Page 24 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

I reach into the picnic basket, grab the first food item I touch, and shove it in my mouth to stop myself from saying a single solitary thing, let alone yell out yes.

And I might have gotten away with it if what I’m eating weren’t a fistful of extra-spicy wasabi peas that were in a cute little bowl that appeared out of thin air.

My eyes are watering and my tongue is on fire, but I silently crunch my way through.

I am a Sherwood. I am not about to admit that I’m pervious to pain.

(Yeah, I know that sounds like a fake word, but Bea used it to beat me in a loser-takes-rooster-pickup-duties-for-a-month-without-using-magic Scrabble game with stakes that I agreed to once and will never agree to again.

That’s not the kind of thing a witch is ever going to forget.

Barkley is nasty and has been obsessed with me ever since.)

For his part, Erik doesn’t say a thing. He just watches with that whole I-know-why-you-did-that smirk on his face as he plucks a bottle of water out of the basket, unscrews the cap, and holds it out to me.

A better Sherwood would ignore the offer and suffer in superiority and silence.

I, however, have just swallowed a mouthful of atomic-level wasabi peas and could probably breathe out lava at this moment, so I take the bottle and drain it.

While I’m doing that, Erik says, “Mensamque,” and the plates float out of the open picnic basket, followed by blue napkins decorated with ants doing the conga while carrying a whole watermelon, and silverware that gracefully lands on the blanket in the perfect place setting in front of each of us.

That’s when the food comes—fried chicken and potato salad, watermelon slices and deviled eggs, brownies, and eye of newt muffins that still have steam coming off of them, which land in perfectly portioned amounts on our plates.

Then the wine bottle levitates before tipping forward to pour a generous amount of chilled rosé into our wineglasses.

And as a final flourish, there’s a click from the depths of the picnic basket and the scratch of static for a few seconds before some mellow yacht rock starts playing. It’s quite the floor show.

Yes, I know it’s just a distraction or an attempt to set me up for another bit of flimflam, but my shoulders lower from being way too close to my earlobes and my breathing eases anyway.

“So tell me, LeLe Sherwood Svensen,” he says, “what is it that you want to do—besides kick my ass to the curb?”

“Just Sherwood,” I say as I swipe a muffin, because it is turning out to be a dessert-before-dinner type of day. “I’m the heir, I don’t have that option.”

He picks up a slice of watermelon and says with a too-neutral tone, “What about Vegas?”

“That was a mistake. Obviously.” Did that sound like a lie? Because it sure feels like a lie with how clammy my palms are all of a sudden, and there’s a giant ball of you’re-full-of-shit stuck in my throat making it hard to swallow.

Erik cocks his head and looks me dead in the eye. “I’m not sure it was. Admit it, being with me isn’t all bad.”

Orgasms. Giggles. Rambling conversations in the middle of the night tucked up against him in the dark. Hearing his stories and telling him mine over room service before we fell into each other and ended up naked again.

Everything is fluttering on the inside as I fight to keep it all icy bitch on the outside.

Thank the fates I have practice with this.

It’s impossible to grow up with four sisters and not have the ability to keep your emotions under control—or at least be able to pretend you do until you can enact your well-deserved revenge.

Using my decades of experience, I level a superior look at him. “It’s completely awful.”

“Even when we—” He pauses, his gaze going smoky.

I can feel my face go sitting-in-front-of-the-fireplace-in-August-at-your-vacation-home-on-the-sun hot as I’m bombarded by images of the two of us in various compromising positions.

Really, what we did in the elevator at the resort was beyond risky, but I seem to make a lot of bad decisions around this man.

This trip alone would be exhibits one through a million in the court of have-you-lost-your-ever-loving-mind.

“When we played poker in Vegas?” Erik continues, the smug expression on his face showing that he knows exactly what I was thinking about. “You didn’t have even the least bit of fun then?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice to not give away the game.

He bends forward over the picnic basket between us and drops his voice to barely a whisper so I have to lean closer to hear him say, “And when we used an invisibility spell to watch the fountain show from the middle of the Bellagio’s pool?”

We’d had to stay in constant physical contact not to break the spell—a fact that meant he either really liked the show or the feel of my ass against his cock.

“That was mildly enjoyable.” I cringe before I can stop myself, because that didn’t sound even the littlest bit believable. I swear, I need to become a better liar.

“And that second time in the elevator?” He inches closer so that we’re so close all I need to do is move a little bit more and our lips would touch. “As I recall, you liked that so much we missed our floor and you lost your panties.”

Oh yeah, I’m hot all of a sudden. And breathing? Who needs to do that? Not me, not when it’s taking everything I have to just keep my ass planted firmly on the picnic blanket instead of leaning forward and closing the distance between us.

“I guess I remember that,” I say, not even trying to put any truth into the words.

He chuckles softly as his gaze dips down to my mouth.

The air between us sparks with electricity as he focuses so completely on me that it’s like there’s no one else in the world but the two of us—or at least he wishes so.

He’s not looking at me to see if I’m going to make the right decision, if I’m going to do what is expected, or if I’m the Sherwood heir.

Instead, he’s looking at me as if all he wants to see is Leona—and he actually does.

It’s almost too much to process. Desire, warm and slick, envelops me as need practically vibrates through me.

I wish I could blame it on some kind of spell, but there’s not even a hint of magic in the air between us.

Just want and the heady memory of what it was like between us when we were naked—or at least naked enough.

“And the night we fucked against the hotel room window,” he continues, his voice as tempting as a forbidden touch, “when you came so hard you couldn’t even talk?”

Sort of like now, because forming a thought is an impossibility when my head is so full of images from Vegas and my body is primed and ready to repeat every single glorious naked moment.

That’s when the bastard has the audacity to wink at me and then lie back on the blanket before closing his eyes and intertwining his fingers over his chest. “What, no response to that one?”

All the air whooshes back into my lungs and reality smacks me right across the cheek. Why that little—giant—pain in my ass. He knew! He knew the whole damn time what he was doing to me. How he was making me feel. What he was making me think about. I squash the napkin in my fist.

I want to smother him.

Or kiss him.

Or—okay, fine, I want both, but the kissing is winning out at this moment. I know. I’m disappointed in myself too. I should make better life choices—and I usually do—but when it comes to Erik Svensen, everything always goes sideways and against the wall and over the couch and—

Oh my fates, Leona. Get your shit together!

“Wife,” he says without opening his eyes, self-satisfied amusement thick in his tone, “is there something you want to ask me?”

“I’m not your wife,” I grumble.

He takes a peek at me and then closes his eyes again. “Go ahead and ask if you can kiss me.”

I let out a cleansing, calming breath and release my stranglehold on what had been a perfectly good napkin. I will not let this man get to me. Again. For the billionth time. I. Will. Not.

Squaring my shoulders, I shoot him a withering glare that is completely wasted since he still isn’t even looking at me.

“I don’t want to kiss you.” Something that would have sounded a lot more convincing if I actually meant it. As it is, I’m all fluttery insides, quick breaths, and heat—so much fucking heat—that I should be levitating at this point.

Erik still doesn’t look at me, but his mouth curls into a crooked grin. “And here I thought the Sherwoods were all too noble to lie—especially the always-follows-the-rules heir.”

Always rule-following? I grab the goblet of rosé and down half of it.

If only I was. Then I wouldn’t be stuck on the road with the most frustrating man in all of Witchingdom.

Erik doesn’t say anything. He just stays lying there with that smug, hot-jerk face of his.

And the second half of the glass of rosé tastes like the possibility that bad decisions really could be good ones.

Really good ones. Great bad ones. The kind that you’ll remember years later when you’re eyeball-deep in responsibilities as you dutifully sit next to the husband your mom picked for you because it made political sense to join your families.

And that man will never make me feel like I do now with Erik—like there’s electricity running through my veins, like anything is possible, like if I don’t lean down and kiss him I’m going to implode.

“Oh, fuck it.” I shove the picnic basket to the side and cross over to where he’s lying, stopping just shy of climbing on top of him. “Can I kiss you?”

He turns and looks at me and fists his hands as if he’s having to fight the urge to reach out and touch me. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”