Chapter 27
“I like it here,” Wells said drowsily, studying the ceiling over Gwyn’s bed. He had no idea what time it was, and outside, the rain had softened to a gentle patter against the roof. In here, though, it was warm and dry, and Gwyn was a soft weight at his side.
She laughed now, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at him. Her skin was still flushed pink, lips slightly swollen, and Wells knew that no matter what happened from here on out, he’d always think of this moment and how lovely she was.
“Do you mean being in bed with me or in Graves Glen in general?”
“Delighted about the first, obviously,” he said, rolling onto his side and skimming a hand over her hip. “But yes, it was the second I was thinking about.”
“Any particular reason why?”
He sighed, still stroking her hip as she arched into him like a cat. “It’ll sound daft,” he warned, not sure he could explain it properly, “but it was the weather tonight. The storm. I used to lie in my bed in Dweniniaid, hearing it rain, and thinking how I’d get up the next morning and it would still be raining, and no one would come into the pub, and how all those rainy days seemed to string together. Every day some mild variation on the same thing.”
“And now?” Gwyn asked softly, stacking her hands beneath her cheek.
“Now,” he told her, “I was thinking how I was spending a rainy night in bed with this glorious woman, and tomorrow I’ll open up my shop, where actual customers will come in and be happy to be there. And I have no idea what else the day may bring, and that feels pretty fucking spectacular.”
She smiled at that, her bare foot nudging his. “Oh, so now you like surprises. But when it was me throwing a bachelorette party in your house, that was another issue.”
“That,” he said, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her closer, not missing the way her gaze went a little hazy, “was me being exhausted and confused and unprepared to find a house full of people.”
“There were, like, six of us.”
“Ah, but you count for at least five women all on your own, my Gwynnevere,” he said, and she rolled her eyes but kissed him all the same, pushing him onto his back as she leaned over him.
“I am sorry your first night back in Graves Glen involved penis headbands,” she told him now, and Wells chuckled, lifting his head to nuzzle her jaw before flopping back on the pillow, his hand coming up to tug gently at the pink streak in her hair.
Eyes flicking toward the side, Gwyn smirked. “You realize you do that a lot, don’t you? Does pink hair really do it for you or something?”
“Hmm,” Wells hummed, then let the strands of hair fall back against her neck and shoulders as her eyes widened.
“Wait, does it?” she asked, and he actually felt himself blushing a little as he looked up at her, which was completely insane given that he was currently naked and hard and pressed against her equally naked body.
“I realize it’s bad form to discuss other women while in bed with someone,” he started, and now Gwyn’s eyebrows went up as she rested her hands on his chest, propping her chin on top of them.
“Okay, now I have to hear this.”
Wells smiled at her, even as the tips of his ears went hot. “Fine. When I was at Penhaven, I occasionally saw this girl.”
“‘Saw’ in the biblical sense?”
Reaching down, Wells pinched her bottom and she gave an exaggerated yelp.
“‘Saw’ as in ‘saw romantically and piningly in the distance,’ thank you very much,” he informed her, turning his gaze back to the ceiling as he remembered.
“Anyway, she had the prettiest purple hair. Violet, really, and I’d catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye and think I should go talk to her. But, as we’ve previously established, I was an absolute wanker back then. And then, of course, I embarrassed myself horribly in front of her in a classroom by acting like a complete show-off, so it was yet another smashing romantic success from Wells Pen—why are you looking at me like that?”
He’d dropped his eyes back to her face to see her watching him with the strangest expression, one he couldn’t even begin to interpret, and for a second, Wells wondered if he’d made a mistake in telling her about the girl with the purple hair.
“I’m not still pining for her,” he told her, frowning. “In case you’re worried that this return to Graves Glen was some sort of lost-love thing. I just really liked her hair, and yes, had several explicit fantasies about it, but—”
She cut off his babbling with another kiss, and then there was absolutely no woman in his mind except Gwyn herself as she threw her leg over his lap and rose up above him.
Later—much later—Gwyn sighed in his arms and said, “I’ve put off worrying about my magic for as long as I can, I think.”
Wells was curled around her, her back against his chest, and he kissed her shoulder, tasting the slight salt of her sweat there. “You were upset,” he reminded her. “And magic doesn’t always play by the rules.”
Lifting one hand, she moved her fingers.
Nothing happened.
Another sigh, and she lowered her arm, scooting closer to him. “It’s more than that,” she said. “Something’s wrong. And it’s been wrong ever since Morgan came back.”
Twisting in his arms, Gwyn looked up at him. “Maybe it’s time for the direct approach.”
Gwyn wasn’t sure what the appropriate outfit was for confronting an evil witch about stealing your magic, but she sensed one couldn’t go wrong all in black. So after her shower that next morning (which she had very graciously and magnanimously shared with Wells before sending him back to his house for a change of clothes), she’d pulled out her blackest jeans, an inky sweater, and a pair of black boots.
Problem was, when Wells returned from his house, he’d apparently decided black was a solid choice as well, and now, as they sped down the mountain in Gwyn’s truck, she glanced over at him.
“I can’t decide if we look intimidating or like we’re forming a Goth band,” she said, and he sniffed, tugging at his lapels.
“And here I was thinking we looked like a pair of undertakers.”
That made Gwyn smile, something of a feat given how freaked out—and pissed off—she was, and seeing it, Wells reached over, squeezing her hand. “We’ll get this sorted, Gwyn,” he promised, and she squeezed back.
It was probably residual sex hormones, but it felt good, having Wells by her side. Scarier than that, it felt right, the same way having him in her bedroom had felt right last night.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time to get used to the idea that Wells felt right . . . in general.
And she would.
But first, she was getting her damn magic back.
As she turned past Main Street, Wells twisted in his seat a little, watching the street recede behind them. “I should’ve put some kind of sign on Penhallow’s this morning, saying we’re closed,” he said, and Gwyn shook her head.
“No worries, Esquire. Parker is opening up Something Wicked, and I sent Cait over there to open up shop for you. Did you know the locking spell you have on that place is weak as fuck? Cait broke it in, like, three seconds.”
Gwyn could feel Wells’s eyes on the side of her face.
“You . . . sent your Baby Witches into my shop.”
“Yes, you’re welcome.”
She hadn’t gotten a Llewellyn Penhallow Patented Scowl in a while, but oh, it was in evidence now, and honestly, it was kind of a relief.
“Should I call my insurance company?” he asked. “Make sure my fire policy is sound?”
“Cait is under very strict instructions not to do any magic in there or even touch your fireplace,” Gwyn assured him, and she thought Wells actually went a little gray.
“I forgot about the fireplace,” he murmured to himself, and then he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone.
“Rhiannon’s tits,” he bit out, glancing over at her as he pulled up an app, “how can I be this annoyed with you and still think your hair looks beautiful in the sunlight right now?”
Gwyn shook her head. “Something tells me that’s a feeling we’re both going to need some time getting used to.”
Wells snorted, his fingers flying over the screen, that dark jewel in his signet ring winking.
“Are you thinking my hair looks beautiful in the sunlight, Gwynnevere?” he asked without looking at her.
“I was actually thinking that as soon as we make Morgan reverse whatever spell she’s done on me, we should go back to your store, kick Cait out, lock the door, and fuck in front of that fireplace you’re so proud of.”
The slightly choked sound Wells made to that was so very gratifying, and now she could feel his eyes on her face again, but this time, the intent behind that look was very, very different.
“Amenable?” she asked brightly, looking over at him, and oh, yes, that was a very different look indeed.
“Terribly,” he managed to reply, and Gwyn turned off on the road leading to Morgan’s house.
Clearing his throat, Wells reached up and unbuttoned the top button of his collar, tugging at the fabric. “You’re so sure it’s Morgan, then? And that this will be easily undone?”
“First one yes, second one not as much,” she admitted. It had been on her mind all morning, if she was being honest. Did she really believe it was Morgan causing this, or did she just want to because that was the easiest answer?
She didn’t know, but Gwyn had always found it best to approach things with almost lethal amounts of confidence, and this time was no exception.
Morgan’s house came into view, every bit as big and odd as it had been that night, and Gwyn thought she saw a curtain flick open then closed on one of the upper floors.
Good.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the truck door and climbed out. The grass was still damp underfoot despite the perfect autumn day, and Gwyn shivered as she stared up at the house.
Then she felt Wells’s hand, warm and strong, in hers. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he said, and nodded.
“Oh, we fucking shall.”