By Magic Alone (33 page)

The logical explanation was also the simplest: he was tired from a long weekend and hours on a plane, probably even more than I was, because he’d been thrust into an uncomfortable situation with Jameson at the same time he met my parents. After all, meeting new people can be draining. So logically, his reticence and distance weren’t any reason for alarm.

Okay, then. I wouldn’t worry. I wouldn’t panic. Not outwardly, anyway. Because while fatigue might be the simplest explanation, it didn’t take magic into account. Or my spell.

It only took a few minutes to unpack, and the activity helped calm my nerves. That is, until I picked up the journal. I’d come this close to accidentally leaving it in Vegas. That first night, I’d kicked the book under the bed at the tail end of my spell, and in my hurry this morning, had nearly forgotten it was there. Thank goodness I’d remembered.

I turned the journal over in my hands, as I had the very first time I held it. The leather was soft, supple, solid. Real.

I stared at the book. A long, hard tremble hit. Why not cast one more wish? Just for tonight? So I could relax and enjoy the evening with Scot. So he could relax and enjoy his time with me. What would that hurt? My fingers tingled with the need to guarantee one more night of bliss, to save myself from one more night of possible heartache.

The compulsion swirled around me, pressing in, potent and powerful. I reeled back and dropped the journal. “No,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Don’t be that person.”

I paced back and forth, breathing in and out, fighting against the nearly overwhelming desire to cast “just one more wish.” Not only because I’d already had my weekend, and not only because it wasn’t right to continue to use this power in that way, but because I knew if I succumbed, it wouldn’t be just one more. I’d use the magic again and again and again, losing myself in the process. And that . . . well, that scared me more than anything Scot might say.

When the desperate edge of the compulsion eased, I picked up the journal by its corner and shoved it into my nightstand. It was there if I needed the magic for something else, but I refused to cast another spell that might cloud what was really happening—or not happening—with Scot.

I brushed my hair and washed my face. I changed into fresh clothes. I looked at the nightstand a dozen more times, but the crazy compulsion didn’t return. Thank God for that.

When I exited the safety of my bedroom, it was to find Scot lying on the couch. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in sleep. My heart softened as I took in the sight of him. See? My rational brain screamed,
He’s tired. There’s nothing to worry about.

Feeling a little more upbeat, I silently grabbed a notebook from my desk and went to the kitchen. There was no reason to wake him until the pizza arrived, and maybe I could figure out a few other things while I waited.

I poured myself a glass of red wine and started a pot of coffee. Elizabeth’s brownies were still in the large round plastic container Kara had stored them in. As long as they weren’t stale, and they shouldn’t have been, they’d do for dessert. Well, unless Scot had other ideas for dessert. I shivered, in both longing and hope.

Sitting down at the table, I sipped my wine. Ever since I’d heard Scot’s “love your job” theory, I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head. Now, after my epiphany at my parents’ ceremony, the concept didn’t sound as far-fetched. Think about it: if a person chooses a profession they truly love, and then combines that love with a solid business plan, marketing data, and of course, the proper skills, they might have an advantage. They’d likely focus harder, work longer hours, do whatever needed doing, to create success.

Well, not necessarily. But the idea had merit.

Of course, there was also more to lose. If I loved Introductions with the passion Scot described, losing my business might cripple me beyond the pain of failure I already felt. Because once your heart is involved, it’s involved. End of story.

It was sort of like walking away from a relationship. I chewed
on the end of my pen, thinking. I mean, I already knew that losing Scot would hurt buckets worse than any of my other relationships. Even the breakup of my two-year relationship with Paul, a financial planner, hadn’t caused me much more than a flicker of regret. I’d liked him. We’d had fun together. But then came the “where is this headed?” conversation, and neither of us had an answer. So we went our separate ways, and I’d barely thought about Paul since. Because, yeah, my heart wasn’t involved then. But now—with Scot—it was.

Oh. That was why my wish for Introductions hadn’t come true. Why it wasn’t
going
to come true.
Truest of heart. Purest of soul.
Yeah. That wish was dead in the water; I knew it to the core of my being. I might still be able to save Introductions, but could I do so in a month? Probably not.

My father wasn’t a tyrant. If I went to him and told him that this was my passion, he’d let me out of our deal. I knew this with a surety that defied reason. I think on some level, I’d always known that. But I’d never used those words with him. So the bigger question to answer was, why not?

The answer kicked me in the gut. Because if I didn’t have Introductions, and if I didn’t work at my father’s firm, I had no idea what I would do—what I
wanted
to do. My entire life had been focused on success. First in education, and then in work. I excelled. I made my parents proud. I’d followed the path I thought they wanted me to take.

Well, not completely. Dad had offered me a job directly after graduation, but instead I’d accepted a position somewhere else until I was ready to open Introductions. But I had never given any true thought to the path I wanted to take.

That was about to change. I opened the notebook and wrote at the top of the page, “What are my passions?” I stared at the question blankly. What did I love? There had to be something, and
Seinfeld
wasn’t going to cut it.

Animals! I loved animals. I wrote that down. I tapped my pen against the table, trying to think of something else. Sheesh, was I really this boring? I had to have other interests, because as much as I liked animals, going into veterinary science or opening a pet store held zero appeal.

The knock of the pizza-delivery man saved me from further torment. I put away the notebook with the promise I’d go at it again later. I paid for the pizza and got everything set up in the kitchen; then I woke Scot by kissing him gently on his cheek. “The food is here. Do you want to eat or keep sleeping?”

He blinked sleepy, warm brown eyes at me and looped an arm over my shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drift off.”

“It’s okay. You had to keep me calm all the way home. You deserved a nap.”

I leaned in for another kiss, closed my eyes, and waited to be swept away. His lips landed on my nose for a quick peck, as if I were his sister or a child or a friend, a not-so-subtle reminder that our weekend was over. Or was it just a sweet show of affection and I was reading way too much into it? Probably the latter. Until given other notice, I was going to stay as positive as possible. Even if it killed me.

I pulled myself upright, saying, “The pizza’s in the kitchen. Let’s eat there.”

He went to wash up before meeting me at the table. Over pizza, we talked about anything and everything that had zip to do with us. Some of our fascinating topics included the weather, the holidays, and the recent roadwork on I-90. This, in turns, proved frustrating and comforting. Frustrating because I so wanted to hear that our relationship wasn’t pretend, and comforting due to the fact that I was petrified he’d say the opposite. Basically, I was calm one minute and tense the next.

Reading my thoughts, Scot said, “Are you okay? You seem jittery.”

“Oh, just tired, I think.” I stacked our empty plates. “I made coffee and there are plenty of brownies left. Want some?”
Please don’t leave yet. Stay with me. Kiss me. Touch me. Prove that our weekend wasn’t because of magic.

His eyes, dark with concern, centered on me. “Sure. I always have room for dessert. You get the brownies, I’ll get the coffee.”

We maneuvered around each other easily. Scot’s arm lifted over my head to get the coffee mugs, and I turned on instinct, tilting my chin. Our gazes met and an electrifying bolt of energy zapped between us. Dropping his arms, he settled his hands on my waist and in one fast tug, our bodies pressed together. His mouth came closer . . . closer . . . closer. I tilted my chin higher. My heart raced and it felt as if everything I wanted, desired, and craved was going to be decided at this very moment.

Our lips connected and the kiss was scorching in intensity. It was just as hungry and hot as the kisses we’d shared in Vegas, but it was also sweet and searching. Tender and filled with yearning. I opened my mouth wider, pressed myself against him tighter, and every thought process evaporated.

Scot groaned and pulled away. “We . . . we need to talk, Julia.” His voice was thick and heavy with emotion, but also with an unknown something that scared me.

I brushed my hair off my cheek with a shaky hand. This was it, the beginning or the end. I slid to the side to grab napkins and paper plates. “Okay,” I said in forced calmness. “Let’s talk.”

We settled at the table again. I chose a brownie—not because I was hungry, but because I needed something to do with my hands—tore a chunk off, and popped it in my
mouth. Scot’s sister was a fantastic baker. Probably, it was the best brownie I’d ever eaten. It held exactly the right amount of richness versus sweetness, and the chocolate melted on my tongue. I supposed these brownies were my silver lining. Because if this conversation went downhill, I’d have vast amounts of chocolate—excellent chocolate—with which to console myself.

I ate another bite, swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and readied myself for whatever was about to happen. “Go ahead, Scot. Say what you need to say.”

His head dipped in a slight nod. In a serious, quiet tone, he said, “I had an incredible weekend, Julia. It was . . . fantastic spending more time with you. Getting to know you better.” Grasping my arm, he squeezed. “I learned a lot. Enough to . . . I have to ask. Why were you at Magical Matchups the morning my grandmother phoned me? What led you there?”

Okay. This wasn’t wholly unexpected. But I hadn’t expected to go down this line of conversation now. And it wasn’t a good start, because I couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie.

“You’re not going to like my answer. But you have to promise you’ll hear me out completely.”

Scot heaved a breath. “I was afraid you’d say that, but yeah, I’ll listen.”

I twisted my fingers together, wishing for a paper clip, and prayed for the right words. “Introductions is failing, Scot. I told you that. But . . . what I didn’t say was that most of my struggles didn’t begin until after Magical Matchups opened. I had client after client leaving my company for your grandmother’s, and I . . . I couldn’t figure out why.”

Another nod, but this one was sharp. “Okay. You lost some business.”

“Not just
some
business. A lot of business.” I sucked in air and put the rest of the story out there. How I’d asked Kara
and Leslie to check out Magical Matchups for me, and how they’d agreed but had second thoughts. How I’d known if I didn’t do something, I’d lose my company, and how that had driven me to visit Magical Matchups. “It was late,” I explained. “The place was closed, but I walked by and peered in the windows.”

The tight lines creasing Scot’s forehead relaxed. “So you were looking in the window and my grandmother found you?” He shook his head. “No, that isn’t right. She said you were asleep on her couch. How did that happen?”

So I told him everything: the open door and my decision to snoop, the feeling of another presence, the roses and the breeze, and the fear that had pushed me to leave. “Except the door wouldn’t open. My cell wouldn’t get a signal, and Verda’s phone didn’t have a dial tone. I was stuck.” I shrugged. “And when Verda found me in the morning, she decided you and I were soul mates and called you. You know the rest.”

Well, most of the rest. Scot didn’t know about the journal. And I wasn’t going to tell him. Not until I talked to Verda. “But please believe me, I never planned on hurting anyone. I just wanted to understand why I was failing. I wanted to see if”—I swallowed nervously—“Verda had something that I didn’t. A secret to her sudden success.”

“So those papers I saw here.” Scot gripped his coffee cup so hard, his knuckles whitened. “The sign-up papers from Magical Matchups. You stole those?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. Verda . . .” I closed my eyes, trying to remember every detail of that morning. “Your grandmother was upset when you left. She realized we knew each other, and I explained about Leslie. I told her that she was wrong about us. So she offered me a free membership to her services as an apology for my being locked in all night.”

“I see.”

“No. You don’t.” God, he had to understand. “I said no, Scot. But she insisted. Her exact words were ‘I don’t take “no” easily. All of this will be much easier on you if nod your head and agree.’ So yeah, I agreed.” I breathed in deeply. “What you said hurt me. I wanted to be alone. So I took the papers, agreed to return the next night, and got the heck out of there.”

Scot’s mouth curved into a slight smile. “I know how persuasive my grandmother can be. You probably made the right decision.” He sighed. “What were you going to do with that information, though, Julia?”

Ugh. Of course he’d ask that. “I planned on looking through the paperwork. I’m not going to lie about that, but even then I liked Verda. I wouldn’t have hurt her. I won’t hurt her.” I thought of something else. “Oh, and I hadn’t even planned on going back. I was going to call her and cancel and wipe my hands of the whole thing.”

“But then I showed up at your door.” Scot rubbed his hands over his face. “God. Did I really threaten to hurt your business if you didn’t date me?”

“Yeah. You were kind of a jerk,” I pointed out. “But I get it. I do. With the same information, I might have acted similarly.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Scot said with assurance. “You would’ve gathered all of the facts and then made a decision. I just reacted. But—”