Page 65 of A Winding Wave of Magic
Aflashlight was shining directly into my eyes.
Or maybe it was a laser.
I squinted. No, just the morning light, a most inconvenient sunbeam streaming through my bedroom window. The light flickered as the trees swayed in the wind, like an iridescent disco ball.
“Christ,” I muttered, grabbing my head and rolling my face back into the pillow.
My head throbbed, my mouth tasted like the dark side of death. I felt like Dorothy in Oz, waking up in a field of poppies. Exactly how much had I drunk last night?
One bottle of wine, which had eventually been replaced with another. A dinner I’d barely touched as I’d digested the news of a magical council and my future place on it. A future that allbut erased whatever peaceful life I had been planning for myself. A small college job in Oregon? Forget about it. I was supposed to go to Ireland, find long-lost family friends or relatives or something who would train me for my new job for the next four years for the biggest test of my life. It was like grad school all over again, complete with the defense at the end—except this time I wouldn’t just be defending a thesis. I’d be defending my merits.
And if I said no?
The boogie man in the shadows would supposedly be able to come after me too. And possibly my mother. And whoever else might be attached to us.
I groaned. Water. All I needed right now was water. Then some extremely strong tea. And then maybe a shower or four.
Eventually, I found my way into the kitchen for drinks and anything else edible left in the house. The prospects were grim—a mishmash of baking ingredients and canned goods. Stewed tomatoes sounded terrible. There were a couple of eggs left…perhaps pancakes were the way to go.
I shoved a handful of stale granola into my mouth while I set some hot water to boil and pulled out the ingredients for my intended breakfast.
“Good morning.”
I shrieked, sending a spray of granola across the room at the sound of a charmingly scratchy, English-accented voice.“Jesus! Jonathan?”
“It would appear so.”
He sat up blearily on the sofa, one of Gran’s afghans draped over his lap. His suit and shirt were hanging neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs., leaving him in just his underclothes.
“I hope you don’t mind. You graciously allowed me to drive you home because you seemed…a bit out of sorts. It was presumptuous of me to stay, but I didn’t particularly relish thethought of walking the two miles back to the inn. Not in those shoes. Not in the rain.”
I rubbed one hand over my eyes, vaguely recalling my drunken walk to the car from the restaurant.
“I can open my own door,” I slurred. “Don’t you try anything.”
He helped me into the passenger seat, hands feathering over my waist and hips as he buckled me in.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, though his eyes glittered as he pulled the keys from my grasp.
After that, I remembered nothing. How had I even reached my bedroom? How had my clothes changed from the mustard-colored dress to my favorite pajamas? How had I managed to get into bed, turn off the light, and settle under the covers without so much as a trip?
I turned back to the kitchen, studiously ignoring his gaze.
“Do you always drink so much with strangers?”
Something in the tone of his question made me look up sharply. “Always?”
“Well, first in Portland, and now here. Seems a bit reckless.”
I looked up to find him pulling on his pants. It was hard not to ogle at the sight of his long legs slipping into the wool fabric. Harder not to notice the sinewy muscles in his arms or the way his shirt clung to his chest. It was even more irritating that I couldn’t seem to stop staring.
With enormous effort, I moved my attention to measuring out flour as he came to sit at the counter. “It’s been a hard time, if you hadn’t noticed. In Portland, Reina and I were having whiskey in Gran’s honor. She…she was always telling me to live more.”
“And last night?” he prodded.
I looked up. I wasn’t surewhathad come over me last night. After reading through Gran’s will several more times and havingno more clue what I wanted to do about my “inheritance” than when I started, I had drowned my confusion in the wine that never seemed to stop flowing.
Jonathan’s gaze was as unnervingly penetrating now as it had been last night. And once again, I found myself wondering if it would be in poor taste to add a tot of whiskey to my tea just to get through the morning.
