Page 42 of Curses & Cold Brew
“Let me fix it,” I insisted, holding my fingers over her hand as magic swirled from my fingertips. “Hold still.”
For once, she listened.
I whispered a healing incantation, and her wounds closed over to fresh skin, still pink and a little swollen but nearly healed.
“I could’ve done that myself, you know,” she murmured.
“I know.” I realized I was still holding her hand. Her fingers slowly splayed to encircle my wrist, but I nervously pulled away from her touch. “I just, uh, wanted to help.”
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat, putting her hands in her pockets as if putting them in timeout.
“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to tap into my clairvoyance?” I put my hands on my hips for effect, butthere was no bite. She didn’t owe me an explanation after I’d stormed off only to sheepishly return for her protection.
“You’re full of surprises.” She smiled down at me, but worry and sadness were in her eyes. “I had no idea you were clairvoyant.”
The blush on my cheeks gave me away in an instant. “Technically, I’m not, but I could make a few calls to the rumor mill and figure it out pretty quick.”
“Ah, so you’d use your witchy wiles for information, then?”
Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension in my own melted too.
“My wiles have to be good for something.”
She huffed a laugh, and we slipped into silence.
I looked all around me—the streetlights, the twinkling stars, the garden gate—but all I saw was that molten kiss that was burned into the back of my mind. My gaze lingered on her stoop, which was decorated with fall flowers and an expertly carved jack-o’-lantern of a witch flying on a broomstick, a crescent moon behind her.
“Wow. Who did you get that from?” It was an awkwardly executed attempt to carry on the conversation. “Randy?”
“I made it, actually.”
“You madethat? TheMona Lisaof pumpkins?”
She just shrugged. “I told you I had hobbies.” She swirled her fingers and the locked door behind me opened. “Come on. I have something I want to show you.”
I warily followed her inside. “Please tell me it isn’t some poor soul strung up on a rack wearing its intestines as a necklace.”
Her chuckle was deep and rasping. “I mean, I do collect antique torture devices,” she teased. “But what I want to show you is in the kitchen.”
“Heads in jars?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “That’s more of a witch thing.” She winked and my stomach flipped.
Shit.
Maybe I should’ve made Jordyn and Harlow stay with me. If Ramona winked at me like that again, I thought my panties would combust of their own volition.
With a shaky breath, I followed her down a long, dark hallway without a single decoration on the walls, apart from a lone nail that I guessed once held artwork. The first two rooms were austere and cold, with steel and black furnishings like some neo-modern city loft, but when we poured out into the kitchen, I caught little notes of personality—warmth, even: a scented candle, an embroidered tea towel, a ceramic bowl of crystals, and a floral painting reminiscent enough of Georgia O’Keefe to make clear that this was a sapphic home.
“I’ll be honest, I was expecting more damned souls and fewer vulva flowers.”
Ramona didn’t miss a beat. “The kitchen felt like the most appropriate place for the painting.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t that what people do in kitchens?” Her silver eyes met mine. “Surround themselves with their favorite things to eat?”
I choked on my own air, a furious blush burning across my cheeks as I thought about just how skilled Ramona would be with her mouth . . .
