Page 18 of The Royal Street Witch
“I’m opening the side gate. The front door is unlocked.” As his voice echoes from the receiver of my phone, the iron gate on the side of the house slides open and I walk through it and up the front steps. The yellow house is massive, and I wonder if that’s what keeps him in the Garden District. Does he like being out of the rush of the French Quarter? Does he like his privacy? And private it is, with windows encased with white shutters, and I can’t help but wonder how the light doesn’t sink through.
I open the front door, a burst of nerves chasing down my throat. It’s not pitch-black inside, but there are definitely multiple layers of something on the windows keeping the natural light out. The sun hasn’t risen completely, yet I quickly close the door to not let a single ray inside.
I hear him before I see him, whistling, and he turns a corner, and it makes me step back. I didn’t expect him to be in sweats and one of those tight, white tank tops, no, not at all. I didn’t expect his feet to be bare and for him to just ooze a casualness I could never possess.
“Hey there,” he says, approaching, and my eyes shoot up to the grand staircase I’m standing next to, anything to avoid looking at him. “You caught me just in time. Welcome.” He nods, and I allow a tight smile on my lips.
“I didn’t peg you for a yellow house kinda guy.”
His hair is wet and slicked back, his skin dewy from a fresh shower. “Yeah, I’ve got some renovating to do. I’ve been gone awhile.” He leans in as if he’s telling me a secret. “Though I admit, I still kinda like the yellow.”
He smells like spring so I lean back, looking up at a crystal chandelier that never sees sunlight, and that almost seems like a crime. “It’s…huge.”
He shrugs. “I like my space.” And at that he turns in front of me, licking his full bottom lip.
“I, uh, won’t keep you long. I just need some hair. So I can work on the spell today.”
Bastian smirks and runs a cool hand through his dark hair, almost black from being wet. “How much hair?” A suspicious eyebrow arches.
“Not much. Don’t worry.”
“Scissors are in the kitchen,” he says, placing his hand on the small of my back, and my spine straightens because it’s just so natural for him. And why am I not repulsed? Why does his hand feel like it fits right in the small of my back like a missing puzzle piece?
“Hair is used for a lot of love spells, right?” Bastian winks as he guides me down the hall, and there’s jazz in the air.
“Yes, but mostly balding spells.”
His feet halt, hand slipping away from my back. “You better never—”
“Jeez, come on!” I start walking again, keeping my distance because his hand on my back felt…lovely.
“Through here,” he says once he starts walking again, and the jazz in the air grows louder.
The kitchen—yeah, the kitchen. Now I’ve seen many a Garden District kitchen; I’ve snuck in through countless back doors and been led to various kitchens—a modern witch’s spell room—and this one is really no different. Grand white cabinets, a glossy marble floor, white granite countertops with a massive island in the center.
Bastian walks to the island, slides out a drawer, and brandishes a large pair of shears. “Be gentle,” he says as he places the scissors in my hand and hops on a bar stool.
“So cooperative,” I coo, approaching him. Discomfort hits me, the realization that I’m getting close enough to not only cut Bastian’s hair but to touch it. Chewing on my lip, I place myself between his wide legs and raise the scissors to his hair.
“Not much, right?” He ducks away, and I can’t help but laugh.
“No, it’s not much!”
He straightens back up, his eyes boring into mine, and I hope he didn’t hear me gulp as I grab a piece of hair, wet and slippery. His thighs seem to tighten around my waist, but when I look down, they are barely touching me. My eyes drop to his crotch, right in front of me, and my breath hitches and then he asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah, be still,” I respond, tightening the hair in my fingers again. That crisp sound of haircutting swings Bastian’s hand up to the spot on his head while I set the shears down and step out from his legs.
“Now if I suddenly fall in love with you, we both know why.” Bastian swivels on his stool, a serious look upon his face.
“Or if you suddenly go bald, we both know why.”
I place the hair in a velvet pouch, shoving it in my purse when the room fills with a song, a song I love so much my shoulders pull back.
“Creole Love Call,” I say, closing my eyes. “I fucking love this song.”
“Oh, it’s a jam.”
I open my eyes to Bastian standing, walking to the wall, and turning up the volume.
