Derrick
Witches value consensual sex as pleasure, one of the sources of energies used in the practice of magic, and the embodiment of life.
Rule Number Five of the Nine Rules
*World Council of Witches*
For a second, Derrick’s gaze met hers above the rim of their wineglasses. He was struck, once again, by her eyes—twin wells into which he felt he could fall and lose himself forever.
He’d be happy to spend the rest of his days swimming in those warm dark pools, and living in this warm, cluttered house. He had never been in a place that felt more colorful, more comfortable, more home. He wasn’t sure if it was the house itself or Jessica, in her body-skimming, shimmering silk robe, with her laughing mouth and damp black curls hanging down her shoulders, that made him feel so relaxed. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
What was he even doing here? He’d been told to protect her, not move in with her, and certainly not sleep with her. Was he going to be able to stop himself?
Not if she kept looking at him that way.
When the first side of the record she’d put on came to a sudden end, he became disturbingly aware of how quiet it was. Her neighbors, he knew from his earlier research, were mostly retirees who went to bed early—but rose early, as well. He imagined they’d have pointed questions for her tomorrow morning about the whereabouts of her car—and the owner of the severely dented Fiat parked in her driveway.
Bzzz. The room was so silent, Derrick heard the phone in the pocket of her robe alert her to a text, even though she’d set it on vibrate.
“Do you want to check that?” he asked politely.
She smiled widely and took another sip of her wine. “It’s probably not important.”
“What if it’s Esther?”
The smile disappeared. “Right. Of course.” She fished the phone from her pocket.
Derrick, to be courteous, turned toward the fireplace, even though he knew who it was. He hadn’t meant to look at her phone, but she’d left it out on the counter earlier, and he hadn’t been able to keep from glancing at the screen when it lit up with a text from someone called Scungilli referring to a “filthy warlock,” and urging her to use protection.
Was he the filthy warlock? “Eavesdroppers get what they deserve,” his father always said, and in general Derrick agreed. But did Scungilli mean filthy in a good way or a bad way?
It was natural, of course, that her friends would be suspicious of him. He was suspicious of himself. How was he going to do his job when all he could think about was what was behind the one door in the house she hadn’t opened for him . . . Jessica Gold’s bed?
“Sorry,” she said, putting her phone away again. “Nothing important, just a friend. Do you like vinaigrette? I was going to whip one up to go with the salad.”
“You really don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”
“Oh, it’s not for you. It’s for me.” She smiled again, and bounced away to the turntable to flip the record over.
He pretended not to notice that she was also quietly answering the text.
“Are these your parents?” he asked. He’d got a fire started, and had begun scanning her bookshelves as she busied herself in the kitchen. Now he held up a framed photo as, on the record player, a woman crooned about how much she loved her man.
“Yes,” Jessica said, glancing over from the kitchen. “That’s my mom and dad’s wedding photo.”
He squinted down at the photo. It showed a deliriously happy-looking dark-haired couple in formal wear, standing under a Jewish wedding canopy. “Do they know?”
“Know what?”
“About you being a witch.”
“Oh, God, no. Do yours?”
“Yes,” he said shortly. He wasn’t going to discuss that. Better to keep her on the subject of her own family. “Why haven’t you told yours? Would they be upset?”
Jessica had come over from the kitchen to gaze down at the photo in his hand. “Upset? No. Concerned? Yes. My ancestors did a lot of running because of their beliefs—from the Cossacks, Nazis, Mussolini. You name it. So I guess I’d rather spare my parents from any news that might make them feel like I’m going to have to run someday, too, like our ancestors had to. What about your parents? Are they—what did you call it? Magically inclined?”
“More or less.” It was dangerous to talk about himself, so he turned his attention back to the photos on the bookshelf to distract her—and himself. She was standing so close to him that he could smell the grapefruit-scented shampoo she’d used on her hair. He reached quickly for a photo of an awkwardly tall boy wearing a graduation gown. “Is this your brother? Does he know?”
“I never told him, but I think he suspects . . . something.” His strategy wasn’t working, because she came even closer, grinning down at the photo and enveloping him with the scent of citrus and a feeling of longing. “What about you? Any siblings?”
He didn’t like talking about his past. But because it was her, he grudgingly admitted, “Half-siblings. We weren’t raised together.”
“So you were basically an only child. That makes a lot of sense.”
He glanced at her as he put the photo of her brother back where he’d found it. But glancing at her was a mistake, since it only caused him to notice, once again, how kissable her lips looked. “Why?”
“Only children often have to mediate between their parents, smooth things over, make things nice, take care of them. That’s what you do.”
He was astonished by this description of himself. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Her laughter tinkled like the piano keys in the music she’d put on. She seemed to find his response very amusing. “What about when you rushed off to save Esther from that wolf? Or what you did when Rosalie attacked me, and I hurt my knee this afternoon?”
“That’s—” What was she even talking about? It’s true that he’d never learned to handle compliments well—possibly because his father had hardly ever given them, and his mother had rarely been around. But this was ridiculous. “Anyone would have done that.”
“No, they wouldn’t.” She smiled up at him with those shining lips. “You said every witch is a healer—or has the capacity to be, anyway. Well, you’re something more. I think you’re a caretaker.”
“No, I’m not.”
What was happening? This conversation had gotten way off track. He desperately needed to steer the subject away from himself.
He also needed her to move away from him, since she was standing far, far too close to him. Just to be on the safe side, he set his wineglass on the mantel and reached for the fireplace poker, keeping his hands away from the temptation of reaching for her.
“Do you think the food is ready?” he asked, stirring up the flames. Yes. This was good. Steer the conversation back to dinner. “It smells great.”
“I have the timer on,” she said. “It will ding when it’s ready. So, is there anyone you’re currently caring for?”
He paused in poking the fire, not certain he understood her. “What?”
“Besides me. Back at home. Do you have anyone special waiting for you back home?”
“Not currently, no.” He kept his attention resolutely on the fire . . . which was difficult, since she’d taken a step closer to him in order to set her wineglass on the mantel alongside his.
“Wow,” she said, with another peal of that musical laughter. “You really do hate talking about yourself, don’t you?”
Suddenly the fire felt too hot.
Or maybe it wasn’t the fire. Maybe it was her.
“There’s nothing about me that’s very interesting,” he said.
“Now you’re the one underestimating yourself. What about what got you into this line of work?” She looked up at him through her dark eyelashes. “The town-saving business. I bet that’s a pretty interesting story.”
“It’s not,” he said quickly. “Trust me.”
This was agony. Why had he agreed to this job in the first place? He should have said no the second he’d read her bio and seen her photos. At the very least, he should have left West Harbor the moment he met her and felt her magnetic pull. . . .
But then who would have helped her?
She reached out to lay a finger on his chest. Just one fingertip, on the bare patch of skin that showed through the V of his shirt.
It felt like . . .
Home.
“I think that might be what you’re not getting,” she said, and this time there was no laughter at all in her voice. There was a sincerity that caused his heart—the heart he’d been certain for so many years didn’t exist—to twist. “I do trust you, Derrick.”
Screw it.
He tossed the fire poker aside, pulled her roughly into his arms, and covered her mouth with his.