Page 10 of Wooing the Wiccan
His hand stops a few inches from my collarbone. “Is it a necklace? I’m sorry—I’m being nosy.”
I relax. “Nosy is my default setting, so don’t worry about that. Yes, it’s a necklace.” I fish inside my sweater and draw out the chain and pendant for him to see. “Amethyst, for calm and peace.”
He leans in to look closely. “That’s stunning workmanship. Did you make it yourself?”
I laugh, because the setting around the crystal is intricate silversmithing, and the extent of my jewelry-making abilities is what the kids and I do in class. “No, I commissioned it from a silversmith—a fellow witch.” I use the word deliberately, watching for his reaction, but there isn’t one. Whatever causedhim to worry about “magic,” it doesn’t apply to “witch.” “They do the most stunning work.”
“They do indeed,” he murmurs, examining it as well as he can with it still around my neck. “I don’t suppose you’d share their contact information?” He finally sits back and lifts his gaze to meet mine again.
“Of course.” I slip the pendant back inside my sweater and grab my phone, feeling suddenly confident. “Here, put your number in, and I’ll text you their details.” I hold out my phone and add, “I promise not to misuse your number.”
He takes the handset and looks me straight in the eyes as he replies, “You can use my number whenever you like.”
CHAPTER SIX
Raðulfr
My phone chimeswith a message alert in the middle of a meeting with Brandt and Sam. That’s not unusual—when you’re the head of a government, you need to be contactable all the time. I glance down at the screen while Brandt continues to explain why it’s not a bad thing that his dragons have been racing human planes. Jared’s name on the screen makes me smile, and my hand twitches with the need to check the message immediately.
“…been using distortion shields every single time, and— Raðulfr, is there something you want to share?”
I jerk my head up, startled. “What?”
Curiosity is written all over Brandt’s face, and there is nothing more dangerous than a curious dragon. “You’re smiling.”
Oh, no. “Am I not allowed to smile anymore?” I counter.
“Not when you’re about to admit it’s okay for dragons to race planes as long as they’re not seen.” He stares me down. “You’re hiding something.”
“I wasn’t going to admit that, and yes, of course I am. Just like you are. We don’t tell each other everything, Brandt. Be reasonable.” I try to sound exasperated.
“If we could get back to the matter at hand,” Sam suggests, but it’s too late. Brandt’s been distracted.
“Who was that message from? The one that made you smile?” he demands. “Tell me or I’ll tell Cecy that you ate her cake.”
Sam and I exchange confused looks. “What cake?” Sam asks.
Brandt waves his hand dismissively. “Kethe saved her a piece of cake and someone ate it. She’s been on a rampage ever since. Who sent the message?”
“Cecy was on a rampage? I don’t think you have the right word.” I shake my head. “She’s more likely to use tears than destruction.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.” Brandt stands and leans across the table toward me, planting his palms on the surface. “I must know who sent that message!”
“You’re the one who brought Cecy into this,” I argue. I’m actually enjoying myself, which is a surprise. “The message was from one of my viceroys in Europe. She’s expecting her first child. Is that not reason enough for me to smile?” Ididget that message, but it was yesterday.
Brandt straightens and collapses back into his chair. “Oh. That’s nice—please pass my congratulations to her. But seriously, Raðulfr, why couldn’t it have been something truly interesting? Even a funny joke would have been welcome.”
“This is going to be another meeting where we don’t stick to the agenda, isn’t it?” Sam muses. I shoot him a commiserating smile. We’re both used to Brandt’s idiosyncrasies, but somehow they still always manage to take us by surprise. Dragons are good at that.
“You’re mostly the person who sends me funny jokes,” I point out. “But if it will make you happy, I can ask my team to source some for the next meeting.”
He rolls his eyes and pouts as only a thirty-thousand-year-old dragon can. “That takes all the fun out of it. How can we have been friends this long without you having learned how to be fun?”
“I feel like I should stand up for those of us whoarefun, but just not on a dragon or hellhound level,” Sam says.
“Thank you. Alistair still being Alistair?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“I’m used to it.”
