Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(35)
I paused, pulling my sweater over my head. A small part of me clamored that I should leave, that this was all entirely nuts, the sort of situation no reasonable person should desire to prolong.
The rest of me—most of me—wanted nothing more than to stay put, keep on being close to him. And it helped that I could feel that Morty felt the same; was actively dreading the idea of seeing me vanish into the cold winter night outside when I could stay here, safe and warm with him instead. Plus, no one had ever offered to postcoitally cook for me before, and the new Boss Nina who’d taken up residence inside me apparently really dug the idea.
“Actually, I am hungry,” I told him, tugging my sweater back over my head. It was true, too; I was still ravenous, as if I hadn’t eaten Avalon out of all their backroom stores not even that long ago. “So that sounds wonderful.”
“Amazing.” He grinned at me, running a hand through that mess of hair. “Anything in particular you feel like you could go for? You know what—let me just get a menu for you.”
12
My Forever Kenzi
So lowkeyloki cooked for you,” Jessa said, in tones of such rapturous and unapologetic “I told you so” glee that I almost threw a pastry at her, before deciding that would be a waste. “And then you spent. The. Night.”
“You don’t have to say it all smug like that,” I groused, sinking farther into her overstuffed couch.
Everything in Jessa’s spacious living room was designed to foster comfort: a huge, plush modular sofa that you could rearrange into a lounge nest for watching TV, a slew of pillows in peacock blue and teal, five different throws in a variety of soft fabrics, a tall, curved lamp that swooped over the couch to shed warm light on us. It was the opposite of my own minimalist aesthetic, which tended more to cool Nordic without too much distracting hygge. Lots of clean, stark silhouettes, thoughtful art, and muted colors.
Soothing and lovely, but less than ideal for a binge-watch session, which was why Tuesday TV nights usually happened at Jessa’s condo.
As per her house rules, we were both wearing the matching fleece-lined adult onesies patterned with flannel-clad penguins she’d gotten us one holiday season, which I pretended to hate but secretly adored. Her pup, a massive black labradoodle who lived to crowd you with affection, was a huge draw, too. I wasn’t the kind of person who ever wanted to experience the questionable joys of dog ownership, but I loved getting to borrow other people’s. Jake was currently sprawled next to me with his head in my lap, staring up at my unattainable snack with desperate hope and yearning.
“What other way is there to say it?” Jessa asked, finger to her chin, making a faux pensive moue. “Operation Doggy Paddle was a spectacular success by any standard. You got hella laid, then you got fed—by a sexy-ass individual who cooked for you, no less—and then you got the lovely snugs.”
“I did get the snugs,” I agreed, remembering the languid comfort of sleeping tucked up against Morty, the witch bond open between us even as we dreamed. There’d been no more mind-blowing sex, but that was only because he’d made us crispy honey brussels sprouts and buffalo chicken enchiladas. I’d eaten so much that any type of strenuous activity had not been a viable option, even if the spirit was more than willing. “All those things were, admittedly, very good.”
“And now here I am, rewarding you for losing your own bet,” Jessa pointed out, gesturing at the still-warm pigs in blankets nestled on a tray in front of us, one of my favorite episodes of Lost Girl playing on her massive screen.
“Technically, it was your bet. That I didn’t even want any part of in the first place.”
“And yet, here you are, winning on every front. The good dick and the pastries, because I’m just that proud of both Operation Doggy Paddle and my own bestie’s prowess. All things considered, you’re really the one making out like a bandit here.”
“It’s true, you spoil me,” I agreed, reaching for another pastry, teeth sinking into flaky crust followed by caramelized onion, melted Gruyère, and the bougie kind of tiny cocktail sausage. Jessa’s pigs in blankets were a whole culinary event. “But I’m still having trouble getting over the fact that I banged a near-stranger in a bar. On a bar, to be precise, in full view of a plastic skeleton in a leprechaun hat. Sassy Sue’s going to have a field day helping me process that, if I can even bring myself to tell her.”
Jessa sat up, pausing the show.
“The thing that’s really getting me, though, is that you don’t actually sound all that bugged about it,” she said, canting her head and fixing me with that Machiavellian gaze, so out of place on her soft features. “Like, I get it, Nina’s getting her groove back with a vengeance. But two dates in a row? Bar-top sex, on the second date, followed by a sleepover? No hint of any real mortification at having thrown caution to the passionate zephyrs?”
“Why does it suddenly feel like you’re judging me a little?”
“Sweetheart, don’t get me wrong, I am beyond stoked you’re living your best life. But this doesn’t sound like you at all.”
I heaved a sigh, sinking back into the nest of pillows. I’d known this was going to be a tricky conversation to navigate, without being able to tell Jessa about the witch bond—the way it had enabled me to lean into the attraction, leap into the sizzling moment. Be the right kind of heedless for once in my life, while still feeling like I had both hands firmly on the wheel.