Page 8 of Witch Please

My brain hadn’t yet reassembled. Lost in a haze, replaying the last second over and again, I was not a hundred percent sure that had actually happened. The tingle on my lips suggested it had, similarly the racing pulse causing everything south to throb in tandem.

“Passion. Sensuality. Sexuality. Desire. Everything my witch needs.”

He kissed the tip of my nose before pulling my car door wider to allow me enough room to get in.

“I’ll see you tomorrowGeenie.”

* * *

Ihadn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. Not on my way home, my lips still tingling. The boiling water from dinner reminded me of the kiss. Reading my students homework assignments about the wide-reaching influence of Queen Victoria sent me back to the feel of his fingers in my hair, and his words whispering in my ear while we rehearsed and blocked Act Three.Bridgertonhad been on in the background while I updated my gradebook, and that library scene had me imagining all kinds of things with Sebastian Doyle, the friend-not-friend who kissed me in a way I’d never been kissed before. Like that didn’t make me re-evaluate my entire thirty-seven years on this earth. It wasn’t just because he was British either. I’d attended Oxford. I’d briefly dated a fellow scholar named Graham. His kisses had been too wet for my liking, and I had never really been able to get past that.

I’d woken up still distracted. So much so I’d put premium gas in my gas tank and said yes when the Starbucks barista had asked if I wanted to try a Red Eye when I mentioned how tired I was. Now while also still being in my head over that kiss, my heart raced as if I’d just run a marathon and I was pretty sure I could see the air move.

The things the innocent flower conceals.

The notecard, quoting the modernized version of theMacbethline sat in front of a vase of peonies and rested on top of Sarah Maclean’s latest regency release. It appeared that myfriendknew a few things.Okay, Doyle,I thought, picking up the book and flipping through the pages,you clearly know more about me than I thought you did.

As I flipped, the unmistakable blocked lettering of his handwriting jumped from the front page.

Whether reading beneath the trees of the Green or across the pond surrounded by the soothing sounds of the fountains in the Harcourt—may the secret things that bring you pleasure always continue to do so.

YourfriendBasti

He purposely wrote friend in cursive as if intentionally emphasizing it. That was the most immediate thing to jump out at me. It took a moment for me to realize that he also referenced a piece of my history that he was not part of. At least I didn’t think he was. Maybe he was just a really good user of Google.

Me: Hey—did Doyle attend Oxford?

Ishot off the message to my friend Patrick. If he and Sebastian had such a great friendship, he would certainly have the information I sought.

Patrick: Um? I’m confused.

Patrick: How did you not know he went to Oxford?

Me: It’s a very large university with lots of colleges?

Patrick: Interesting. I assumed based on conversations about his time there, that you two ran in the same circle.

Me: In the same circle? This is literally the first I’ve heard that Sebastian even went to Oxford.

Me: We were there together? The DPhil program is very small Patrick. There’s no way he and I were in the same classes.

Patrick: You’ll have to ask him. I think he may have been a post doc or lecturer. Why do you ask?

Me: Something he said during rehearsal had me curious.

Patrick: Why not ask him?

Me: And blow up his ego any more? If I ask him he’ll think I actually take an interest in the things he has to say and thus think he’s much more important than he is.

Patrick: The two of you. Good grief. If you ever got forced to actually communicate…

Iwaited patiently for him to finish that sentence. Stared obsessively for a good five minutes was probably more accurate. No further response came. To be frank, screw him for leaving a hanging thought like that. It drove me to distraction all day. HimandSebastian. All these suggestions just hanging in the air like overripened fruit. I wanted answers but had no idea what the questions were I wanted answering. Well, that’s not a hundred percent accurate. The questions that Sebastian’s gift called up; I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.

“Hey Dr. Pilar,” Sebastian’s new stage manager, Kennedy, said as she poked her head into my classroom just as the last of my freshman emptied out. “Sebastian wanted me to let you know that he’s cancelling the final table read for tonight’s rehearsal. He said he would be by after his last class to discuss the play with you.”

It was just past three. Our rehearsals typically began at four, because that gave him enough time to get from his last class—which also ended at three—and to the theater.

“Did he tell you why it was cancelling? We haven’t even finished a full week of table reads. That doesn’t seem wise given we only have eight more weeks until the festival begins and everyone needs to be off book for Act One by Monday.”

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