Calloused fingers squeeze mine, skin rough as his voice, but the pressure is gentle. “We’ll revisit that brazen insult later.” He finally lets go of my wrist to flick away a chunk of my bangs that lost their curl in the warm air and fell into my eyes. “You need a haircut.”
“And you need a friend.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and he bends down. The tip of his nose brushes mine and I’m really hoping he tastes like thyme, too—
“It’s past bedtime for those of us under ten. Lazlo would like to say good night.”
Ms. Zeen’s disembodied voice cuts the stillness of the night from the back porch.
A low sound rumbles in the Warlock’s chest. His jaw clenches. We can’t see the Governess, so she can’t see us, but the moment is gone. He leans away.
I want to yank him back by his shirtfront, but the molten hazelcolor has been diluted with cold self-reproach. I know that look on him well now. Guilt.
For one very brief second, he wasn’t thinking about Lazlo. And he knows it.
His warmth vanishes as he steps back, putting distance between us. The heady haze of the blooming gardens is gone, only a misty chill left behind.
“I apologize. That was unprofessional,” he grinds out. “Lazlo is relying on me to get better. I shouldn’t jeopardize your focus and work in the little time we have left.”
My heart fumbles. He doesn’t think he can have a single evening of happiness. Not while the consequences of this curse affect Lazlo’s future, too.
No way.No wayam I going to let him beat himself up, not when I’ve seen him happier in one night than he’s been collectively over six weeks.
“Sir, you couldn’t have known what the Widow Witch’s curse would do to you. That’s why they’recurses: They’re unpredictable. You can’t load guilt like that onto yourself.”
His shoulders drop, like they’re too heavy to carry. “Lazlo doesn’t belong here and I—wetriedto send him back, but it wasn’t possible…”
Confused, I stay where I am, toes digging into the grass. It feels like I only made things worse. I’m afraid if I touch him now, I’ll lose him. Maybe other relatives were vying for guardianship. Or maybe he just wasn’t prepared to take care of a little boy who stumbled onto his doorstep. But who would be?
“The town is right.” His expression hardens, painfully unreadable. “I thought the least I could do was keep him happy and healthy and I couldn’t even do that.”
He means the threat of the Widow Witch, I think, and her assaults on the Manor. “She wouldn’t really hurt a child, would she?”
I feel like I skipped a step in someone else’s recipe, totally lost. TheWidow Witch cursed him to die slowly over the course of a year. But that doesn’t have anything to do with Lazlo, other than the question of who’s going to take care of him.
“He loves you, you know,” I say. “Unconditionally. So you aren’t allowed to give up. Lazlo will be happier ifyou’rehappier.”
“You don’t understand.”
“So help me to. You’ve given him agoodhome.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “Ms. Frost, you’ve made this house into a home more in weeks than I have in years.”
“Well, I did it for Lazlo.”And maybe for you.
Fervent indecision twists the Warlock’s face, a bright heat slipping through his restraint.
He gets a grip on whatever inner battle he’s fighting, and that intense gaze finally lets up on me. “I think the chef wants to put on his dog pajamas.”
“I—right. Yes. If he’s up another hour, he’ll inhale an entire bag of Goldfish.”
We don’t speak as we walk back to the Manor, the buttery kitchen lighting a beacon.
It’s an undeniable fact of the universe: A man who can cook is sexy. Spices become pheromones. Was I so hungry, a good meal was all it took to make my knees go wobbly? I’m feeling a helluva number of confusing things. Mostly, surprise.
Iwantedthat kiss. Badly.
Back inside, the warmth of the kitchen infuses my bones, chasing away some of the chill from our conversation outside.
