Curiously Enchanted (Witches of Hawthorne Grove Book 2) Page 4

  “Of course not.” Sam noticed she'd gone rigid. Her backbone was so stiff, if she sneezed it might snap, and her chin had gone up so high he wondered absently if she could even see him now.

  “You would never actually say you find me less than amusing. Or anyone else for that matter,” she added, and figuring it would be best to just keep his mouth shut for now, Sam waited, watching in silence as her expression slowly changed from one of offended hauteur to something a bit more polite and a tad bit apologetic and he wondered if she, too, had just realized she'd more or less admitted to thinking he didn't think much of her.

  It wasn't true. Not at all. And knowing it wasn't might have been why he forgot about waiting, forgot to give her time to think about what they'd said and reassess his part of the conversation. It only took him a second, though, to realize he'd started running his mouth again in an attempt to smooth things over. “Hey, that really wasn't what I meant at all.”

  Tilting her head to one side, she peered up at him, her eyelids still narrowly slitted to allow for her pinning—or, more like skewering—glare. But something in the way her posture had changed made him think she wasn't as mad at him—or whatever she had been—now as she was a second ago.

  “What did you mean?” she finally asked, and though this was something else about her he also hadn't expected, Sam realized she was serious. It seemed she was willing to admit she may have been wrong about her quick judgment of what he'd said and was giving him a chance to explain.

  He felt his brows rise slightly in appreciation. He liked that kind of willingness in a woman.

  Smiling again, partly because he found it easier to do than scowl and partly because doing it just came naturally to him, Sam hurried to explain himself—mostly so she would know why he'd said what he'd said—but also because he'd just this minute realized he wanted her to stay.

  Explaining how he didn't do what she'd thought he had would certainly keep her in his store. For a few minutes anyway. If he could stretch his explanation out that long—and he was definitely going to try.

  “You aren't Lindsay,” he blurted out, then he stopped in mid-conversation, half-turned away from her and rolled his eyes at his own gaff and muttered, “What am I, stupid? Of course she's not Lindsay!” before he faced her again with what he hoped was a slightly embarrassed but completely earnest expression. “What I mean to say is, you're you. Emma. The Research Analyst, right?”

  “Freelance Research Specialist,” she corrected. “And you're not doing yourself any favors here. Why is it perfectly alright for Lindsay to have a sense of humor but not I—or ... er, me—or whatever the correct way to say that is.”

  Sam laughed. “See? Now that is the type humor I would have expected from you. You're a word girl, right?”

  When she nodded—albeit slowly—Sam hastened to continue. “Lindsay, she's not.”

  Taking the chance that Emma was interested enough in his explanation not to balk when he reached for her hand, Sam caught her fingers and led her to a table in the semi-circular morning nook where the curtains were still open and she could look out into the night while he would be rewarded with perfect views of her every feature reflected all around the room.

  “Don't get me wrong. I love Lindsay to pieces, but she's a bit of a—she's like a diva, I guess you'd call her, mostly for lack of a better word,” he admitted somewhat boyishly. “And because I didn't want to say she's a drama queen. That is definitely what she's not,” he finished, emphasizing the point with a shake of his finger before cocking his head thoughtfully to one side.

  “Lindsay—hmm. She's more of a flirt and flutter girl, you know what I mean? While you ...” Her hand was still resting loosely in his and Sam lifted it, waiting, watching her until their gazes caught. Slowly, carefully so as not to frighten her away before he could finish his explanation, he swirled the pad of his thumb in a light circle across her palm and said, “I think you're more a dream and sigh kind of lady and more than a little bit shy.”

  Emma immediately attempted to retrieve her hand from his but Sam caught it again before she could stand and take flight. With his eyes, he willed her to stay and to tell him the truth while his lips asked, “Am I right?”

  How could he read her so easily? She had never been what people would call an open book although she had never been all that expressive, either. But what had he called her? A dream and sigh kind of lady? That actually seemed to fit. It flustered her, the depth of his insight, so much she almost forgot why she stopped by.

  “Queens didn't drink coffee,” she blurted instead of answering his far too probing question, and reached for the bag at her side. Digging inside the leather case, she pulled out the document she had prepared and handed it over to him. “At least not from your service, I think.”

  Unable to keep from glancing up at him to see his reaction, she furtively met his eyes. There were questions in his gaze which she ignored as much as the uncomfortable sense of embarrassment she felt beginning to rise. “While you and Lindsay were discussing the renovations, I sort of became fascinated with the coffee set.” She explained with a shrug. Handing over the papers, she looked away to avoid whatever censure she might see in his eyes.“I did a little research. The service you have is genuine Meissen and should probably be in a museum but—this is the bulk of my find.”

  Uncomfortable waiting in the drawn out silence while he flipped through the pages, Emma stood and walked to the wide bank of windows looking out over the shop's south side.

  In her mind she could picture cozy little structures tucked into spaces between the tall trees, mini-gazebos or something with steep Victorian roofs beneath which one could sit with a friend or two and chat while their coffee cooled or sit alone and avail themselves of the already on offer free WiFi. She imagined padded benches inside, with snuggly wraps and brilliantly colored big fluffy throw pillows waiting on every side.

  Emma could easily see herself happily ensconced in such a nook, reading a book while she sipped at her coffee. Too bad her sketch pad was in her briefcase which was too close to Sam right now. Glancing over her shoulder to find him still examining the papers and sketches she'd brought, she said, “The view from the windows is beautiful, Mr. Huntingdon. Have you considered putting tables out there?”

  There was a half-distracted look about him when he lifted his gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

  Emma considered whether it would be easier for her to tell him her thoughts, or simply show him instead. If she opened her mouth she knew she would end up tongue-tied but sketching would require sitting close to him again and she didn't know if she could do so without becoming lost in the sensual world of her dreams and with him so near she was almost terrified she might invite him to join her inside.

  “Emma?” He prompted, looking over the papers at her. “You had an idea? I'd love to know what you had in mind.”

  His gentle urging was all she needed. Retracing her steps to the table, she sat down and reached for her bag again. “I’ll show you.”

  Taking out a sketch pad and pencil, she began to draw what she had seen in her thoughts whenever she'd looked out over the frost-covered grounds outside. Before she knew it Emma became lost in her task, her fingers flying across the page and back again until she forgot where she was and exactly who sat watching and looking with curious awe at her from the table's other side. Finally, though, her fingers slowed and reality encroached upon the scene in which she had been living in her mind.

  Lifting her head, she saw the most intriguing look on Sam's face. She flushed, first hot and then cold, and her fingers started to shake so she hastily laid her pencil aside. Embarrassed to have intruded yet again where she did not belong, Emma sought to cover her reaction by reaching down for the satchel at her feet.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Huntingdon. Truly, I am. I don't know why I thought you would be interested in this, or these,” she said, indicating both her research and the sketch she had just made with a dismissing wave of her hand. “I—I j
ust see things in my head sometimes.”

  But when she reached out for the sketch book to put it away, his hand came down, covering hers and something crazy happened to her inside. The room grew hot and her breathing slowed while her heartbeat seemed to triple. Frozen, stunned, and a little terrified, Emma slowly lifted her head until her gaze met his and she gasped at the wonder and curiosity, the intense interest and awe she saw radiating from his eyes.

  “You are an intelligent and amazingly talented woman, Miss Riley. Why in the world do you try so hard to hide it?” he said, touching her with the sincerity of his words and tone and then Emma was falling into the dream before she could blink or do anything to break its untimely spell.

  Had he felt the way she was trembling? Was that why he took her hand? Did she moan out loud or was it a gasp from her lips that had brought him to his feet, she wondered from deep in the haze that was once her thoughts but where now her desires held sway—the real world of ever-suppressed need and yearning and hope called reality had come abruptly to an end.

  Emma really didn't know how it happened but she was suddenly on her feet, standing clutched to his body within the circle of his arms and her fingers were threaded through his hair. And then sometime, somewhere between one breath and the next his lips touched hers and she knew. Emma knew that she was lost—so lost. Her normal self was suddenly up and gone and the woman left in her place wasn't scared.

  The normal Emma—the timid, aloof, mousy little Emma most of the world knew had disappeared. She was sucked unexpectedly into the primal vortex of her soul to that place where dream became reality and reality a dream—and it was there where Emma completely lost her head.

  Ignoring the tiny voice of warning that told her she was about to do something she'd regret, Emma gave herself over to his kiss. Relaxing into his embrace, she kissed him back, reveling in the moment—one she knew she would never forget. Sam's lips were warm, his body warmer, and his touch where his fingers caressed the sensitive area of skin at the base of her skull was slowly lulling her into …

  Thump, thump, thump.

  The muted but unmistakable sound of someone thumping a fist somewhere nearby intruded on Emma's thoughts but she didn't want the kiss to end. Squeezing her eyelids tightly closed, she wished the momentarily unwanted intrusion away but the thump became a pounding instead.

  “Sam? Hey Sammy, you in there, man? I can see the lights, so I know you are there somewhere. Come unlock the door and hurry up! Kaylee's about to freeze out here!”

  Chapter Six

  Sam slowly opened his eyes, finally realizing the pounding noises he was hearing in the back of his mind wasn't the blood rushing to his head. Still, he fought to ignore the incessant, pounding bid for his attention, preferring to explore the exciting revelation in Emma's passion-filled kisses instead. But it was not to be. Eyes open now, his gaze locked with Emma's and he knew she knew they'd been caught. Her eyes had gone wide and were suddenly clear; no longer dazed by passion.

  “The front door, it's still open,” she whispered urgently against his now still lips and Sam froze, his own gaze flying to the door in question. Finding she was right, he groaned in frustrated disappointment and disentangling her fingers from where she'd buried them in his hair, he pulled away with an apologetic half-smile.

  “If I asked you to wait while I got rid of them, would you?” he tried, but was pretty sure he already knew what her answer would be—if he moved away from Emma right now he knew she would take up her things and flee, disappearing long before he could make it back to her side because the blush on her cheeks was already an unusually fiery red and she refused to meet his gaze.

  Pulling away, she scrambled to gather her purse and satchel; the sketch papers she left where they lay. “I can't, Sam. I'm—I'm really sorry but I have to go. This—I—this was a mistake,” she whispered the last, then covered her face with her hands and added, mostly to herself, “Oh Lord, such a massively huge mistake! Please, please. If there's a God in Heaven, just please. let. me. die.”

  “Emma, wait—” Sam started, taking two steps toward her, but she stopped him with a frantic shake of her head and then turned and practically ran out the front door of the shop to her car outside. His gut told him he probably should have followed her then but another round of thumping from the access door off the kitchen had him turning in the other direction.

  As soon as he unlocked the deadbolt, Kaylee and Jordan rushed in. “Sammy, what in the world were you doing in there? Don't tell me we caught you on the john,” Jordan teased with a grin but Sam was still too caught up in what had just happened to think of a suitably snappy comeback.

  In the middle of slipping out of her apple green pea coat, Kaylee turned and gave her fiance a truly horrified look before she swatted at his arm and sighed. “Jordan! I swear, that's just gross,” she said before turning a narrow-eyed glare on Sam. “Don't you dare try to answer him, either, because I don't want to know. You two still act like children sometimes.”

  “Which is part of my manly appeal, admit it,” Sam heard Jordan saying behind him but he'd already moved off, heading back to the main area, hoping to use their momentary distraction of removing coats and gloves to scoop up the sketches and documents Emma had left behind. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air when he bent over the table to collect the pages. Desire hit him hard, slammed him right in the gut, and all he could do was grunt and sigh. Gathering the pages, he quickly leaned half over the bar and slid everything on a shelf behind it.

  “What took you so long, anyway?” Jordan asked curiously as him and Kaylee joined Sam in the main room now, their outerwear removed.

  Resting casually against the bar now that he'd cleared away the evidence of his previous company, Sam lifted a hand and pointed with one finger to the spot where he and Emma had been standing only a moment or two before.

  “I was making out with a beautiful woman, actually, right there in the middle of the room,” he quipped, making sure to inject a hint of playfulness into his tone as he did so because he knew exactly what they would hear if he did. The slightly silly-ish edge of humor in his tone would do its part to convince them he was joking.

  Letting his brows lower into a ferocious mock scowl, he grouched, “Then you two showed up and Jordan went and scared her away with all his thumping on the door and dad-blasted yelling.”

  Feeling more than a little pleased with himself that he was able to be fairly honest with his friends—it was mostly just a kiss he and Emma had shared, after all—Sam's conscience was fairly gleaming. Still, he had a gut feeling if Jordan and Kaylee hadn't interrupted, their kiss could have become so much more. An image of doing more with Emma flashed through his thoughts and a sudden, unexpected surge of straight up lust hit him hard—and his body's immediate physical reaction made him spin back around toward the bar to hide the visual evidence of his unusually out of control desire.

  Picking up the rag he had forgotten there earlier, Sam vigorously scrubbed at the already spotless surface the bar. Once or twice as he did so, his gaze slid with longing toward the front door through which Emma had made her escape. Half wishing she would come back even though he knew she would not, he forced the crazy idea from his thoughts, drew in a somewhat steadying breath, and turned his gaze once more on Jordan and Kaylee.

  “So what are you two doing here?” he asked in a reasonably normal tone, but then something bright and familiar dangling from Kaylee's hand caught his now undivided attention.

  “Was the woman you were making out with wearing a beret and mauve colored gloves, Sam?” she asked, the items in question held up between one thumb and a finger while she peered at him in stunned surprise.

  Sam's earlier good humor vanished; it simply drained away as he jolted into action. Stomping around the bar to her side, he practically snatched the garments from Kaylee while surreptitiously sliding another glance toward the front door. Then, just as uncharacteristically gruff, he rounded the bar again to put Emma's
hat and gloves with the sketches and stuff he'd already slid out of sight, muttering, “That would be the one, yes.”

  Well, now he was cornered. They were caught, even if Emma was technically not there and no longer available for apprehending. Ignoring the curious speculation in both his friends eyes, he desperately tried to think what—or, more specifically, how much—about Emma's visit he should tell them. There was no way he could hide the fact that she had actually been there now, and while he figured Jordan might let him keep his secrets for a while, he knew Kaylee would never let it slide. Not when it came to him being with a woman.

  Propping his hands solidly on the smooth surface of the bar, he faced their obviously drawn conclusions head-on while doing his best to pretend not to care. Leaning slightly forward, he conceded an admission, “You two just missed her, actually. She just ran out the door and her name is Emma, Kaylee. Emma Riley. Do you either of you already know her?”

  Jordan cast a speaking look at Kaylee then dropped his gaze to the floor while his lips worked to hold back a grin. Finally, his brows arched high, and he let out a slow little whistle before looking at Sam again. “Wow, Sammy. I don't know what to say. But her name is awfully close to Ellie.”

  At home, Emma snatched the quilt from her bed and flung it as hard as she could into the farthest corner of her bedroom while muttering, “Stupid dreams! Stupid quilt! And stupid, stupid Emma!” Flopping dejectedly down onto the now unmade and disheveled side of her bed, she covered her face with both of her hands in abject humiliation.

  “How could I have done it? Why did I do it? Why? Why? Why?” Slapping her hands down onto her thighs, she demanded of no one, “What heretofore unknown demon of insanity could possibly have possessed me to get up from that chair and kiss him like that?”