Curiously Enchanted (Witches of Hawthorne Grove Book 2) Read online

Peering at him curiously, she tried to wrap her mind around the concept of something outside her realm of experience pulling her and Sam together. She could certainly feel a pull, but Sam …

  “You don't believe in magic?”

  “Do you?” he countered, and though she wished she could give her imagination up to something so flighty, she could not.

  Emma shook her head and confessed, “No.”

  “But you do believe there is a connection between us, don't you?” He smiled at her and she felt her entire body quiver. “Don't bother trying to lie about it, Emma. I can see it in your eyes even when your lips say otherwise.”

  Pushing her chair back from the table, Emma said, “I'm not sure. I mean, I didn't even know you existed before Sevilles, and then...”

  “I took on a starring role in your midnight fantasies?” Sam teased with a comical waggle of his brows, and Emma felt her cheeks burn.

  It was true—he had featured in her dreams quite a few times—enough to leave her sleep deprived and frustrated to be sure. “I'm not sure what is real.”

  “Hey, come on,” Sam cajoled, pushing his own chair back. “You just told me you don't believe in magic, right? Here, give me your hand.”

  Reaching across the table, she did, and he laced his fingers with hers. “See? Flesh and blood. Skin and bone. I'm no dream, Emma, but it fascinates me to no end to know I've been in yours.”

  His eyes had gone dark and his voice had that low, husky quality she remembered from her dreams. Heat spiked through her and her pulse slowed as bits and pieces of the fantasies he'd joked about starring in flitted through her mind.

  Snatching her hand away, she said, “You stole my puzzle piece.”

  “True. But how else was I supposed to find you again? Trading my card for a piece of your puzzle was the only thing I could think of at the time.” He arched a brow. “One of the sisters called me out on it after you left, you know. It was cute how she all but demanded I do the honorable thing and return what I had stolen from you.”

  “You haven't returned it,” Emma reminded him and to her surprise she saw the hint of a flush on his cheekbones. It was adorable. She grinned.

  “What? Okay, so I still have the piece, but I always intended to give it back to you.”

  “When?”

  “At first, I planned to trade it for the quilt.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair again, putting more space between them. Emma physically felt his withdrawal. It was like someone had peeled away her coat, leaving her outside in the cold. She shivered.

  “Why are you so obsessed with the thing? It's just a cover, after all.”

  His eyes met hers and Emma thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his. “It reminds me of my grandmother.”

  “She must have been a very special lady to have such an effect on you.”

  Sam nodded. “She was.”

  Curious, Emma picked up her fork and said, “Tell me about her.”

  Half an hour passed, then another as Sam regaled her with tales of his childhood. Dinner finished, they'd moved to the living room and now sat together on her sofa where Emma laughed while Sam regaled her with tales of some of the particularly boyish antics he had plagued his grandmother with.

  “You were a terrible child,” she pronounced finally, but he only laughed.

  “Grandma Ellie never thought so. I was the light of her life, and she mine for most of my childhood.” There was that flickering of something in his eyes again, and he grew quiet.

  “You miss her,” Emma pronounced and Sam instantly agreed.

  “Grandma Ellie was my rock, a solid presence in a life that moved by like a whirlwind.”

  The emotion shining in his gaze was powerful. Emma swallowed hard. “You can have the quilt, Sam. I intended to give it to you weeks ago.”

  “Is that a subtle hint that you'd like me to help you clear the table now?” he teased.

  Emma laughed. “No, but if you want to help, I won't refuse the offer.”

  Together, they moved back to the dining room to collect the dishes, still chattering on as they carried them through to the sink in the kitchen.

  “You wash, I'll dry,” Sam told her, taking up a terry weave towel from the counter. “And you can tell me about you. Where did you learn to draw? The sketches you did for the outdoor additions at the One Shot were very professional.”

  Emma flushed at his praise.

  “My brother taught me. Well, harassed me into learning would be more accurate,” she admitted. “I had this idea to start my own furniture production business, you see, where my company would fabricate the most intricate designs on the planet. But whenever I attempted to describe something to him, he would say, 'Show me.' Then he would completely ignore me and anything I tried to say until I was able to sketch a complete concept for him.”

  Surprised, Sam said, “Furniture? Really?”

  “Baroque. It is such a feminine style and at the time I had my head way up in the clouds.”

  Sam took the plate she handed him and dried it. “You? No way. I can't imagine you working a blank on a lathe with a shaping tool or dreaming about furniture in general, even if it is girly. Maybe you better explain what you mean by 'head in the clouds'?”

  Emma shrugged. “I guess you could say I was a dreamer. I thought I could carve out a fairy tale, drape it with filmy gauze, and make a million dollars from it. But dreams, as you obviously know, aren't practical. Hard work gets you what you want. Ideas and sketches? Those are just fanciful notions on paper.”

  Old hurt zipped through her and she looked away, focusing on the silverware she was washing instead of his reaction but out of the corner of her eye she saw him arch a brow.

  “Those are called project concepts and blueprints where I come from, Emma. I've paid thousands of dollars for hastily drawn ideas and quick sketches—a few of which were mapped out on the back of a stained napkin over a rushed lunch.”

  “My father hasn't.” She dropped the casserole dish she'd used to marinate their steak into the water and mimicked the voice she had heard so often. “Drawings? Bah! Show me something concrete I can reach out and touch and I'll think about it!”

  “He wanted a prototype?”

  Emma made a face. “He wanted me to stop dreaming and do something practical with my life.”

  “Ah. Practical. That explains it,” Sam said, and Emma turned to him with a questioning look.

  “Explains what?”

  With one finger, he reached out and traced a line from her temple to her chin. “Why your mouth says you don't believe in magic while your eyes brim with an unforgettable hope someone will prove it exists.”

  Tears pricked her eyelids. With a single sentence, he had summed up the last seven years of her life. Why did he have to make it sound so possible? “Sam, I—”

  He cut off her words with a kiss.

  One minute he was standing there drying a casserole dish as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a billionaire business owner like himself to do, and the next, he was enfolding her in his arms, his mouth crushed to hers.

  His fingers threaded into her hair, holding her for his kiss, and Emma moaned her pleasure at his touch against his lips even as her own fingers slid over his shoulders and down the hard planes of his back to his hips.

  This, she thought. This was what she had believed in all those years ago. Sam's kiss was powerful magic and epic fantasy, ultimate sin and utter bliss all rolled into one and she wanted more of it. So much more.

  Giving herself over to the kiss, Emma forgot about the past, forgot about the contract, the book, her father—everything but Sam and the wonderful things he was making her feel. Time stood still, holding the two of them suspended in a moment of passion and wonder and bliss that was so far removed from what she'd felt in her dreams, Emma wondered if she'd died and found Heaven right there in his arms.

  “Mrrrweaooow!”

  The sudden, drawn out and miserable caterwauling at her ankles jerked Emma out
of Sam's embrace. Eyes wide in fright, one hand clutched to her chest, she glared down at the cat and scolded. “Chloe! Good heavens, girl, you scared the bejesus out of me! What's wrong? Why are you bawling like that?”

  Sam pushed Emma quickly behind him, his eyes scanning what he could see of her apartment from the kitchen while Emma bent and scooped the cat up, running her hands in soothing motions over her thick, fluffy white fur. The cat purred contentedly now that she was the focus of Emma's attention, and Emma laughed. “Oh, wow. You're actually jealous!”

  “I think I am,” Sam said, his expression completely serious. “But I hate to admit feeling envious of a cat.”

  “Wha—?” Emma burst out laughing. “I was talking about Chloe, you doof. She's fine now that she's in my arms and...”

  “And you're no longer in mine, right?” Sam grinned. “I can assure you, she has every reason to feel that way. There is a lot to be said about having your arms wrapped around a body. When you turn off those voices in your head constantly urging you to caution, you melt like snow in an oven.”

  Emma buried her face in Chloe's fur to hide her blush. “Your arms being the oven in question,” she dared. “Kissing you is like eating fire. I burn but I never want to escape the flames.”

  Sam's groan reverberated through her an instant before she felt his hands come around her waist from behind, pulling her against his hard frame while his lips sought out the sensitive skin of her nape.

  He nibbled and she shivered, melting into him, but Chloe had other ideas. Hissing, she twisted in Emma's arms and swiped at Sam, batting him away from her mistress. Shocked, Emma scolded the furious feline and put her on the floor before turning to Sam to see what damage she had wrought.

  Sam had a hand to his cheek, a wry grin turning his lips upward. “I guess we know what your cat thinks of us, huh?”

  Emma reached up and pulled his fingers away. She gasped at the red streak Chloe's claws had left behind. “You're bleeding!”

  “Only a little.” Sam leaned in for another quick kiss but Emma ducked out of his reach.

  “Let me clean that. I have some antiseptic spray here somewhere,” she told him. She rummaged through drawers and opened cabinets.

  “I've got it.” Taking a piece of paper towel from the roll on her counter, he pressed it to the scratch, drying up the blood. “It's fine, Emma.”

  Turning, she glared at the cat. “I'm sorry. I don't know what got into her.”

  “I think that was her way of saying it is time for me to go.” Sam muttered, then said, “I guess she's right. It is getting late, but I don't want to leave until you promise I'll see you again.”

  Casting a jaundiced eye at the cat, he said, “Next time at my place?”

  Emma was immediately hesitant. “Sam, I don't think—”

  “Don't. Think. Just say yes. You can even bring Chloe with you if you want. We can introduce her to Jabez. Say yes, Emma. Otherwise, I'll have to keep the last piece of your puzzle forever,” he teased, but there was such appeal in his gaze, Emma couldn't find the words to turn him down. She didn't want to, anyway, although she knew she probably should. Sam Huntingdon was not the kind of man she needed to get involved with.

  “Alright. Yes, I'll come.”

  Sam's relief was visible. He grinned. “Great. I'll call you tomorrow with my address and we'll do dinner at around seven. That okay?”

  “It's perfect,” Emma told him as she walked with him to the door. “Thank you again, Sam, for what you did with the book.”

  “Don't mention it. Thank you, for dinner.”

  She nodded, and opened the door for him. “Goodnight, Sam.”

  He paused in the doorway and leaned in for another kiss, this one light and gentle. When he lifted his head, Emma thought she might just fall at his feet in a gooey puddle. He smiled.

  “Goodnight, Emma,” he murmured before he turned and hurried down the steps.

  Emma slowly closed the door behind him. Turning the lock, she leaned against the door, feeling the loneliness pushing in now that he was gone and she wondered what he would think of her if she'd had the courage to ask him to stay. For long moments, she pondered the idea until the soft whir of an engine pulled her out of her daze.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Oooh! How could they say they don't believe in magic? Don't they know every time they denounce the existence of magic a cute little blond-haired, spoiled rotten fairy dies somewhere?” Mortianna complained, hoping Serephina wouldn't noticed the forced sincerity in her tone. Serephina's expression was rueful but Mortianna could see the strain their sister's absence caused, even if she only saw it around the otherwise well-tempered edges of her reactions. “It's a good thing we aren't fairies, right?”

  Esmerelda's absence was driving them both insane but talking about their trouble didn't seem to help, which was why she had pulled out the scrying dish to peek in on Sam and Emma in the first place.

  “Yes! Yes, it is.” Turning to peer into the dish once more, Mortianna said, “What is wrong with people these days? Why is it so hard to admit there is something more at work in their lives when they feel the things love makes them feel?”

  “Something great and grand and wonderful, right?” Serephina's wistful sigh slipped out on a broken breath. She glanced back into the scrying dish and waved her hand in the general direction of the couple they were watching. “We can't let this end badly, Morty.”

  “Nope!” Mortianna agreed in a cheery tone, crossing her legs beneath her. “Well, we could, but we aren't going to.”

  One at a time, she flipped up cards from the tarot deck. “No way we are going to sit back and do nothing. We aren't even going to placidly await the big decision from on high.”

  She turned over another card and smiled. “The CHG may have Esmerelda in their custody right now, thanks to the mix up with the quilt, but Sam and Emma's romance will show them we haven't lost our touch and we will get her back.”

  At least she hoped that was what would happen, but she didn't dare voice her own uncertainty out loud. Serephina was nutsy enough as it was and Merry had only been gone a few days. She started to flip up a third card, and hesitated, glancing instead at the scrying dish as if her gaze had been drawn there by something outside her control.

  Her eyes widened. Dropping the deck, she clapped her hands together in glee. “Look, Feeny, she agreed! See? What did I tell you? Esmerelda will be with us again in no time.”

  Beside her, Serephina shook a bottle Mortianna hadn't seen her retrieve. Vaguely, she might have recalled her sister mixing two parts red and one part green, but she wasn't sure until Serephina said, “Of course she is, Morty. This time, we can't fail. The potion ought to insure our success, but if not, the spell—”

  There was an unusual quality to her sister's voice, too, one that spoke of determination regardless of consequence and it was one Mortianna could only ever recall this particular sister using once, a long, long time ago—and it had cost them twenty seven years of their life. On her feet in a flash, Mortianna snatched at the bottle. “Wait, don't do that!”

  Serephina tried to keep the vial from her, blocking it with her body even as she held it out of Mortianna's immediate reach. “What? It's just a little cuddle spell. When Emma goes to dinner with Sam, she won't be able to resist curling up into his arms the minute he crooks his little finger.”

  But Mortianna was shaking her head while moving slowly closer to her sister. “Interference is not allowed, Feeny. How many times have you preached as much to me? I can't let you do it. Not when we aren't sure where Merry is or what is happening to her.”

  “You patently ignored every one of those sermons, Morty. Every single time I warned against the consequences, you just had to go ahead and wiggle those dainty fingers of yours and utterly break the rules. Well, look what happened!”

  Mortianna moved closer, forcing her expression into one she hoped at least resembled contrition. “I apologized, Feeny. Every time. Besides, a nudge here, a swirl
there to bring a couple close enough to touch? Insignificant. Admit it, Feeny. You know those tiny little bits of interference—if you can even call them that—were nothing compared to what you were about to do.”

  Serephina shook her head and a tear spilled onto her cheek. “Doesn't matter, Mortianna Seville. You still dabbled where you ought not and now our sweet Merry is gone.”

  Mortianna's eyes widened. “So you're blaming this on me? You're saying Merry's summons before the CHG is my fault? Hey, I'm not the one who was in such a blistering hurry to sneak out and read the Cupid Pact I forgot to do my job!”

  Seeing her chance, Mortianna jumped. Serephina stumbled backward a couple steps—just enough to put the vial filled with the foul, purplish black liquid out of harms way. Serephina lost her grip on the bottle and it tumbled end over end, almost in slow motion, droplets flying until it came to rest on the thick carpet beneath the coffee table holding the scrying dish.

  Flashing a look at her sister, Mortianna turned and picked up the bottle. “If you have to blame someone for Esmerelda's absence, maybe you'd better think back to the last time you dropped a bit of this into the scrying dish. Or better yet, just take a look in the mirror, Serephina.”

  Sam's kitchen was filled with the scents of his efforts. Making dinner for a woman he actually wanted to spend time with was kind of a big deal to him, which was why he'd called in reinforcements: Jordan.

  Only now, while he waited for his friend to give a thumbs up or down about the stew he had put together, he wondered if it was a good idea for Jordan to have information about the progress of his relationship with Emma Riley.

  Not that Jordan wasn't hopeful and cheering him on every step of the way, in the way that guys do, which meant unmercifully ribbing him every chance he got. Both Jordan and Kaylee were supportive of his pursuit. But Jordan had a way of reminding Sam to keep things real that Sam wasn't particularly enthusiastic about this time around.

  A clank of a spoon warned Sam that Jordan was taste-testing again without giving an opinion and he scowled. Jordan only grinned. Finally, he relented.