Page 17 of The Witch's Cottage
“Nothing,” I answer innocently. “Want some tea?”
Without waiting for him to respond—I know how that usually goes—I pour the hot tea into a little floral teacup, then place it on a saucer and hand it across the table to him. He handles the porcelain like a newborn babe, again making me smile to myself.
“Here, try the bread.” I slather a thin layer of the rosemary butter onto a slice, then hand it over. Our fingers brush, the touch sending little tingles through my hand.
He takes a bite, and a sigh escapes him. I wait with excitement curling in my stomach.
I’ve always enjoyed cooking and baking for myself, but there’s something so special about feeding others and watching their faces light up with satisfaction.
“It’s delicious,” he announces, promptly following the first bite with a second, then a third. The slice is gone before I can even swipe any butter onto mine.
“I’ve been playing with my recipe. I want to bake something wonderful for the Ostara festival. To make a good first impression, you know?”
Alden just nods and sips his tea, then reaches for another slice.
And somehow, it makes me feel triumphant, like I finally broke through his rough exterior with a bit of homecooked bliss.
We enjoy our meal together, sipping tea and taking slices of the warm bread. Alden doesn’t say much, but I don’t mind it. Instead of words, we’re surrounded by birdsong and the whisper of the breeze through the forest, playing its own special tune.
“That was... somethin’ else.” Alden finishes his cup of tea and sits back in his chair with a contented sigh. “You make that for Ostara, you’ll put people into a bread coma.”
Smiling to myself, I take another sip of tea. Alden watches me from across the table, and I don’t miss the way his eyes find my mouth as I lick the last drop of tea from my bottom lip. It reminds me of our kiss in the kitchen—and of other things I’d like to do with him.
He clears his throat and glances toward the cottage. “So, what do you need my help with?” His gaze tracks across the cottage. “Everything looks fine to me.”
Excitement bubbling in my veins, I hop up from the table. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I scurry back into the house, past Harrison where he’s sprawled out in a patch of sunlight on the stairs, and into the second bedroom. After picking up two cans from the closet, I head back outside, failing to keep a big smile from my face.
When Alden sees what I’m carrying, he arches a brow. “You want to paint the cottage?”
“Well, Brookside needs a bit of color,” I say, turning to look up at the dull exterior. The paint has long faded, giving the entire cottage a gloomy feel. Auntie would never have let it get this way while she was still living here, and it feels like this is one of the last updates that needs to be made.
Looking back to Alden, I hold out one of the cans. “So, what do you say? Want to help me bring it back to life?”
He considers for such a long moment that my arm gets tired holding the paint can. And just when I’ve aboutconvinced myself he’s going to say no, he offers me a tiny hint of a smile. “Sure.”
THE SPRING DAY COOPERATES BEAUTIFULLY. It’s the first truly warm day we’ve had; I even opt for a short-sleeved blouse and a lightweight skirt under my painting apron. Alden doesn’t bother covering his tunic and trousers, probably because he works in them anyway.
As the sun arches across the pale blue sky, Alden and I work on painting Brookside a vibrant yellow. With each swish of my paintbrush across the faded old cottage, I feel a bit of magic swirling inside me.
Because Auntie wouldlovethis. She’d love the cheerful color and the drapes billowing in the windows and the kettle of tea sitting on the garden table. I can imagine her sitting there, long silver hair tickling her elbows, laughing in that twinkling way of hers.
I cannotwaitfor Samhain. Surely she’ll stop by.
When we’ve nearly finished painting and are just touching up the last few spots, I set my painting supplies down so I can peel off my boots and socks and press my toes into the earth, relishing the tingle of energy that curls up my ankles and into my body.
“What are you doing?” Alden asks, paintbrush held in one hand and a paint can in the other.
“Connecting with the earth.” I twist a little bit, loving the feel of my skirt swishing around mycalves. “Go on, try it.”
He looks down at his feet with a wrinkled brow. “I don’t know...”
“Why not? You weren’t born with boots on, you know.” Grabbing my paintbrush, I flick paint in his direction, and it splatters across his cheek.
He freezes.
Everything goes still. I think even the birds hold their breath.
