Page 28 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

This morning I’m as twitchy as Barkley would be in a fried chicken shop—and somehow, some way, this is all Erik’s fault. Probably because he was so nice last night. That can only mean one thing. He’s up to something. Even worse than that, my first thought wasn’t oh shit!, it was mmmm, good .

Yes, I’m as disappointed in myself as you should be.

And in the bright light of a new day, as Frieda slowly lowers us down, all that easy connection we’d had in the dark last night feels like when you’re wearing a sweater and there’s a little string, so you pull it and end up with a gaping hole.

It’s too open, too out there, too much. I hate sensation.

I’d rather have Barkley roosting on my naked ass again than have this sickly, vulnerable unease making me queasy.

And that has me prickly.

“So what did you come up with?” I ask while sitting with my legs pulled up tight so I can rest my chin on my jeans-covered legs and keep my arms wrapped around my shins.

Erik lets out a snort of a laugh. “Me? You were the one who said not to think about it, so I followed your direction, wife.”

So this is going to be my fault? No. That isn’t gonna fly, not even with a volare spell.

“I only said that because you’re so stubborn that I knew that you would probably just sit there and think about it the whole time.”

It’s what he always does. I say left, he goes right. I say divorce, he says stay married. Just because he looks especially hot all sleep rumpled and bleary eyed in his well-worn jeans and I-know-for-a-fact supersoft navy blue Henley doesn’t mean I’m going to cut him any slack.

“Well, I didn’t.” He shrugs. “I fell asleep just like you did, and then you snored the whole night through.”

I let out a triumphant “HA!” and grin my smuggest grin. “So you were awake!”

He yawns, opening his mouth wide enough to let a full-sized pixie in. “Only because you insisted on snuggling me,” he says as he rubs his palm against the back of his head.

Which is exactly why I’m curled up so tight. I woke up squeezing him like he was my own personal husband-sized bed pillow. I’d even drooled on his shoulder! That cannot happen again, no matter how tempting it is to just scooch on over and cuddle up against him.

“That was just a case of any port in the storm,” I grumble.

Erik smirks his stupid sexy smirk and looks up at the cloudless blue morning, then over at the dry green leaves on the trees as we inch ever closer to the ground.

Finally, he turns his attention back to me and the sweet-innocent-aw-shucks expression on his face does nothing but spike my hackles even more.

Maybe becoming breakfast for a pair of trolls would be worth it if he is served on the platter next to me.

“You know you really are a jerk.”

He curves his lips into a pout, obviously having the time of his life poking me. “And here I thought we really had a breakthrough husband-and-wife moment last night as we chatted under the stars and I saved your life.”

“We’re not talking about that.” I glare at him even as the butterflies in my stomach start doing warm-up stretches. “We need to either figure out the answer to that riddle or we’re going to become breakfast.”

This time his laugh is genuine, and the way his whole face softens when it does makes my breath catch.

“Frieda and Walter are not going to eat us, and you know it,” he says. “They’re vegan.”

“Yeah, but they could keep us here as forced guests,” I sputter, “and as you yourself said, we’ve got to get the spell book to the secured facility. It’s only a matter of time until the Council figures out that we’re the ones with the book and sends someone after us.”

His smile fades at that reminder. Good. We are not on a delayed honeymoon. This little road trip of ours has two purposes.

One, secure The Liber Umbrarum in whatever magic-resistant fortress Erik’s super paranoid family has created.

Two, get Erik to perform the dimitto spell with me.

Neither of those is going to happen though if we end up spending the rest of our lives under a rusted-out overpass with Walter and Frieda. The pulley and rope squeak as we pass below the tree line and the roof of the trolls’ supercute house appears.

I have to come up with a solution. I’m the Sherwood heir, it’s kind of my thing. And by “kind of,” I mean completely, utterly, and without fail, not even a single solitary time, because everything I do is for the family.

My palms are clammy and my stomach is a jumbled mess that has nothing to do with how good Erik looks before he magics off his morning scruff and everything to do with the look of disappointment that will be in my mom’s eyes when she finds out that I failed not only to get The Liber Umbrarum put away where the Council can’t touch it but also in her power marriage plans for me.

My lungs get tighter the closer to the ground we get, and then my nose starts cramping. Yes. Cramping. My right nostril is hitched upward in a weird Elvisy-type snarl, and I can’t get it to relax, and it’s starting to really hurt.

Erik scoots closer to me, the space between his eyes squished in concern. “Why are you doing that?”

“I’m not trying to,” I say, my voice cracking. “I can’t stop.”

We’re on the platform that’s warded out the wazoo, so it’s not because of a spell.

I’ve never had this happen before. I mean, sure, occasionally my knee jiggle gets out of control or I start squeezing one butt cheek and then the other in a quick beat until my ass is burning, but that’s only under times of great stress and—

Ooooohhhhh.

Fuck.

I try to take a deep breath to do some breathing exercises and take my heart rate down. It works out about as well as you’d think considering one half of my nose is cranked up halfway to the moon.

My left glute pulses.

Then my right.

I’m halfway to Freakoutville, population me, when Erik cups my face, forcing me to look at him.

His eyes are softer than they have a right to be at that moment.

They should be hardened, and his mouth should be twisted in a gotcha-loser smirk, but they aren’t, and it isn’t.

Instead he looks…serious, concerned, empathetic.

“Two dragons walk into a bar,” he says. “The first dragon says, ‘It’s hot in here.’ The second one tells him to shut his mouth.”

Of all the things he could do at this moment, sharing a dumb joke didn’t even make the first billion. I’m still trying to process what in the hell he’s doing when he launches into another one.

“Who granted the fish a wish?” He pauses a beat. “The fairy codmother.”

Oh, that one is bad. Like bad, bad. But I start giggling anyway.

His hold on me eases, but he doesn’t break contact. “What do you call a fairy who forgets to put on deodorant?” He lifts an eyebrow as if inviting me to answer, which I am very much not going to do. “Stinkerbelle.”

All the tension whooshes out of me when I let out a sort of snorty chuckle. “Those are the worst jokes I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, but your nose isn’t doing that thing anymore.”

He’s right. Yes, it nearly kills me to admit it, but I’m no longer about to put on my blue suede shoes—something that almost makes up for the fact that he drops his hands and, like a complete dork, I miss his touch.

“It would be easier to hate you if you were just a jerk all the time,” I say, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.

“I’ll work on that,” he says, his voice soft as his gaze drifts to my mouth.

And for a second I think he’s going to kiss me, and I’m already leaning in toward him when the platform lands with such a solid and hard thunk that I swear some of my teeth jiggle.

“Time’s up,” Frieda says in a singsong voice.