I just needed a little help. Just needed someone to see I was struggling and realize why that might be.
Turns out, I just needed a clever witch.
29
Mor
Bo is wearing glasses,and it is doing odd things to my body. For example, it’s completely possible that I might burst into flames.
This should not be the reaction someone has to a set of metal frames and two glass lenses perched on a man’s nose, but here I am. Suddenly combustible.
When Bo got back from the eye doctor a few days ago, he mentioned the man gave him a prescription. But I hadn’t realized that little trip to the doctor would result inthis.
“Glasses,” I croak. Turns out, I’ve lost the ability to form a sentence made up of more than one desperate word.
Bo raises his eyes from the book he was reading at the front desk, and now he’s looking at me over the rims of the spectacles. He brings a large hand up and slides them off, and I shiver at the simple move.
Then he smiles, and I’m done. I think I need the day off.
“You were right. I picked these up yesterday, and … gods, everything is clearer.” He raises the book he’s cradling in his palm. “I’m not even interested in the history of forest nymphs.But I couldn’t stop from reading the first chapter. Just because I can.” He closes the book and sets it down on the counter. “Thank you. For pushing me to go.”
I nod and clear my throat, trying to think of something I can say other than asking him to slip the glasses back on, but slowly this time.
“I’m glad,” I manage. “That they work.”
He nods, his smile turning earnest. “Now I can really help you here. I swear I’ll be the best employee.”
Employee.
I repeat the word a few times in my head. A reminder that Bo works for me and I should not be mentally undressing him. Undressing every inch—except for the glasses, of course.
Well, this seems to be a terrible turn of events.
I suppose the silver lining is that I now have the reassurance I am able to be attracted to someone.
It just sucks that it took thirty years for me to find that out and that the first person I’m attracted to is so much younger than me, just getting out of a very traumatic situation, and is also my employee.
Bo checks the spine of the book he was reading and carefully arranges it on the rolling shelving cart we keep at the front desk. He shoots me a grin.
“Well, I think I might be getting the hang of this.” These words come in the delicious Southern drawl that pairs with Bo’s gentle nature.
Now, me, as a northerner having moved to this Southern town, I have heard plenty of people in Folk Haven speak with a Southern accent. A nice Georgia drawl.
But no one has perfected the tone like Bo.
I have the urge to listen to him speak for an endless stretch, like a tape stuck in a boom box that cannot be unplugged. Because I don’t want him to stop talking.
I don’t want him to stop being proud of the fact that he is navigating this library with ever-growing ease. That he’s no longer hiding the webbing between his fingers as he reaches for books and places them back on the shelves in the proper order. He no longer frowns and squints at words, but smiles instead.
Bo is a beautiful torture to be around.
And then there are times when he says my name and I think that I might die. I might actually die.
Just self-combust.
I am tempted to tell him to use my full name—Morgana—because how the hell am I supposed to listen to his sexy Southern drawl sayMor?
More.
