Page 27 of Curses and Cauldrons

I lower my gaze to my clasped hands. “I know. I just don’t want trouble.”

“If you don’t want trouble, then you’ll do what you’re told and get over to that address.”

I nod and turn to leave the room.

“And Josephine.” I stop and look at her over my shoulder. “Do try to fix this.” She circles her face with a grimace. “You look positively sickly. Don’t forget your coffee.” She pushes a to-go cup across her desk.

“Yes, Mother,” I agree and slip out of her office, the scrap of paper clutched in one hand, my coffee in another.

I have just enough time to drive across town and get to the Grand Mystic Resort before my appointment. The address is one of the villas tucked into the densely wooded area surrounding the resort. Ancient oaks flank the paved lane, their barebranches creating a canopy of twisted sticks. The leaves have all fallen off the trees, and the overcast day presents a haunting but beautiful picture as I drive toward the address.

I pull up in front of one of the villas farthest from the resort. It’s so private back here that you can’t see any other signs of life, even though there are other places within walking distance. The house is newer but built to mimic a cottage, only larger. The one-story home has pristine white siding, a front porch with a swing, and an attached garage. The yard is perfectly manicured, with uniformly trimmed bushes and flowerpots that are empty in this cold season.

Who called for me? A name would have been nice.

I park in the driveway and get my massage table out of the trunk with a heave. It’s more awkward than anything, although after I’m drained from healing, it’s always harder to lug around. Another reason I really dislike house calls.

The front door has a half window that’s partially frosted, and I look inside as I ring the bell. A shadow moves on the other side of the door and just before it opens, I know who’s inside.

I take a step back as Roman Blackthorn is revealed in all his dark, handsome glory. He’s wearing a dress shirt and vest, but his jacket is nowhere to be found. I didn’t know that I had a thing for three-piece suits, but dear lord, the look is lethal on Roman Blackthorn. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt are rolled up, revealing bronze forearms that a businessman shouldn’t be sporting. There’s the hint of scars on his arms, but I would never be bold enough to ask about them. I’ve felt the sculpted muscle of Roman’s arms and chest, and there is nothing but lean strength in his body.

The memory of unbuttoning his shirt, desperate for the feel of his warm skin, sends a blast of heat up my neck and cheeks.

Roman’s mouth twitches, and his eyes narrow on my face. “Is there a reason you’re the color of a beet?”

I’ve let people walk over me my entire life. I let my mother, sister, father, all push me around. But there’s something about Roman that makes me want to bite back, to straighten my spine, and not cave.

“Most people say hello when they open the door.”

“I’m not most people.” Roman’s dark brow arches up.

“No, you’re someone who paid my mother for me to come here.” I freeze as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that.

Roman’s mouth snaps shut. He takes a step back and makes a sweeping gesture. “Please come inside, Miss Delvaux.”

I heft the table up on my shoulder, ready to step inside. Roman frowns and takes it from me before I can protest, setting it against the wall. He manages to do it without ever touching me. Is that on purpose?

The interior of the cottage is masculine and yet inviting. The entire place smells like Roman’s spicy scent, and I nearly inhale a deep hit of it before stopping myself. I’m losing my mind.

The house is all open concept. From the entry, I see the living room, kitchen, and a sunroom. There’s a stone fireplace with a large television mounted above. The fire has been turned on and is flickering welcomingly. It’s tempting to grab a pillow off the couch and plop down in front of it with a book and read for hours. Or it would be if Roman Blackthorn weren’t taking up all the space in the room with his mere presence.

“Come sit down.” Roman motions toward an overstuffed leather club chair and then the couch, letting me take my pick.

I settle on the edge of the chair, tucking my hands between my thighs so I don’t fidget.

“Would you like something to drink?” Roman is standing in front of the fireplace a few feet away. Everything about him, his presence, his stature, is overwhelming. His gray gaze is more perceptive than most, and I doubt he misses a thing.

“No. I just… Why am I here?”

Roman nods, but he doesn’t make a move to sit down. What is this about? If he wanted to see me, why didn’t he just send a text? Is he going to threaten me or blackmail me for what we did at the founders party? He’s in for a surprise, if that’s the case. I don’t have anything to give up. Unless he’s looking for healing. Does he want me to heal someone? I’d do it without having to be pressured into it if he just asked.

That’s the thing my mother doesn’t understand either. If someone is sick, it’s worth the pain to help them get better. Most of the customers who come into our spa aren’t struggling with chronic illness. They’re just rich assholes who want a boost from my magic. Many of those who could use my services the most can’t afford the prices to come to our spa. I try to help heal in the community when I can, but I’m often so tapped out that I have nothing left after a day of work.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” Roman says. His voice is deep and full of darkness. It sends a shiver down my spine, but not out of fear.

“What?” The only thing I can think of is work. Does he want to hire me for the Grand Mystic spa? I work for my family. There’s no way my mother will let me quit my job. And I can’t take on more work. I’ll never be able to get out of bed.

“It’s a personal question.” Roman tugs on his vest, straightening it. My eyes widen slightly. Was that a nervous tell? Is he anxious?

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