“There’s something about the mountain air that makes things clear.” Hunter stands and looks down into the trees like a benevolent king surveying his domain. “But I’ve never really given it much thought before now, either—how the magic is part of you. For Edie, it was like finding her confidence, her voice. She was so shy when we were little, even more than me. Before the falls, I always felt like something was missing in my life, but I didn’t know what.”
I’m grinning so wide it hurts my face. “Yes, that’s it exactly! A missing piece, but you didn’t even know you were doing a puzzle.”
Bongo stands and trots over to lean against Hunter’s leg. “It’s nice to have someone who can actually talk about magic with me, someone who’s not related to me. I’ve only ever dated non-witches, and it never really lasted because I couldn’t fully be myself. It’s always just been me and Bongo. But I’m glad Grandma told me to bring him along the day she and Grandpa took me to the falls.”
Oh.
I should’ve guessed this was his familiar.
“So you and Bongo can talk? Or—am I not supposed to ask that? Shelby said it was tacky. I don’t know all the witchy faux pas.”
Hunter looks at me, his eyes soft. “You can talk to me about anything, faux pas be damned.” He strokes Bongo’s silky head. “But yeah. He sounds a lot like Matthew McConaughey, actually. Very chill and positive. I’m lucky, considering how longfamiliars live. Some people get stuck with far more annoying sidekicks. Is your cockatoo—”
“Annoying? Yes. She’s very annoying when she deigns to remain in my company. But at least she goes to sleep at sunset.”
“Any luck finding her?”
I deflate a little. “No. Shelby printed up some flyers for me and taped them all over downtown, but someone took them all.”
His jaw drops. “In Arcadia Falls? Wow. I didn’t know there were folks that mean-spirited here. If you want, I’ll print some more. We can put ’em inside the businesses, facing out through the glass. Then somebody taking them would be really noticeable.”
I honestly can’t believe someone taking them from the outside wasn’t noticeable, but there’s nothing I can do about it tonight, so I might as well stop worrying.
The food is so good that I could keep eating until I was sick, but I don’t want to be sick just now. Steak, potatoes, green beans, all perfectly delicious—if Hunter were anyone else, I would ask where he ordered the takeout from. But this is Hunter, and I saw the cast-iron skillet sitting beside the sink. When we’re done, he takes our plates inside and brings out delicate cups of chocolate mousse.
“Are you sure your knack isn’t stopping time? You’ve only been gone a few hours, and this is a feast!” I say. My eyes roll back in my head when I taste it.
“Chocolate mousse takes literally five minutes,” he informs me, although he looks pleased at my reaction. “Three ingredients. The recipe is online. It’s not rocket science.”
But he went to the trouble of gathering the ingredients and learning how to make it. This man is so startlingly competentthat I fear two hours on his (handmade) back deck will forever change how I judge other men.
Three ingredients or forty, the mousse is a lovely treat, and the serving size isn’t enough to weigh me down, which I appreciate. For a long moment, we sip our wine, and I tip my head back to look at the clear indigo sky fringed with shifting gold-tinged leaves. The stars are so close I want to reach out and boop one with a finger. I realize that perhaps the wine has gone to my head. Not that I mind. I’m nervous and excited and desperately worried I’ll make a fool out of myself.
Hunter stands. “Can I take your plate?”
I stand, too; I don’t know what to do with myself, so I grab my plate and say, “Let me help with the dishes.”
The candlelight flickers in his eyes; he’s amused, but he looks so earnest. “I didn’t invite you over to stand at the sink.”
“Well, I wasn’t raised to watch other folks do all the work.”
He steps in and takes the dish from my hand, putting it right back on the table. We’re close now, and there’s a light chill in the air, and goose bumps rise along my upper arms.
“Have you ever considered laying down that burden and letting someone take care of you for once? What if I want to do all the work?” His big, warm hands rub my arms, and I shiver. He pulls me close, wraps his arms around me.
“Is that what you want?” My voice is quiet, husky, as if the valley below can hear every word.
He pushes my hair back, and his lips brush my ear. “Let’s just see if you like my performance.”
Bongo stands and trots inside, and I lift my face up and see stars in Hunter Blakely’s eyes. His lips land on mine, and there’s this slow, building sensuality about it. He’s kissed me as anexploration, he’s kissed me with sweetness, and now he’s kissing me like a good prologue, teasing what’s to come. His tongue slides between my lips, and I breathlessly open to him, up on my toes with need. He tastes of wine and wildness, exploring my mouth with leisurely demand. The way he laps at me, explores every corner of my mouth—it makes me melt.
His fingers stroke my cheek, my jaw, the line of my neck, and his lips follow, leaving a trail of fire down my throat and along the tender hollow of my clavicles, kissing both sides like a benediction. I wore a button-down shirt for this very reason. There is nothing more erotic than the purposeful flick of a button, of sensitive flesh newly exposed against a backdrop of late summer stars. The first button goes, and he places hot kisses down the line he’s forging. I’m glad I wore a cute, lacy bra—and that we already established my willingness to accept whatever comes next.
“I like this,” he says, tracing the underwire.
“I wore it for you.”
He bends his head, reverently kissing just above the lace. “I’m glad.”
