Page 10 of Charmed, I'm Sure
Mother above—of course, he’s standing behind me.
Grabbing my piping bag, I picked up where I’d left off and began swirling lines of ivory buttercream around the board. “Oh, loads of people,” I said, not bothering to turn in his direction.
Maddie nodded emphatically, fighting the smile threatening to stretch across her face. “Mm-hmm… like Tom Hiddleston and Ryan Reynolds.”
“Or Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki fromSupernatural, they’re pretty hot, too,” I added. Aunt Evie and I were binge-watching it, and as much as I loved that show, I was beyond grateful that the supernatural part ofmylife was nothing like theirs.
“Oooh, what about Misha Collins? Isn’t he the guy who plays Castiel?” Maddie said as she snickered and waggled her brows at me.
I mentioned itone time. One. That Taylor looked kind-a,sort-a—if you squinted and tilted your head just right—like Misha Collins, and she justhadto bring it up in front of him.
“Oh?”
Taylor’s voice was closer now, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Piping bag still in hand, I turned toward him. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”
“Nothing. Just didn’t realize you went forolderguys, that’s all.”
His grin was far too smug, and my grip on the frosting bag was far too tight as it slowly started slipping through the tip. I placed the bag down on the counter before I ended up painting his face in buttercream and crossed my arms. “Is there a reason you’re in my kitchen?”
Maddie snickered behind me, then slipped back into the mixer, having finished both of our boards. Taylor took a step closer, but I refused to give an inch. This was my space. My business. There was no way I was going to let him dominate it. It didn’t matter that he was a good four or five inches taller than me, and I had to crane my neck to look him in the eyes.
“You’re in here.”
“Yes, well. It’smykitchen.”
“So you’ve said… twice now.”
The absolute gall of this man. Fisting my hand around my pendant, I took a deep breath. “Taylor, do I need to teach you manners like I taught Kyle?”
He flinched, actually flinched at my words, and a small part of me wanted to apologize. But then I remembered that he hadn’t said anything, hadn’tdoneanything—then or ever—and that small part died as quickly as it bloomed.
“Magnolia, about that—”
“Taylor, I don’t want to hear it. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.” I patted his chest and skirted around him. I hadn’t even reached the threshold before his hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me to a stop. When I met his gaze, guilt filled those ocean blues.
“I know, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
My brain slowed to a crawl at his words.Sorry?Did Taylor Hallows just apologize tome? That certainly wasn’t on my Bingo card for this year. Not sure where to go from there, I forced my head to bob, pulled my hand from his grasp, and disappeared into the crowd.
I felt his eyes on me the rest of the night. Felt them burning holes into my back while I talked to the guys at the party. Felt them searing into me as I stood behind the counter or went into the kitchen. He stayed the whole time, but he didn’t seem to really be interested in chatting with the women who were there. Which begged the question,why? Why was he there if it wasn’t to meet someone? Was it just to bother me?
Shaking the notion free from my mind, I focused on the smiling faces in front of me. But I also couldn’t help but notice when he slipped out the door.
4
Rougarou, is that you?
Taylor
WhatthefuckwasI thinking?That was the only thought circulating through my mind the morning after the mixer. I stood on my parent’s back porch, a cup of black coffee in my hand, and watched the early morning light filter through the Spanish Moss on the trees.
I knewwhyI went. My mom had insisted on it, her eyes pleading as she laid on the thickest guilt trip known to man when we’d met for lunch. I took a long drag of my now tepid coffee and watched the mist dance along the grass, the dew shimmering in the growing sunlight as I replayed our conversation in my mind.
“I signed you up for a mixer in town tonight.” The words were completely casual as the waitress walked away from our table after taking our drink orders.
“Mama—”
“Don’t you ‘mama’ me. You’re thirty-four. It’s time you settled down.” I rolled my eyes—something you should never do to a mother, let alone a Southern one—and she smacked me upside the head like she had when I was a teenager. “I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’d like to have some grandbabies before I’m eighty.”
