Page 77 of Hexed & Hazy

I clear my throat loudly and open the menu. “What looks good to you?”

“Great question.”

But even as we chatter on about the menu—things I don’t know how to pronounce, and a menu with no pictures—their arguing gets louder. Louder. Servers give them awkward looks, but no one stops the bickering, and I can barely focus on what’s ahead of me.

Rowan sniffs once. Twice. “Is something…?”

Burning.

I look down at the hem of her dress and—how the hell is it on fire? Rowan’s eyes widen. Smoke curls into the air, and the sprinklers go off, dousing us both in water. The fire goes out—whether the sprinklers or her magic, I’m not sure.

Finally, the other couple stops arguing, jumping from their seats and clamoring for attention.

“Fire!” the man yells.

And though the flames are no more than smoke, the room erupts into chaos.

Rowan laughs. Somehow… I laugh with her. As if any of this is funny.

Damn it all. It was so easy to ignore when I wasn’t dating. Sure, that raincloud over my head feeling is still there, but being around Rowan makes it easy to forget. Rowan and I kissed—and did more—without anything getting in the way.

But I’m still hexed, aren’t I?

Chapter 24

Rowan

We’re still damp when we’re back in the car. No food in our bellies, but I’m still laughing. Happy.

I don’t care about anything else when I’m with him.

But I can’t say the same for him. Every little thing that seems to go wrong sets Seth right on edge, and that’s more frustrating to me than a fire or a bickering couple. He truly won’t let himself have anything good, will he? Even now?

But this is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s supposed to be my dream come true.

I rub my fingers together as he turns on the heater. Being wet is bad enough, but being wet in the cold is a recipe for disaster. Luckily, with a muttered incantation to the sun, it won’t take long for us to warm up.

“My mom would say you’re going to get a cold,” he whispers, plucking at my wet hair.

“That’s a myth.” I smile, warmth filling my chest, and run my fingers through his hair—a paltry attempt at drying his hair off with magic, too.

He closes his eyes and relaxes into my touch. “I knew I was going to ruin our first date.”

“Hey, look at me.” I tug his hair, and he listens. “You ruined nothing.”

“No?”

There’s a nagging feeling in the back of my mind—that he didn’t ruin it at all. His hex did. And if I were to think deeper, I might note that his hex exclusively seems to interrupt dates. Not sex. Note worthy.

But we’re not working on breaking the hex anymore. If it’s still in effect, all we can do is wait it out.

Easier than that is mentally repeating an affirmation to myself: there is no hex.

I shake my head. “Never. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I guess… the date isn’t over yet.” He looks me up and down. “Unless you’re too cold to keep going?”

“I’m not.”