Chapter 19
Rhiannon’s tits.
Wells had spent the past couple of weeks telling himself that kiss in the cellar had not been as good as he remembered it, that it had rattled him so much simply because he hadn’t kissed a woman in ages before that.
But as Gwyn’s lips parted underneath his, he understood that such thinking had been deeply, deeply stupid.
No, that kiss had been so bloody devastating because she was so bloody devastating, and he was in very serious trouble now.
Not that Wells gave a flying fuck.
His hands landed on her hips, the material of that dress—that dress; he’d nearly swallowed his tongue when he’d seen her outside the house this evening—just as soft as he’d thought it would be. Better, though, the warmth of her skin making the fabric even more touchable, even more irresistible, and Wells couldn’t help the sound he made, low in his throat, as he pulled her closer.
The rational part of his brain, the part that remembered she was only kissing him so that they had plausible deniability for skulking around, was quickly being overwhelmed by that darker, more primal part of him that only she seemed to bring out.
And maybe he brought something out in her, too, because she was pushing closer to him, her arms twining around his neck, her breasts tight against his chest, and her tongue—
“Oh! Sorry about that!”
The attic stairs were suddenly illuminated by a bright rectangle of light as the door opened, a figure silhouetted there.
Gwyn pulled away and it took everything in Wells not to chase her mouth with his own, but then she pressed her palm against his chest, giving a breathless laugh as she turned to face Morgan.
“Oh god, we’re sorry,” she said, then looked back at Wells, tugging her lower lip between her teeth and giving the impression of someone who was genuinely a little sheepish. Performance of a lifetime, clearly, because he doubted Gwynnevere Jones had ever been sheepish in her life.
“We were just admiring your gorgeous house, and I think that very lovely wine you served must’ve gotten to us,” Gwyn continued, letting her arm drape naturally around Wells’s shoulders as he rested his palm on her hip, fighting the urge to curl his fingers tighter, to bring her right up against him.
Morgan looked at them, her dark eyes taking in everything, Wells was pretty sure, and even as she smiled, there was a brittleness to it. Was it simply because she—sensibly—was not a huge fan of people snogging each other’s face off in the private areas of her home, or was it something more? Was it to do with what she had up here in the attic?
“It was appallingly rude of us, Morgan,” Wells offered, maneuvering Gwyn down the last step and wondering if he could channel Rhys enough to charm his way out of this.
Morgan just waved a hand. “No, no, not at all! I’m just surprised.”
She turned that dark gaze on Wells. “I did ask you if the two of you were together. Don’t tell me you lied to me, Llewellyn Penhallow.”
Lying seemed a far lesser sin than collecting dark magical artifacts, but what did he know?
“It’s new,” Gwyn offered now, her fingers tightening just the littlest bit on his shoulder as though she could sense what he wanted to say.
“Very, very new,” Wells confirmed, patting her hip lightly.
Message received.
Her grip loosened a bit, and she gestured toward the door. “And hi! You’re . . . ”
For the first time, Wells realized there was someone standing just behind Morgan, a man around the same age as all of them, blond hair scraped severely back from a rather narrow face.
“Harrison Phelps,” he said, offering his hand to shake. “And we actually knew each other back at Penhaven. You’re Gwyn Jones.”
“Oh, right!” Gwyn said brightly, but Wells had a feeling she had no idea who this man was.
“And Llewellyn Penhallow,” Harrison continued, shaking Wells’s hand next. “We never met, but of course I knew you by reputation.”
Whether Harrison meant his family’s reputation or the brief bit of glory Wells had managed to bring on himself at Penhaven, he wasn’t sure, but he nodded all the same, giving the man a tight smile.
“Quite the reunion you’ve put together, Morgan,” Gwyn said, and Morgan smiled, her teeth very white against those red lips.
“I was feeling nostalgic, I guess,” she said. “And it seemed like the right time to revisit old friends. Old haunts.”
Wells was about to ask why that was when Morgan said, “Now, if the two of you will excuse us, I had something I wanted to show Harrison in the attic.”
Looking between the two of them, her smile still fixed firmly in place, she asked, “Did the two of you head up there?”
Wells had to hand it to her—she did a decent job of keeping that question light, but there was something in her eyes he didn’t like, something that made it clear she wanted, needed, perhaps, the answer to be no.
“Oh god, no,” Gwyn said, laughing a little and raising one hand to her cheek. “To be honest, we’re lucky we got the door closed behind us before we . . . well.”
She smirked a little, cheeks still flushed, and Wells felt the tips of his ears go hot, which was ridiculous. He was a grown man, and they’d only been kissing, but she put so much suggestion into that “well” that he was half hard just from one bloody syllable.
Not just ridiculous, pathetic.
Wells stepped out of the stairwell, Gwyn just behind him, and gave Morgan a little nod as he said, “And on that note, I think we’ll take our leave.”
Until he figured out just what Morgan and her friends had been kicked out of Penhaven College for, it seemed safer to spend as little time in their company as possible, plus the magic in this place was starting to make his head ache, a tension building between his shoulder blades, a dull sort of weight behind his eyes. The quicker they got out of here, the better.
“Normally I’d be saying ‘leaving so soon?’ but in this case, I’ll allow it,” Morgan said with a wink, and Gwyn once again moved to Wells’s side. It was a little alarming how much he enjoyed that and how natural it felt to once again slide an arm around her.
“Let’s get together next week,” she said to Morgan. “I’d love to catch up.”
“Of course,” Morgan practically trilled, but Wells didn’t miss the way her eyes were going to the attic again or the nervous energy radiating off Harrison.
Yes, something was definitely afoot here.
Gwyn wasn’t sure she’d ever been so happy to leave a party, and given that she’d once had to go to a wedding reception where both the bride and the groom were her exes, that was saying something.
“Can you actually die from a case of the heebie-jeebies?” she asked Wells as they stepped out onto the front porch. She still had her hand loosely in his, part of their whole “We’re a couple!” schtick, as they’d made their way out of the party, but there was no one around out here, so no reason, really, to keep holding hands.
But he wasn’t letting go and neither was she and now, as they walked down the front steps, she let her gaze linger for just a second on his profile in the moonlight, that sharp nose and strong jaw, and why in the name of all that was holy had she kissed him again?
It was the best excuse for why y’all were being sneaky! And it worked!
But even as her brain offered up those very true and factual facts, Gwyn knew it wasn’t quite that simple.
And now that she knew that kiss in the cellar, magic fueled or no, hadn’t been some kind of Freak of Kissing Nature, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to spend time with him and not want to kiss him.
Which, given that they had Witchy Duties to fulfill together, was a pretty major issue.
For now, though, Gwyn let her hand casually drop from his, crossing the lawn to where her truck was parked.
That shiny BMW of his was just behind her, and they paused for a moment, Wells thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat and shooting her a sideways glance briefly before looking somewhere in the middle distance. “First step, find out why Morgan and the others were asked to leave Penhaven. I can attempt that on my own, or you could, really, there’s no reason for us to team up on this when you—”
“This doesn’t have to be weird,” Gwyn interrupted, leaning against the back of her truck, and he swung his head back around to face her again. “It’s only weird if we make it weird.”
Wells tilted his head. “I wasn’t making it weird. I think you’re making it weird by suggesting we not make it weird.”
Then he frowned. “I really want to stop saying ‘weird’ now.”
Gwyn laughed at that, tucking her hair behind her ear even as she watched him from the side of her eye. She really did laugh . . . kind of a lot with Wells. And that, weirdly, seemed somehow even more dangerous than a couple of good kisses.
But for now, she shook her hair back off her shoulders and said, “Look, it makes more sense to work on this together. Otherwise we’ll spend all our time looking into the same stuff, then telling the other what we found out, and having to be, like, ‘Yeah, I already knew that,’ and by then, Morgan and her friends might have opened up a Hellmouth or something.”
“You do have a way of getting to the heart of things, Jones,” he said with a slight smile, and Gwyn grinned at him.
“It’s my specialty. And yes, I get the kissing thing makes it a little awkward, but it’s not like we wanted to kiss each other. First kiss?” She lifted up her thumb. “Magic spell. Second kiss?” She lifted her second finger. “A tactical strategy to get us out of a sticky spot.”
Wiggling the rest of the fingers of that hand, Gwyn added, “The way I see it, unless we end up in some kind of weird situation where we have to kiss to save the world or one of us needs to give the other CPR, I think we can avoid each other’s mouth while trying to protect Graves Glen.”
Gwyn was proud of herself for how sensible she sounded, how completely unbothered.
Heck, she’d presented such a good case, she almost believed it.
Whether or not Wells did, she had no idea. His expression was neutral, and it was too dark to read his eyes.
“So we’re agreed,” Gwyn went on. “This is a joint effort.”
Wells sighed and looked up at the sky for a moment before finally nodding. “Agreed. Penhallow and Jones it is.”
“Jones and Esquire.”
But she smiled as she said it, and when he did, too, she felt her pulse kick up. “Shall we shake on this as well?” he asked, leaning back against his own car. “Or, given that we’d informally agreed to work together in the attic, maybe that kiss was meant to seal the deal as it were?”
Gwyn wet her lips, not missing the way his eyes dropped to follow the movement. “That kiss,” she said, trying not to sound as turned on as she felt, “was a distraction for Morgan and the creepy ventriloquist doll she’s apparently magicked into a real live boy.”
Wells chuckled, and even that low sound was enough to have her clenching her fingers in her skirt so that she wouldn’t do something crazy like step forward and touch him.
But he straightened up, his stare not quite as intense now, the mood broken.
“Fair enough,” he said, turning away and opening his car door.
Gwyn went around to the driver’s side of her truck and was just unlocking it when Wells said, “Edible body glitter.”
Gwyn’s key scratched the red paint near the handle, missing the lock completely.
“Excuse me?”
Wells was still standing there, his car door open, his arm resting along the top of it as he watched her. “That’s what was in that bag. The one that fell on us,” he said, and Gwyn felt something unsettlingly swoopy in her stomach as she straightened up, keys still clutched in her hand.
“There was a mix-up,” he went on, “and I got a box from some place called the Pleasure Palace.”
Gwyn should have had a joke for that. That was the perfect setup for a joke, but all she could do was stare at Wells as he stared back.
“You’re making that up,” she finally said, and even though she couldn’t make out his expression, she could practically hear his quirked eyebrow.
“Do you really think I’d make up ‘the Pleasure Palace’?”
She had to admit that was unlikely, but her kissing Wells that night just because she’d wanted to went past unlikely and into inconceivable territory, so she had to press it.
“It still had to be a spell,” she insisted. “Maybe . . . maybe one got in there accidentally, and—”
“Oh, I thought that, too, for a bit. Hoped, even. But I promise you, there is nothing magical at all about Pixie Licks. It’s just—”
“Edible body glitter,” she finished for him, and he nodded.
“QED.”
Another perfect time for a joke, but nothing was coming to her, nothing but a kind of whooshing noise in her brain, because it had to have been a spell that night. She’d been out of her mind with wanting him, and up until that very second, she hadn’t given a single thought to Wells Freaking Penhallow in any kind of sexy sense.
Except . . .
That moment at The Cider Shack. And how he looked behind the counter at Penhallow’s. And a hundred other little moments that were now flashing through her mind.
“So,” Wells summed up, clearing his throat again. “While I can’t disagree that tonight’s kiss had an ulterior motive, I’m afraid that first one was in fact real.”
She wished it weren’t so dark, wished she could see his face more clearly because it suddenly seemed very important to know how he was looking at her.
Swallowing hard, Gwyn tightened her grip on her keys. “I’ll . . . take that into account the next time I’m calculating Kiss Risks for Jones and Esquire,” she offered weakly.
He made that sound he sometimes did, that sort of huff that wasn’t quite a laugh but was close enough. “You do that,” he told her. “Good night, Gwyn.”
And then he drove off, leaving Gwyn standing there, still holding her keys.