of fluff when (and if) I let him peel them back off me. I thought twice about the popcorn as I walked toward the concession stand, but my rumbling tummy reminded me I had skipped supper to fit into these jeans. The least I could do was get a small popcorn. Or a medium. But no extra butter. Well, maybe a little extra. Who was I kidding? I wouldn’t be satisfied unless those little nuggets were crying out for life preservers while drowning in buttery goodness.

I cringed, stepping back and nearly tripping over Ric’s feet after I got in line behind a pair of husk men that smelled like onions. They were still in their gym clothes, which explained the smell. How considerate they were to skip the showers after their workouts.

I breathed in through a wheeze, then spoke over my shoulder. “I’m just going to get a small bucket of popcorn,” I lied. I was already eyeing the medium while intentionally refusing to guess the calories.

“Popcorn?” He scratched his shadowed jaw. “But they use so much butter here.”

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