Page 20 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

Fifteen minutes and a clean head of hair and shaved legs later, I get out of the shower, my mood post-orgasm improved.

Erik is singing in the bedroom, his smooth bass coming through the thin bathroom door.

K-pop? Erik? That is not what I was expecting, but weirdly enough, there is a lot of the unexpected from him.

The old-fashioned car when he could have a Ferrari.

The way he talked with Eustis as an equal as opposed to a caretaker who was beneath the Svensen family.

The way he’d made me giggle despite everything.

Since he can’t see me, I mouth along to the words of the latest catchy dance tune as I dry off with one of the small but superabsorbent fluffy towels stacked on a shelf above the toilet.

It isn’t until I’m squeezing out the last of the heavy wet from my hair that I look around the bathroom and my stomach drops.

That’s when I realize I failed to bring new, clean clothes into the bathroom.

Sure, there are the clothes I wore in, but there’s no way in this lifetime that I’m putting on dirty panties after taking a shower.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

Taking a deep breath, I weigh my options.

I could magic an outfit. Easy. Efficient. Explicitly logical.

I could go out with just the little towel almost wrapped around me. Daring. Unexpected. Very breezy (because there’s no way the small swatch of material could encircle all of me).

I could ask Erik for help. Uncomfortable. Not like me at all. A little bit thrilling.

There’s only one reasonable choice. I gather my magic, picture my favorite outfit, and—

CRASH!

A loud clatter scares the ever-loving shit out of me, and I let out an involuntary squawk of surprise as I whirl around.

The heavy wooden shelves that had been holding the folded towels are now on the floor.

I’m a good two feet away from them and nothing knocked into them, so what in the world made them fall?

“LeLe,” Erik hollers as he starts to open the bathroom door. It gets a quarter of the way before he jerks to a stop and yanks it almost closed again. “Sorry. I should have knocked or hollered or—” He lets out an annoyed breath. “Are you okay?”

His voice is muffled through the door, but there’s no missing the concern—or his stage-and-screen-worthy imitation of it.

“I’m fine,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest above my fast-beating heart. “The shelves just came down.”

“Did they hit you?” he asks, his voice pinched.

I will not get a warm, gooey feeling in the pit of my stomach because he sounds like he cares. I will not.

Too late.

“I think I’d know if I’d been whacked in the head,” I say. “It missed me completely.”

I glare at the wall where the shelves had been as realization hits me. Sentient houses love to play tricks on their guests. First the bed, and now the shelves when I am all but buck naked? I flip off the wall. The house really has an agenda.

“You could have a concussion and be confused.” Erik pauses for a beat. “Do you need me to come in and check you over?”

I clutch the sorry excuse for a towel tighter against my chest, closing it as much as I can, but I’m fighting back a smile. “You are not coming in.”

“Why? Are you still naked?”

Oh, fuck it. He can’t see me anyway. I let the smile out. “That’s what you’re thinking about at a time like this?”

Why are you even asking that? Tell him to fuck off and then shut up. He’s the husband you’re divorcing, not the one you actually like. Don’t let that I’m-not-a-good-guy spiel from last night get to you. Do not be suckered like you were in Vegas.

I wish I could say I’m going to take my own good advice. We both know I’m not—or at least I don’t want to.

“You said you were fine.”

I barely stop my chuckle. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Does that mean devastatingly handsome, irresistible, and so fucking amazing in bed you haven’t been able to stop thinking about me for the past year?”

“You’re deranged.” Now I’m just grinning like a fool, and my hold on the towel is getting looser by the second.

“Ooof. I’m heartbroken,” he says, making it sound like I’d landed a physical direct hit before turning back to being serious again. “You sure you’re okay?”

No. Not at all. But not for the reasons he’s thinking.

“I’m fine.”

And horny all over again. And a little giddy. And doing that big-eyed mooning thing with my face while staring at an almost closed door. What in the world is wrong with me?

“Okay, good. I’m going to go find Eustis and find out how far we are from a gas station.”

I hold my breath and listen to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walks to the door and then the firm click of the room door being shut. I wait a couple of beats and then crack open the bathroom door and peek out. The room is empty.

I hustle over to my side of the bed, where the suitcase labeled “Mrs.” is sitting and pop it open.

Inside, there are a handful of sweaters, my favorite pair of jeans, and the best selection from my special lingerie drawer—you know, the one that only has your for-sexy-times bras and panties (most of which are more about the idea of underwear than actual underwear).

This is what happens when a guy magics your clothes for a road trip. There’s not a single pair of comfy granny panties.

Of course, the lingerie is better than wearing one of the miniature towels in the bathroom—especially when I am about to spend the rest of the day riding shotgun next to the man I never should have married.

And not flirting. I’m definitely going to spend the day not flirting. I won’t even imagine Erik naked.

Not once.

Not a single time.

The only problem? I already am. Again.

I flop down on the bed, landing on my back with enough force that the suitcase clatters to the floor.

I am so screwed.