Page 7 of Boss Witch

“About the goats? Absolutely. Unless the farm has changed and didn’t update their site. I can’t be held responsible for technological neglect.”

“No, indeed.”

Since Clem was driving, she couldn’t look at Gavin for long, and that was good since she liked his face. That part of the mission was easy; she didn’t have to pretend to find him attractive, and truth be told, sheenjoyedflirting with him.

Currently, she was fuzzy about the endgame; she needed to get with Ethel and find out if her mother had left any notes on how she’d gotten rid of the witch hunter in the thirties. Until then, if she kept Gavin’s eyes fixed on her, he shouldn’t be hunting her coven sisters, and that had to do. Tightening her knuckles on the wheel, she didn’t let herself fret over a permanent solution.

Live in the moment.

That posed a challenge for Clem since she loved her plans and preferred keeping a schedule to being spontaneous. In fact, she was the least likely person to propose having adventures with a random stranger or go on random dates that might end in sweaty sex. She took a sip of her iced latte to cover the silent void created by her racing thoughts.

Oh no, I’m already dropping the ball.

“We’re keeping it light,” she said, “so I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask personal questions.” She cut a look in Gavin’s direction and found him gazing out at the endless cornfields that surrounded St. Claire.

At this stage, the stalks were tall and green, though not as big as they’d be right before harvest time. The terrain couldn’t hold much interest, as the land was flat, dotted with farms and country houses set back from the road with long driveways wending through mature and stately trees. Occasionally there was a billboard about Jesus, one promising a huge legal settlement, or a hand-­painted sign offering hay, dirt, or fresh fruit in season.

“You can ask. I don’t promise that I’ll answer.”

“What brings you to the U.S.?”

“You assume that I don’t live here,” he said.

“If so, you must’ve just moved in, because otherwise Mrs. Carminian would’ve gotten the scoop from Walter Reynolds. He’s the local Realtor, not a gossip per se, but Mrs. Carminian has a nose for newcomers.”

“The local busybody,” Gavin said, smiling. “Always in everyone else’s business.”

“It’s a universal truth. But you didn’t answer my question.” She expected him to deflect again, but he surprised her.

“I’m on extended sabbatical from my post as a history professor. I’m meant to be working on something I can publish, but mostly I’m roving the States in search of excitement.”

“And you stopped in St. Claire?” Clem laughed, shaking her head. “Is it because you were secretly hoping someone would take you on a romantic farm tour?”

“You’ve figured me out. I drove nonstop from the Florida panhandle, pining all the while for this precious opportunity.”

“Thankfully, you found me at O’Reilly’s before disappointment did you in.”

“It’s a dreadful way to go,” he said mournfully.

Damn it, he shouldn’t be funny. Or likable.

Clem ought to be able to disregard his charm since she knew what he was hiding. Maybe he was a professor on sabbatical, but he was a witch hunter too. Did witch hunters have day jobs? It stood to reason that they might, as she couldn’t imagine there was much profit in the latter. Or maybe there was. Honestly, she knew far too little about the organization or what befell witches once they were caught. Mostly, they seemed to…disappear.

That can’t be good. Be careful.

She’d memorized the route to Bluestar Farm, so she made the last few turns on automatic. First, they passed a farm stand selling local produce, and she followed the signs to a gravel road with community garden plots on either side; farther on, she saw agricultural fields, a picnic pavilion, and an orchard, though it was too far for her to make out what fruit. Apples or pears seemed most likely, given the climate. She parked in the unpaved lot alongside the other cars, probably families as opposed to dating couples.

Though she’d proposed this outing as a joke, Clem had to admit the scenery was delightful. The place was film-­worthy, exactly as Hollywood might envision a farm, down to the white fences and the bright-­red outbuildings. The house was framed by blue flowers shaped like stars, likely how the place got its name. In the distance, the lowing of cows sounded, along with less readily identifiable animal noises.

Gavin clambered out and stretched, wearing an utterly mystified expression. “I kept waiting for you to tell me this is an elaborate joke, but no. Here we are.”

“You were promised Nigerian dwarf goats,” she reminded him.

“So I was. Lead on. I’ll leave myself in your hands, as this is not my natural habitat.”

“Mine either,” she admitted. “According to the site, some activities aren’t available today, but we’re free to walk the grounds and visit the animals.”

“No milking class then?”

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