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He shifted on the mattress, running a hand down the length of my side to curve over my hip. He ran the tips of his fingers over the small of my back, stroking the base of my spine. “Now I have a question for you.”
“Is it about my snoring?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then go ahead.”
“Why the hell are you here?” he asked. “Why would a girl move from the big city to Middle-of-Nowhere, Kentucky? And don’t tell me change of scenery. Because no scenery could be that bad that you’d move to the Hollow.”
I’m a witch on the hunt for magical artifacts that will guarantee our continued magical domination over an evil former branch of our family.
Well, I should probably phrase it some other way.
I looked up at him, tracing the contours of his cheekbones with my fingertips. I’d omitted or outright lied to him about so many things. Lying to Jed weighed on me more than I’d expected. I wanted to tell him the truth for once, about this one little thing. I didn’t have to tell him about witchcraft or where I was really from, but I could give him this tiny bit of truth.
“I have family in the Hollow,” I said, carefully lacing my fingers through his. “I only found out about them a few months ago. My mother never knew her dad. It was always this big family secret we were never even supposed to ask about. My grandmother died recently, and right before she passed, she shared his name with me. Have you heard of Gilbert Wainwright, the man who owned the house before Dick?”
Jed’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
I nodded. “It turns out my grandfather died a while ago but left behind other relatives. Aunts and uncles and cousins,” I said, thinking of my vampire friends and the more trustworthy branch of the Lavelle clan. “And I wanted to get to know that side of my family.”
“So you never knew this whole section of your family existed, and bam, instant aunts and uncles?” he asked, propping his head against a pillow. “What’s that like?”
“Bizarre,” I admitted with a sniffle. He was quiet for a long moment, staring at me and running his fingertips down the length of my cheek.
“Family can be that way. Bizarre, I mean. Have I ever told you about the time my brother Jim threw a dart at my head and put me in an eye patch for two months?” he asked, rolling me onto my side and pulling my back against his chest.
“How would you have possibly told me about that?” I chuckled.
“Don’t laugh. I made that eye patch look good,” he grumbled, jostling me. “Had to wear the damn thing on school picture day. So this is the story of how Jed learned when Jim says, ‘Duck,’ to take him seriously.”
“Are you telling me an absurd, painful story about your childhood to make me feel less awkward about this postcoital confessional?” I sniffed.
“Yes.”
“All right, then,” I said, turning and nestling my forehead against his collarbone.
* * *
I didn’t remember falling asleep. I remembered Jed telling his eye patch story (I found out later this was one of several incidents involving his brother that ended in Jed wearing an eye patch), and then I was walking along a fern-choked trail in a jungle with a figure in front of me, chopping through vegetation with a machete. The air was sticky and hot, smelling of rotting plants. And in the distance, I could hear church bells over the din of a thousand squawking tropical birds.
“Hi there,” Mr. Wainwright called over his khaki-clad shoulder.
“Aw, hell, again?” I sighed. “Do you know how off-putting it is to fall asleep in the arms of a naked man and wake up on a field trip with your grandfather?”
“Oh, come on, dear,” he admonished, leaning against a tree for a breather. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”>“You kissed me!”
“It was an accident!” I cried.
“There’s no such thing as accidents, only things you mean to do and put off until a moment of panic.”
“That’s awfully philosophical,” I mused.
“No, I’m not talkin’ about all mankind, just you in particular.”
I stared at him, long and hard. I watched as the smug little grin faded from his expression. And he was just a man, looking at a woman, as if he wanted her desperately. I don’t think anyone had ever looked at me that way.
I was not drunk. The beer we’d had was barely enough to give me a pleasant buzz. I was making a decision without thinking, for the first time in a very long time. It felt really good, but in the morning, I was probably going to regret it. At the moment, I did not care. I wish I could blame it on the drink or being tired or homesick or under the influence of some bizarre magical ritual. But I just wanted him. His skin was warm and smooth under mine. He was solid and strong, and he was looking at me as if I hung the moon and stars. I wanted to feel his skin against mine, to have him drag that stubble across my collarbone and bite at my throat.
