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“Sarah,” Thierry said, his attention on the highway ahead of the black sedan that we’d rented at the airport. “You’ve sung that song fifteen times already.”
“Bob Denver is highly underrated with today’s youth, you know,” I replied. “His lyrics are timeless.However, what exactly do you think he meant by Mountain Mama? Like, did his mother literally live here in West Virginia? Or does he look at the mountains and want them to take him home and change his diaper like he’s a baby?”
“I haven’t visited this State in nearly a century,” Thierry said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He glanced at me. “I assumed it was rhetorical.”
“Rhetorical questions don’t exactly open the gateway to interesting road trip conversation, do they?”
“Fair enough.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “By the way, I don’t want you to be concerned about Alicia. Part of me regrets burdening you with irrelevant information about her.”
“Your history isn’t irrelevant to me, Thierry. None of it, even the ninety-nine percent you haven’t shared with me in explicit detail. And, don’t worry, I’m not devolving into a jealous puddle of goo here. We all have a romantic past.”
“True enough,” he allowed.
I eyed him with a wicked smile playing on my lips. “If you like, I’d be happy to tell you details about mine.”
His knuckles whitened even further. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“I mean, I did have hundreds of passionate love affairs before I met you. You’re sure you don’t want to hear all about every single one of them? Chronologically or alphabetically?”
He cut a wry look at me. “Hundreds.”
I waved a hand. “Thousands, really. Gorgeous male models and A-list actors, mostly. With huge yachts and shiny convertibles.”
“You’re teasing me now, aren’t you?”
I grinned. “Is it working?”
“Far better than I’d like to admit.”
“I know my knee-jerk reaction was jealousy, and I’m sorry about that,” I told him. “The past is the past, and today is a gift. That’s why they call it the present.”
“Clever,” he said.
“I saw it embroidered on a cushion once.” But it was true. And I’d had nearly a whole day to come to terms with my witch’s brew of troubling thoughts, which was on the back burner since I’d met Thierry and realized that he had six full centuries of experience before he’d met me. I mean, he wasn’t a monk, even if he kind of acted like one now and then. Like, a super-hot monk who made my knees go weak with a single heated look from his intense silvery-grey eyes. Every damn time.
“If you’re still concerned, I assure you that you won’t be coming in contact with any of the local witches,” Thierry told me. “However, while we’re here, I have been asked by the council to meet with the Baba Yaga.”
“The Baba Wha-wha?” I repeated with a frown.
His lips curved. “It’s her title as the leader of the witches. Her real name is Carol.”
I took a moment to process this. “Are we talking about a witch like Glinda in The Wizard of Oz? Or the Wicked Witch of the West?”
He considered this. “I believe it depends on the situation.”
“I’m happy to skip that meeting,” I said. “I’d like to avoid any future curses like the one that turned me into an evil, soulless blood-obsessed villainess? Nearly ruined my life forever? Remember?”
Thierry’s expression darkened. “I remember it all too clearly.”
“Ah, memory lane. Good times.”
“Not good at all,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I thought I’d lost you.”
