Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(48)
Of course she’d think about how to best protect her friends. If I didn’t realize how special she is already, that would have pushed me over the edge. I don’t know whether to shake her or wrap her up in a Bubble Wrap spell to keep her safe.
The urge to tell Tilda that she’s a spellbinder is getting stronger with every minute I spend with her, but I know Griselda was right. Telling her the truth only puts her in more danger unless she has the right witch around her. That’s not going to be Eli or Birdie with their well-meaning but fucked-up magic skills. Vance isn’t even a witch. It sure as hell can’t be me. My own parents couldn’t depend on me to keep them safe. I tried, but it was Griselda who actually got them out of The Beyond, not me. It has to be a Sherwood who delivers the news that will change everything for Tilda, and after that she won’t need my help, won’t need me.
That’s how it should be.
Still, I can’t help but try to warn her before she learns the hard way like I had to.
“The Witchingdom is all about transactional relationships.” No one knows that better than I do. It’s why I’ve spent my entire adult life playing both sides of every situation. “All that matters is what you can do for me and how I can benefit from helping you.”
“You’re full of shit,” Tilda says with an eye roll. “If you weren’t you wouldn’t be here.”
I don’t have an answer to that. How can I, because what feels like the truth at this moment is just a lie I’m telling myself. No matter how much the duíl magic makes me want to think so, the world hasn’t changed just because of Tilda.
But maybe I have.
Fuck. I’m losing it. I have to get the fuck out of here, but beyond jumping from the moving train, there is only one place I can escape to. I mumble my good-nights, ignoring the hurt on Tilda’s face and the censure on everyone else’s, and get the hell out of there before I do something stupid.
The truth of it is that everything has changed because of Tilda and the duíl spell isn’t ever going to be completed because I’ll never stop wanting her. I know it all the way down to the marrow of my bones.
I am fucked and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m halfway through two fingers of whiskey, watching the moonlight hit the whitecaps on the Atlantic as the train click-clacks its way up the coast when there’s a knock at my door. No doubt it’s Vance to give me a gruff reminder of what’s at stake here—as if I’m not aware.
But it’s not the unicorn shifter on the other side of my door. It’s Tilda.
Her lips are upturned in a shy smile, and she’s holding two eye of newt muffins. “Can I come in?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tilda . . .
I may have made a mistake just showing up at Gil’s room. He’s got that growly set to his mouth that is definitely a warning, but my body interprets it only as an invitation. Yeah, I know I’m a horny mess when it comes to Gil Connolly, but there’s not much I can do about that—even if there wasn’t the duíl spell, which, come on, I think we can both see there is more to all of the damn-he’s-so-hot than that. The truth is, I’m pretty sure I’m falling for him, which is probably not the smartest move on my part, but feelings aren’t exactly something even the most powerful witch can control—let alone a null like me.
So here I am, a dork of an outré, standing outside the door of the guy I have a crush on willing him to say “come on in” so we can finish what was started in my dad’s witch’s den.
Gil’s gaze flickers to the muffins and back to me. “I’m not good company.”
“When are you usually?” Falling into old patterns of insulting the guy I like? Guilty.
One side of his mouth kicks up. “Feeling feisty, huh?”
“Try nervous as hell.” Okay, that was probably more truthful than necessary, but it just popped out.
He takes a drink of his whiskey. “About the heist?”
“About being on this side of your door hoping you’ll let me in.” I hold up one of the muffins. “I brought a bribe to improve my odds.”
“This is the last place you should be tonight.” His grip on his glass tightens and the vein in his temple bulges. “When it comes to being near you, I can’t be trusted.”
“That is exactly what I’m counting on.” I walk in, adding a little extra sway to my hips—fake it until you’re confident, right? “You know, it just might be time you admit to yourself that you aren’t nearly the jerk you try and make everyone—including yourself—believe. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t think I’m playing the long con?” he asks as he shuts the door and leans against it, crossing his arms.
“No.” I hand him his muffin. He doesn’t look like he believes me, but he takes the muffin anyway, the brief contact of our fingers sending a shiver of anticipation up my spine. “Now eat. Eye of newt muffins make everything better.”
We settle down on the love seat that converts to a bed, not that I’m thinking about that—I’m totally thinking about that—and we eat the muffins in silence. I’m horrified to tell you that he doesn’t just eat the top of the muffin first and then devour the rest of it like a normal witch, but instead unwraps the paper cup from around the bottom and then eats from the underside up, closing his eyes with ecstasy. Yes, this is exactly when my brain flashes back to him between my legs in the den. Suddenly the train is a good ten degrees warmer than it was on my last inhale, and I’m having to shift my position in an effort to ease the needy ache in my core. Who knew watching someone eat could be such a turn-on?