Page 11 of Midlife Witch Unexpected

“I have to go upstairs and change,” I bumbled the words out as I edged my way to the staircase.

“I don’t know,” Branson looked at me sideways. “The towel looks kind of good to me.”

The cheek of him! “Don’t talk about my towel.” There was no hiding my burning skin. “Just go in the other room so I can walk up the stairs without my but showing, thank you.”

Branson looked like he was about to protest. But then he chuckled. “Sure, I’ll go wait in the kitchen.”

I turned back toward the stairs and the towel wrapped around my hair slipped and fell, draping itself right in front of my face. Could this get any worse? I cinched the other towel tighter around my body. I wasn't letting that one drop, no way. This forty-nine-year-old body didn't need to be seen. Though the thirty-something's expression had been appreciative, I didn't want to risk it. I was never really in bad shape, but I was middle-aged and some areas were drooping. I wasn't really into them drooping and even though I did yoga and went for runs, the body changed over time. I had a little pooch in my belly from my baby, and, well, it was just nothing this guy needed to see. Even though from the look on his face, it seemed like he wouldn't mind seeing.

“Go,” I pointed to the kitchen door as I edged to the bottom step.

It took me a little longer than I thought it should to get ready. It was hard to decide if I should put on my jeans or just stay in my leggings. I didn’t want it to look like I was making too much effort. Definitely not a dress. That much I knew. I was just going to pick up the jeep. And why would I even wear a dress for him?

Because he was smoking hot.

There was no denying it. I stared at myself in the mirror.

He was smoking hot and flirty with me.

If I had a chance to be with a guy like that I’d be an idiot to not take it.

But, also, there was nothing more pathetic than an older woman throwing herself at a younger man. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that level of rejection.

I grabbed a mustard yellow slouch sweater that picked up the gold highlights in my hair. At least that’s what Sabrina, my daughter, said when she told me to buy it.

Now for a pair of snow boots.

There wasn’t snow on the ground yet, but my bags weren’t unpacked either and the only thing handy was a pair of boots made for snow.

Branson had coffee made and was sitting by a fire in the kitchen when I walked in. He picked up the conversation from the night before as if we hadn’t just spent ten hours apart. “When did your mom move away?”

I grabbed my drink and moved by the warm fire. “When she was sixteen. She said this was a dangerous place to come to. Bad things happen to good people here.”

Branson reason eyebrow. “That’s pretty dramatic.”

“Well, I come by my drama naturally.” I laughed.

“And, let me guess, your dad was level-headed?” Branson smiled.

“Bingo,” I said. “It’s always hard to imagine my mother had roots in a place like this.”

“Really deep roots,” Branson said with a nod.

“The pioneer family founded the town,” I said. “It sounds so glamorous but at the end of the day, it just means they own this house.”

“And the cemetery,” Branson said.

“Right,” I chuckled. “We own dead people.”

“You. You’re the sole owner,” Branson pointed out.

“Yes,” I agreed. “The house will sell as an oddity. Somebody could make money out of it as a bed-and-breakfast, or run tours of it, or something. I’m sure it’s something of a cultural landmark.”

“Have you thought of staying?” Branson asked.

“No,” I said.

“You’re going back to Los Angeles?” Branson asked.

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