Page 23 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)
Yet I’m half a second away from giving him a damn pep talk like the chump I am whenever I’m around him.
Scrambling to figure out something to say before I ask him about his feelings or something just as idiotic, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Have you been here before?”
He nods. “My mom brought me here once.”
That stops me cold, because that’s when I realize that hardly anyone ever talks about the Svensen matriarch—and I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.
In my family, Izzy Sherwood is the queen bee.
She and my dad share power and lead our family together, but when people talk about the Sherwoods, it’s usually about my intimidating, maddening, and absolutely wonderful mom.
But for the Svensens? The talk is always centered around Erik’s dad.
If anyone talks about his mom at all, they do so in hushed tones.
Before I can ask about his mom, though, Erik snaps back to his normally annoying self.
It’s quite the trick. His posture relaxes, his eyelids lower just enough to give him a look of arrogant insolence, and that mocking little smile of his is back in place.
He gives me a wink as the smell of fresh-brewed coffee floats around us, and chants, “Cibum quoque, et potum,” three times.
A red-and-white-checked tablecloth floats in on the breeze coming off the lake, landing on a grassy spot.
A giant woven basket drops down out of thin air, followed by a bottle of wine, two goblets, and even a dozen ants that start marching across the blanket as if they have no clue why they’re here or where they’re going, but they are going to do it together.
Erik gets out of the car and strides around Bessie’s hood, coming to a stop at my door, which he opens with a practiced flourish and an exaggerated bow. “Picnic time.”
Sure, I could stay in the car and glare at him from my seat, but I can already smell the eye of newt muffins, and ice cream is only going to hold a woman over for so long.
My stomach growls.
Erik lifts an eyebrow.
The hippocamps neigh in the distance.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
I already know what’s going to happen next, but my brain is rationalizing anyway.
After all, how often does a witch get a chance to see the horse-fish hybrids and not end up with a chunk bit out of them?
Not very often. My aunt Calliope is missing part of her right butt cheek and she still says it was worth it any time she starts telling tales while sipping her third werewolf-blood Negroni.
(Don’t worry, it’s made with Campari—at least it is now .
You do not want to dive into the family recipes from a few centuries back. Trust me.)
I glare up at my soon-to-be ex. “I still don’t like you.”
“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “You can keep on hating me on a full stomach.”
Solid argument.
I unlatch my seat belt and get out of Bessie.
Erik closes the passenger door gently behind me and lays his hand on the small of my back as we start toward the picnic blanket, setting off enough sparks of awareness that it could be an entire fireworks show.
Heat from his touch radiates through me, making my breath catch because I know what he can do with that hand and those fingers.
He teases and tempts and drives you right to the brink of losing your ever-loving mind.
It’s awful and amazing all at the same time, and it’s not for me. Never again.
I quicken my steps, pulling away from him before I forget that I’m already breaking too many rules.
“And you always follow the rules?” Erik asks from half a step behind me.
Shit fuck. That was not supposed to be out loud.
“Some of us have to.” Oh yeah, that snotty tone covered up my idiocy. Definitely. For sure. Fuck me. Why does being around my soon-to-be ex mess with my head so much?
“But don’t you ever want to fudge them a little?” he asks, catching up with me.
He doesn’t put his hand on my back, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m so tuned in to him that I can practically hear his heartbeat.
Yeah, we’ve got a few vampires in the family tree, but that doesn’t mean I normally pick up on another witch’s blood pressure.
Anyway—I suck in a deep breath and force the thoughts running around in my head like squirrels after falling in a vat of meth to stop.
I am better than this. I am in control. I am the iciest witch to have ever iced (recently literally after Tilda glitched Effie’s spell, but you already know that story).
No one gets to get me this discombobulated—not even the guy who gave me my first (and, sadly, only) five-orgasm night.
“You’ve never tried to waltz through a loophole?” Erik asks, oblivious to my inner monologue of desperate denial. “Find the out that lets you get what you want?”
“Spoken like a true Svensen,” I say as I sit down on the picnic blanket on the opposite side of Erik.
He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he curls his lips in a slow smile and crosses his arms. (No, I did not notice the way that made his biceps bulge under the waffle weave of his Henley. Fine. I’m lying. I did notice, and it made my mouth go dry.)
“Look, my family has problems, that’s for sure,” he says as he joins me on the blanket and looks out to where the hippocamps are splashing in the water. “But being sticklers for Witchingdom’s rules about how a witch needs to act—or be seen to act—isn’t one of them.”
“ Not always? ” I scoff. “Have you ever done what polite society expects of you a day in your life?”
“I’m sure once or twice.” He rolls over onto his side and props his head on his hand. His gaze settles on my mouth, and his grin fades as his eyes darken.
Something shifts in the air, the kind of crackle you feel sparking against your skin and seems so loud even though you don’t hear it. The hair on my arms is standing straight up as if I’ve been blasted with a frigid gust even though I’m way too hot for it to make sense, considering it’s fall.
“Aren’t you ever tempted to break the rules?” he asks, his voice rough and growly. “Do you ever want to do what you want just one time?”