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Primarily, how shitty it seemed his life had been and how deeply I wanted to do something about it. Not something normal, like being a decent person to him and helping him to make good memories that would outweigh the bad. Or being a sounding board so he could get it out and heal. Though I wanted to do all that too.
No, something like finding magic that would erase his past and give him better.
This desire had gone so far, during that day, my mind wandered to fantasies of a good witch visiting (who was a doppelgänger to me, obviously, and didn’t wear tulle, equally obviously, but instead, vintage Halston), who would give me a magic wand that would allow me to travel back in time and right all the wrongs done to Hale.
I wasn’t usually that type of girl.
It wasn’t like I wasn’t a dreamer. I was. But my dreams were goals. They were realistic. Doable.
Not fantastical.
That said, even if the Good Witch Other Me came to visit in real life, I wouldn’t know what wrongs to right.
Since we’d met and this started happening between us, it was all about me.
It wasn’t that he shut it down. He shared. But he wasn’t all that forthcoming. And I found myself protecting him in that, because it was the only thing he allowed me to have to keep him safe.
And this didn’t even get into the fact that he clearly wasn’t happy in the present.
I sensed he didn’t like his job, or how busy it was, or who he had to deal with, or some or all of that.
But he didn’t share about that either.
So it was past and present being what seemed like absolute shit for Hale.
And yet, he was a magnificent individual. Just a good,goodman.
I hurt for him, because it might be deep down, but I knew he hurt.
I just didn’t know what to do about it.
He wheeled my bag to the foot of the stairs, then headed toward the kitchen, asking, “Wine or cocktail?”
I looked at the island, where there was a red open, and he was already drinking it.
“Wine,” I answered, flipping off my nude pumps and shrugging off my winter white trench.
I had a basic white tee and skinny jeans on under it. This was outfit number three of the day: commuter black jumpsuit and cardie to start, an Escada pantsuit for a segment I filmed, my current outfit for going out with Hale at lunch and being at home with him now.
“God. It smells amazing,” I said, following him to the kitchen. “What is that?”
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Hale answered, pouring my wine. “It’s simmering. I got started on it later than I expected. We have an hour before it’ll be done. And the bread is still proofing. That’s almost ready to go into the oven, though.”
I ignored the glass of wine he slid my way in order to stare at him.
“Wait,” I started. “You mean, you got some storge-bought bread dough and now it’s almost ready to go into the oven, or you came home and made bread? From scratch?”
“I came home and made bread from scratch,” he told me. “The Bolognese is scratch too. I hope you like spice. I put some pepper in it. I’d normally also make the pasta, but I didn’t have time.”
I took up my wine but didn’t drink it. I walked around the island to the stove and lifted the lid off the cream enameled Le Creuset Dutch oven.
A gust of pure goodness drifted up to me. And it looked as good as it smelled.
I put the lid back on and turned to Hale. “Are you from this planet? I mean, for real. I signed an NDA. I can’t tell anyone if you’re from an alien species made of hot guys who are good with their hands, don’t freak out when a woman bursts into tears and know how to cook.”
He smiled and I had to mind my wine when he swung an arm around my waist and hauled me to his front.
“I’m not an alien,” he said, still smiling. “Are you of a secret society of females who always have the perfect outfit, are who they are and put that right out there all the time, and sound like an angel when they come, but suck cock like a witch?”
