“Absolutely.” His tone was friendly, and with his ruffled hair and rumpled clothes, he looked so innocent and boyish her worries dissipated.
Perhaps that strange awkwardness was over, and now they could be friends. No love, no lust.
She nodded. “Bed it is.”
Shanna woke up salivating over Simon.
She wasn’t sure how it happened. When they went to sleep, he was on his side of the bed, facing toward the wall, and she was firmly on her side, facing toward the window. Now he was lying on his back, and she was curled up next to him, her head finding a perfect spot in the crook of his neck. He was warm, and smelled lightly of pines and the minty freshness her healingmixture had contained, and his chest rose and fell steadily as he drifted in peaceful sleep.
Meanwhile, she’d drooled onto his shirt.
“Oh, no. Don’t wake up,” she whispered and went to the bathroom to fetch some hand wipes, then carefully dabbed at the evidence of her nightly snuggling. She stayed kneeling on the bed, her gaze caressing his face and his short but thick auburn eyelashes fanning his cheeks.
She knew it was too late for them, but waking up next to him, feeling safe and warm, had invoked a powerful longing. If only she could watch him in the mornings more often. Preferably while cuddling next to him, not leaning over him like a stalker.
Simon stirred and opened one eye. “Morning?”
“Hi.” She scooted back to her side. “Uh, I wasn’t—I was checking your ankle.”
“It feels a little sore, but it doesn’t hurt too bad,” he said, luckily not bringing up the point she couldn’t see the ankle underneath his blanket.
“We’ll soak it in some cold water, then. And more rest.”
The morning and early day progressed normally. Chris came by for another session of finding the suspect—unsuccessful again—and Shanna called Gran to let her know the ritual’s condition had been fulfilled. Gran was a bit grumpy as Shanna recounted the events of the previous day, but perhaps she got up on the wrong foot. Unlike Simon, who only had one foot to choose from, and spent the next few hours in bed.
At least it was a rainy day; one that didn’t feel too wasted spent in a hotel room. Shanna curled up in the armchair and had been scribbling in her book for about fifteen minutes when Simon said, “What is that?”
“My Book of Shadows. It’s like a diary. For spells, rituals, dreams, whatever I find useful.” She walked over, sat next to him, legs curled under her, and showed him the book.
“I’m allowed to look? It’s not going to hex me or something?”
“No.” She laughed. “It’s just a book.”
Simon carefully flipped through the pages. These ones were in the dream section: the part of the book where she jotted down the impressions of her dreams, using drawings rather than words, since details escaped her quickly when she woke up.
He scanned over colorful doodles, some of more coherent—flowers, witchy symbols, landscapes—others completely abstract. “Doesn’t look very shadowy to me,” he said.
“I guess I’m not a very shadowy witch.”
He turned the page, revealing an abstract design of two intertwined curves, only the circles at the top revealing them as people caught in an intimate embrace. His fingers traced the lines, head cocked, as if he was studying a math problem.
“Ahhh—that’s all of it.” She grabbed the book from him and closed it.
“That was pretty. You drew it?”
“Just doodling.” No need to say it was an abstract version of them, from not-so-abstract dreams she used to have before he came back.
A knock sounded at the door; Chris, returning with Simon’s phone she’d taken out on a walk, and a brown paper bag. “Hey, Shanna.” She looked past her shoulder. “What’s up, sicko? I brought us hot pies.”
“That sounds delicious.” Shanna went to prepare the desk as a makeshift dining table, but Chris went straight for the bed and started pulling out the small pies. “We have classic mince, spinach and cheese, butter chicken—”
“Butter chicken!” Shanna and Simon said at the same time.
“Okay.” Chris rolled her eyes. “I guess you two can share.”
They all grouped up on the bed; Simon at the side, so he could have his leg sprawled out, and Shanna and Chris sitting cross-legged around their improvised picnic.
“The butter chicken one is so good.” Shanna took another bite, then, to protect the pie from crumbling or the filling from oozing out, she cupped it in her hand and offered it to Simon. She hadn’t realized her grand mistake until he bit into the pie while still in her hand, his fingers lightly brushing the sensitive skin of her wrist, their eyes meeting over the pie.
