Witch in the House

by Jenna McKnight

  Maybe Courtney had been onto something when she’d suggested Jade not brush her teeth until Mason moved out. She couldn’t do that, yuck, but she did have a last resort—baggy old sweats stained with wallpaper paste and paint.

  Wallpapering didn’t pay the bills, though; botanicals did. So Jade spent the evening in the drying room blending oils to fill mail-order requests, working late into the night. When she was finished, she left the final packing for Henry, who crabbed at her if she didn’t leave something for him to do to be helpful.

  Time to wallpaper.

  She changed into paint-splattered purple sweats; gold from the kitchen, blue from the room her parents “shared” on alternate months, brick and tan from other guest rooms she’d either done or touched up. Did she have to do this while Mason was in the room? No. But he wasn’t paying full rate, she wanted him gone, and she looked repulsive enough to send him running out into the night.

  She gathered up all the tools she’d need, then set them down and, for good measure, mussed her hair. Then she carefully balanced the full load again and knocked on Mason’s door, not caring if he was deeply focused on the eagle book. If she interrupted his concentration enough, he’d have to find a better place to work.

  Not for a minute did she stop to think he wouldn’t be decent.

  There were two things on Mason’s body when he opened the door: a few drops of water glistening on his smooth, broad chest, probably because he’d heard her knock after his shower and had been in a hurry to answer the door; and the towel, slung loosely around his hips.

  Jade didn’t move. She couldn’t raise so much as a voluntary muscle twitch. Not to turn and run away. Not to stop her eyes from roaming over his well-muscled chest, down to a very impressive six-pack. Not to swallow and ask if she could come in and get the job done, which was good, because he’d probably grin and ask “What job?” with a lot of innuendo that would leave her struggling for a coherent answer.

  He grinned at her, lopsided, the way a man does when he appreciates being ogled, but isn’t conceited about it. The way a man does when he’s returning the favor.

  It was going to be very difficult to hang wallpaper straight.

  Chapter 11

  M ason stood on his side of the threshold with one hand on his hip, securing the towel. He didn’t need a trained glance to log Jade’s balancing two rolls of wallpaper, a folded drop cloth, four-foot straightedge, sponges, and a bucket overflowing with tools.

  More interesting, especially at this time of night and in his doorway, she was staring at his chest with a stunned look, uncertain whether to reach out and touch, or bolt.

  No problem; he kept in good shape and didn’t mind showing off, especially if the one looking happened to be Jade. He skimmed his hand over bare skin, right where she was staring a hole, and innocently—yeah, right—asked, “Did I miss something?”

  She sort of hummed in the back of her throat. Oh yeah, she wanted to touch.

  “Jade?”

  “Hm? Oh.” The straightedge slipped to the left, the drop cloth to the right, and the rolls of paper took on a life of their own. He reached out to help, but she yelped, “No! Keep your hands where they are. Please.”

  Obviously mortified to mention that she’d noticed the hand holding the towel together was the only thing keeping him decent, she turned bright pink and overjuggled everything until half of it landed on the floor at her feet.

  No stilettos tonight, Mason noted with regret as he tucked in the end of the towel. As substitutes went, her ratty old sneakers had no laces and, overall, were in pretty bad shape. Her socks didn’t match; one white, one gray, they didn’t even come close. And moving up rapidly because all the good stuff was hidden behind the accessories she’d regathered in a jumbled pile, what was with her hair? Her perpetually seductive, come-to-my-boudoir spirals were twisted and caught in each other like dozens of kinked telephone cords.

  “Hard night?” he asked.

  Grinning was out of the question. If she wanted to sweep him out of her life with ugly clothes, frightening hair, and talk of missing bodies, she was going to have to work a whole lot harder to scare him.

  He was walking a fine line, though; a curious investigator on the sly, impersonating a wary guest.

  She glanced at his towel, then tried to look as if she hadn’t. “I should…come back later.”

  He quickly stepped back, wanting to reassure her so she wouldn’t disappear, acting as if he always wore nothing more than a towel while talking to hot women in the middle of the night.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll get dressed. I guess you were serious about wallpapering.”

  She headed straight for the bathroom, and he, sorry to say, was a sick, sick dog. Even though she was fully covered by the most abused set of sweats this side of the garment district, he stared at her ass the whole way across the room until it disappeared through the door and turned the corner. He’d been watching her for days now. He’d always thought the sex-kitten sway of her hips was due to the stilettos. He’d been wrong.

  From the bathroom, Jade said, “I’m so glad I found out that you don’t sleep either. I need to get this done, and now that you’ve settled into this room, I really didn’t want to ask you to move. But if you’re working tonight and you’d be more comfortable sitting with your laptop in one of the other rooms, feel free.”

  “No, no, that’s fine.” Couldn’t get me out of here with a crowbar.

  “Well, if I get too noisy, and you change your mind, feel free. I’ll just close this and set up while you get dressed.” Jade swung the bathroom door until it latched, leaving Mason in control of the door to the hall.

  Leave it open? he wondered, rooted to the spot with indecision. Or close it?—just in case wallpapering was a ruse and what she really wanted was him.

  He probably was grinning like a hound dog, too, but he quickly masked all expression when Jade poked her head out of the bathroom a few minutes later and, noticing that he was safely covered in jeans and a flannel shirt, said, “How does a photographer work without a darkroom, anyway?”

  “I shoot mostly digital.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Memory card.” She retreated, tramping across the drop cloth now covering the floor. “So you crop and touch up and everything right on the computer?”

  “Just what I was about to do. I could put it off a few minutes, though, if you need anything first?”

  She turned and smiled at him, and he thought, Please, God, don’t let it involve hanging wallpaper.

  “The ladder.”

  While it wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear her say, it wasn’t all bad; he’d yet to find access to a cellar in this monstrosity. “Tell me where it is. I’ll get it.”

  “In the hall.”

  Damn. He muttered, “What am I? Cursed or something?” because he couldn’t catch a break. This time, when he brought the ladder in, he swung the door to the hall closed. If she planned on making a move on him, it’d be one less thing to worry about.

  He opened his photo-editing and word-processing programs, so if Jade stepped out to see what he was doing, he’d look like the author/photographer he claimed to be, hard at work. He sat at the far side of the table so he’d know when she was peeking at him.

  He had a nice view of her body every time she bent down to run a large sponge over each new strip of wallpaper. At least from that angle, the bag went out of the sweats, and he wasn’t nearly as sleepy.

  He minimized those programs and picked up Jade’s office computer on the network. He started with e-mail, an easy way for a not-so-dead husband to keep in touch.

  Dear Alanna,

  My sister is getting married next year to a man of another religion. I am concerned for her spiritual well-being, and for those of their future children as well. When I bring up this subject, though, she just brushes it off and says not to worry, everything will take care of itself and work out in the end. I try to tell her that important issues are at stake here, issues that can mak
e or break a long-term relationship, but she’s not listening. What can I do to make her listen to reason?

  What the hell? Mason thought. It was incoming mail, not outgoing. And there were more.

  Dear Alanna,

  Recently I invited my best friend and her husband to stay with me while they were in town looking for a new home.” It finished with, “…what can I do to keep this from happening when they come back to close on the house?

  “Grow a spine?” Mason muttered, thinking it must be easier for men. If a friend of his was that rude, he’d simply say, “Hey, man, you’re cramping my style. You have to find another place to stay. Want a beer?”

  There were a hundred more e-mails just like those, in the Inbox. Thousands if he counted the ones filed away in folders.

  There was a nationally syndicated Dear Alanna, of course. No reason Jade couldn’t be moonlighting under a pseudonym. Interesting.

  Mason looked beyond his screen and watched Jade carry a strip toward the ladder. If he had to miss a night’s sleep, this wasn’t all bad. Her whole body swayed rhythmically, and when he listened carefully, he heard her humming, soft and low. Too quiet to catch the tune, and he couldn’t help wondering what it was, what kind of music she liked to listen to. It wasn’t a professional thought. He was getting comfortable having nonprofessional thoughts about Jade.

  When he refocused on the screen and moved on to another e-mail account, he found a history of e-mails addressed to Annie and none to Jade. So, this was the computer Annie used, which made her Dear Alanna.

  He headed for Annie’s word-processing files next, unsurprised from what he’d seen in the office that the files weren’t organized in folders. None of them were even properly named, carrying only the program-assigned first few words of each document as a title, such as “If you have a troublesome neighbor. doc” and “If you want to increase success.doc.” He assumed they had something to do with the Dear Alanna letters until he started opening them and found recipes. And not normal recipes either.

  “Carve a candle,” he read under his breath. “And dress it with All Saints Oil—what? Nail a slice of bread to the front door? Cast a ritual circle?”

  Ohhh. Annie’s the witch.

  Mason quickly sent an instant message to Anthony’s computer. He examined the file names closely now, looking for something along the lines of “If you want to get rid of your husband.doc” or “How to collect buckets of life insurance.doc.” No luck there, so he settled in and opened a lot of files.

  He learned more about witches than he thought he’d ever want to know. Annie, anyway. And she made lots of follow-up notes, like “next time, try cinnamon.” He’d never look at cinnamon the same way again. In fact, Weezy had put cinnamon on his French toast yesterday. He was debating eating breakfast out from now on when he heard Jade’s cell ring.

  “First of all, it’s not his bathroom,” was the first thing she said. “And I’m in it because I’m wallpapering it.”

  Not “Hello.” Not “Hi.” It piqued his curiosity, more so when she lowered her voice.

  “What’s the matter with them? I always wear these when I work around the house.”

  Mason developed a sudden need to consult, hm…Maps! Of course. Hannibal, Clarksville, West Bluff; they just happened to be across the room near the bathroom door, and he scooted right on over there.

  “That’s the point, Mom. Look, I have to go. Talk to you later.”

  She barreled out the door, stepped around Mason, who was instantly poring over a map spread out on the triple dresser, and slid her phone across the carpet all the way to the door.

  “Looks like you’ve had a bit of practice at that.”

  “Mothers,” she said disgustedly, ramming her fingers through her hair, mussing it even more. “I’d shut it off, but then I forget to turn it back on.”

  “She always call in the middle of the night? Oh wait, she has insomnia, too?” Mason had all he could do not to stare at Jade’s hair. His fingers ached to pluck at that one hank over her right ear. Just to unhook it. Just to let it fall naturally. Would that be so wrong? To reach out and touch?

  “What? What are you looking at?”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Do I have adhesive in my hair? Oh, tell me I don’t—” She rushed into the bathroom and checked in the oval mirror she’d already rehung over the sink.

  Mason followed, sure she’d freak out when she saw how she looked and would need a comforting pat on the back. Maybe a hug. Maybe something a lot more reassuring, like jumping on the bed and getting naked together.

  “Nope, looks fine,” she pronounced with a bright smile.

  Their eyes caught in the mirror. Like everything else in Mystic Manor, its dark wood frame was old, carved, and lovingly preserved. In it, Jade looked like a beautiful Medusa.

  “Sorry if I disturbed you,” she said, turning around to face him.

  “I needed a break anyway.”

  He couldn’t help it; he reached out. Jade arched backward over the sink and said, “What?” as he discovered that her hair was as silky as it looked.

  “It’s just a little…wild. There, that’s got it.”

  The bathroom seemed small with two in it. Or maybe it was just because it was the two of them. Warm from the lights and her working. Fragrant from whatever botanical soap and shampoo she used.

  “Pinch me,” he said. “I smell suntan lotion.”

  Jade made a face. “I was going for coconut. Maybe I need to reblend—”

  “No, that’s it,” he said with excitement and, he supposed, longing. “It smells like a beach.”

  “Please. I prefer to be a bit more purist than commercial suntan lotion.”

  “Beaches remind me of Aruba.”

  Jade started picking up her tools. Mason bent down and helped, getting in her way when he could so she’d bump into him, because she had the sweetest way of putting her hand on his arm or his shoulder to fend off accidental body contact. If she had any idea it wasn’t accidental or how much it turned him on, she’d shove him into the tub and turn on the cold water.

  “You like Aruba?” she asked.

  “Love it. I was supposed to be there this week. All week. Seven whole days.” He couldn’t help a sigh. A woman would call it wistful; he called it regret. See if he changed his life for a woman again.

  They folded the drop cloth together. After a moment’s hesitation, Jade said, “Sorry. You must be devastated.”

  “Yeah. I had dives lined up almost every day. There’s a wreck not too many people get to see, and I was going—What?”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek; totally adorable as she chose her next words carefully. “I meant getting dumped.”

  “Oh.” He put on his winning caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar grin. “Brenda and I hadn’t been getting on too well.”

  “Of course. That’s why you were getting married.”

  “It made sense at the time.”

  Jade gathered up the folded drop cloth and some of the tools, then suddenly said, “Oh!” and froze halfway to picking up the bucket. She straightened up abruptly. “You mean you didn’t want to get married?”

  “Nope.”

  She not only looked concerned for his feelings, happy that he wasn’t devastated, but more than all that, and this was a stumper, she looked a tad…relieved?

  “Then why?”

  He shrugged it off, but she stood there and stared at him and waited for an answer, which he wasn’t really sure of himself. That would take close examination, maybe hours of it. He was a guy; he had better things to do. So sue him.

  “Wow.” Jade’s eyes narrowed as she peered closer. “Did you stop breathing?”

  “What can I say? She told me it was time to move to the next level, and I believed her.”

  “Because I never saw a guy freeze up like that over a simple question.”

  “It was a hard question. No simple answer.”

  She looked doubtful. No way to convince her
but to hit her with an example. “You try it,” he said. “Were you happily married?”

  “Yes. See how easy that was?”

  Probably because Annie cast a happy spell on the poor bastard.

  Although, from the notes he’d seen in Annie’s files, she wasn’t too happy with her own results. There were a lot of try-this-instead-next-time and don’t-attempt-this-one-again comments. Shit, maybe that little pixie had offed all three guys at once because she, what, used the wrong bottle of oil? Said the wrong words? Holy shit.

  “There,” Jade said. “You just did it again.”

  Was it too late to move out? Was Aruba far enough away, in case Annie tried a spell on him? Or got him by mistake?

  Mason hadn’t learned enough about witchcraft yet. If you’d asked him last week if he believed in it, he would’ve said he didn’t know enough about it one way or the other. But after seeing all the witchy stuff in the attic, the altars in the locked room, and hundreds of web sites devoted to the Craft, he had to figure that if some people believed in it strongly enough, there must be something to it.

  “If you don’t blink soon, I’m going to try CPR,” Jade said slowly.

  Mason pulled the sponges off her pile and dropped them to the floor.

  “What are you—”

  Then the drop cloth.

  “—doing?”

  “I can’t remember when I’ve had a better offer.” He had to tug at the bucket of tools, but Jade smiled suddenly and let it go, and he said, “Are you any good at CPR?”

  She splayed a hand on his chest. “I haven’t had any complaints. Do you want to get married?”

  “Right now?”

  “It’s not a proposal. Ever.”

  “No.”

  Her smile broadened, and her relief was palpable; not the reaction he expected from a woman pressing him backward, out the door, steering him on a straight path backward.

  Mason gave in. He plunged his fingers into Jade’s hair and smoothed it into something less frightening, though at this point, she could have turned green, and he wouldn’t have cared.