“I agree, but I’m not sure they’re butterfly-inducing.”
Reluctantly, I pull my attention from the screen to look at his face. My stomach clenches as soon as our gazes meet. His dark brown eyes are focused on me and slightly narrowed, his lips parted.
I’m transfixed.
Not thinking, I lick my lips. His eyes follow the movement.
And then I feel it—his powerful high fae magic responding to mine. The air crackles between us, summer meeting winter.
Fire and ice.
I’ve never experienced anything like it before, but I’ve never gotten this close to a high fae. I’ve heard this can happen when opposite seasons connect, maybe even been secretly curious what it would feel like.
And I’m not the only one affected. Ash draws in a slow, measured breath, but it’s ragged. “We should talk about bookkeeping software.”
“Sure.”
“And you’ll need an accountant.”
“I want you.”
His lips twitch with a subtle smile. “I’m not an accountant.”
Unable to resist, I lean a touch closer. “That’s not what I meant.”
I might as well have tossed a lit match on a pile of dry wood soaked with kerosene. Ash’s magic flares, so refreshingly cool against my warm skin, I nearly groan. His eyes spark, and he reaches for me, our position awkward at the kitchen table.
“I don’t do this,” he says again, more to himself than me.
But whether he does it or not, his hand wraps around the back of my neck, his skin warm despite his season, and he pulls me forward.
Without hesitation, I lean in.
I don’t care that we’ve only known each other forty-eight hours, or that high fae don’t get involved with pixies. I just want his lips on mine and his magic chilling my fevered skin.
And we’re close—so close—when the freaking bird door smacks open, and Rowan once again graces us with his presence.
Chapter 9
The Owl is a Terrible Wingman
Ipull back, the spell instantly broken.
Ash contemplates Rowan, miffed. “Your bird is obnoxious.”
I laugh a little, uncomfortable, and then turn toward the computer, away from Ash, away from happiness. “Okay, so…I need an accountant?”
Ash moves his gaze to Rowan, eyes narrowed—and not in a friendly way. “Or maybe a taxidermist.”
I snort out an unexpected laugh.
Ash turns to me, his expression softening. “It’s probably for the best. I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry.”
Rowan stares at us for several more seconds, and then he flies into the living room.
Keeping my voice low, hoping my feathered roommate doesn’t have exceptional hearing, I quietly say, “Our magic was sort of crackly, wasn’t it?”
“Opposites attract. You’re a summer; I’m a winter. It happens, to varying degrees, depending on how much physical attraction there is to boost it.”
