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“Skill plus gut feelings equals intuition. I have a sixth sense when it comes to space.”
His attention becomes derision. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who believes in woo.”
“Woo?”
Will eyes my purse. “You don’t have a smudge stick in there?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“It’s in my car. I pull that out at the end, after we’ve cleared the energy blocks.” I give him a big smile.
“Jesus Christ.”
“If you want him involved, you need an ordained minister or priest. I don’t specialize in that kind of energy clearance.”
“You were the valedictorian of our graduating class, and now you burn sage for a living?”
“I do way more than burn sage, buddy.”
“Don’t tell me you use crystals?”
“Crystals? Do I look like an amateur?”
He cracks a grin.
“I do spells,” I inform him. It’s hard not to smile back when someone so deliciously hot is grinning at me, but I do not. I am resolute.
“Spells?”
“Witchcraft.”
“You do not.” His chuckle is low and throaty, and it makes me tingle.
“I’m distantly related to Rebecca Nourse, you know. The famous accused witch.” We’ve grown up a short drive from Salem. Every schoolkid in New England knows who Rebecca Nourse is. It must be written into the history curriculum that proper education includes having the crap scared out of you in fifth grade by going to the Salem witchcraft museums.
“We’re all distantly related to people from 1690s New England,” he shoots back. “Confess, oh, witch, that ye be a liar, ye seductress o’ the night.”
“You sound like a pirate. Not a Puritan.” Oh, how his mouth revels in the word seductress.
“Both start with p. Close enough.” He laughs easily, with a confidence I remember all too well. Not arrogance. A surety that who he is, how he is in the world, is enough.
“Fine,” I admit. “I don’t do spells.” My voice is breathy. Ethereal. He makes me feel like I’m floating away, barely here, turning into stardust.
Wet, thrumming stardust.
He walks across the room to an unoccupied desk and gestures for me to sit behind it. He takes the visitor’s chair.
“My bottom line is this: I need to unload my parents’ house. I have a price threshold. If you can get it to sell, you get one percent of the selling price.” He slides a folder across the desk to me. I open it. A contract is inside.
“That’s the agreement we had in our email. What’s in here?” Pulling all the loose pieces of myself together and focusing on business is harder than it should be.
“Standard legalese. Plus your budget.”
I almost blurt out, I have a budget? but I stop myself. Instead, I pretend to be a wise, edgy business woman and read the legalese.
“There isn’t a line item for dandelion root in here,” I joke.
