Page 16

Starring Madge, Renaldo, Georgie, and Claire, from The Orc’s Christmas Romance (and a lot of other books, too)

“ Mi amore , you just sit there. Have your wine. Let me look at you.”

Renaldo is the only man that I’ve ever loved in my life.

More importantly, perhaps, is the fact that Ray is the only man who has ever loved me.

Oh, when I was young and cute, and less afraid of pissing people off, there were boys who came around.

They wanted something, something I might not have minded giving, but there was never love.

Love potions never work, by the way. Take it from a witch. You basically have a mental delusion potion, because true love can’t happen because of herbs in a bottle.

True love means they love you with gray hair and hammertoes. Or a mouth that isn’t prone to smiling. True love means they see how beautiful you are when you can’t see it.

It means this sexy, short stud muffin, who must be five foot six, seems like Fabio in a loincloth to this gray-haired “spinster” wicked witch who is barely scraping five foot three.

“I’m nervous.”

True love means you can say that shit, too.

“Why, mi amore ? I have made this recipe for you a dozen times, and you always like it.” Ray hurries to me and kisses my cheek while topping up my glass.

“What if I... What if I can’t do this thing? Where I’m someone’s wife and stepmother? Grandmother? Oh, God, mother-in-law !” I put my hands over my eyes. Maybe if I hide, the future won’t see me.

Ray just laughs. “Can’t do this? Loca . You can do anything you want. I believe that you could fly me to the moon on the back of your broom, if you wanted. Hmm? Or maybe I would be turned into a toad? I would still hop around after you all day. And I would croak— ‘ Mi vida . Mi amore .’”

I snort-laugh at the idea of a lovesick toad following me around the magic shop. “Those are stereotypes,” I try to sound stern.

And for some reason, some very annoying reason, Ray isn’t ever afraid of the steel wool personality I project. It’s like he weaves right through the tangly little prickles and sees that there is someone sweet underneath, carefully hidden, revealed only as needed.

“Exactly! Madge, what is your idea of what a wife and mother should be?” he challenges, pulling on oven mitts adorned with the phrase, “Quit your bitchin’ or exit my kitchen!”

“Someone... motherly. Younger? Sweeter?”

“Stereotypes,” he says, pulling the most delectably cheesy, ooey-gooey pan of his famous taco bake out of the oven.

“No fair using my own weapons against me.”

“You like that I play dirty. And I like that about you, too. What is a wife? A wife for me is not some young, bubbly, innocent thing. She is the woman who pulls me under a tree on the night of the full moon, the one who makes love like a wildcat in the fresh snow. In public.” He closes his eyes, leans against the fridge, and lets out a lusty groan.

“No one was watching,” I say, blushing as I remember the first night we made love, the winter solstice when Georgie and Claire got engaged.

“You would not have cared if they were. You would have told them to leave, or you would have flayed them with a look. And that is the woman I would want for my wife and the mother of my child. Strong! Brave! Sexy. Okay, that last bit is just for me.” He winks.

“But—”

“I am serious. My Claire has had nothing but bullies and sadness until she came to this town. Her mother did not even show her affection for most of her life—and Mrs. Langdon died right when she had finally realized the error of her ways. Claire’s heart is.

.. What’s the right word... It’s a morning glory.

It will wilt and close up tight if someone hurts it again.

You won’t hurt her. You will be like a mother bear defending her cub.

And ooooh.” He places the pan on the table and swoons, his head back against my china cabinet—which holds no china, but seventy-three crystals, several useful bones, a lot of herbs in cute sachets (I’m a witch, not tasteless ), and a whole bunch of ceremonial goblets, mortars, and pestles.

“Can I help it if I am someone who sees all the beauty behind the claws? The glory in the powers you possess?”

That’s part of it. I’m so ‘powerful’ and so ‘fierce’ (no one shoplifts from my shop, not after the great College Mischief Night Transmogrification of 1998), and I feel stupid for being afraid of what is supposed to come naturally. Love. Femininity. Maternal crap.

“You could always give me back my ring,” Ray says in a voice that is far too smug for my liking. “Tell me you can’t be the wife and stepmother, even though everyone loves you—once they are done being terrified of you. Run away; hide behind your cauldron.”

“Renaldo...” I warn, rising and putting down my wine glass. “Stereotypes!”

“But, mi amore , you have a cauldron! And you are far, far too brave to run when you are scared. Although if you must run, run to my arms.” Ray comes up to me, ignoring the glare I’m giving him, and kisses my neck, wrapping his strong, stocky frame around mine.

His voice turns husky, pressing into my ear.

“Or run, so I can catch you. Perhaps this time, I can press you up against a tree? Hmm?”

Oh my God. This man. I whirl around to kiss him, pushing him backwards into the screened-in back porch. “Against the workbench. It’s sturdy,” I gasp, pulling his belt loops.

“They’re supposed to be here in—never mind. The things you do to me, it’ll be fast.”

“Not too fast,” I warn, but I feel silly for even saying it. If there is one thing this man knows how to do, it is how to please me.

He pleases me in every possible way, physically, emotionally, with his words, his support, his help in the shop, his help in the kitchen.

“I love you. Of course I’ll marry you. I just..

. I might not be good at it,” I confess as he pushes my hips up onto the workbench that’s covered in screwdrivers and scattered seed packets.

“But you already are.”

“ R ay and I are going to have a small ceremony.” I put down my fork and wipe my mouth, thankful that Georgie and Claire were a little late, and that Ray’s food only gets better the longer it sits and absorbs all the spices.

“Cake on the house,” Claire says at once.

“Everything on the house. Or at cost. We do for family,” Georgie says, like the good kid he is.

Well... I never thought I’d have kids at my advanced age,” I chuckle at myself, and Ray is quick to make a scolding cluck.

“As if someone like my Madge ages. You are timeless, diosa . Beauty has no age.”

“Listen to him.” Georgie dares to sound firm with me, the little boy—okay, he’s thirty-something now, and easily seven feet tall, but I remember him when he was still a toddler.

“You’re going to make a wonderful mom,” Claire whispers, looking at me wide-eyed.

Funny.

I’ve never looked at Ray’s adopted daughter for too long. She just became part of the fabric of the town, a person who slotted in easily, seamlessly, like she belonged with Georgie and had always been there.

When she looks at me, I see fear and hope in her eyes—like we could make this work.

The “wicked witch,” too old to be someone’s lover, too old to have a new family.

The “ugly duckling” child, grown up into an insecure woman.

Ray’s words are wonderful and bolstering, Georgie’s firmness is kindly meant, but Claire’s anxious, helpless, but still hopeful eyes are what get me.

“Well. Cake and catering aside, what’s really important are the people who support you on that day.

Claire, will you be my matron of honor? Georgie, I know that your father will be Ray’s best man, but as my son-in-law,” I swallow as the word sticks in my throat, “perhaps you could walk me down the aisle?”

“Really?” Claire squeaks. “Mom—I mean, Madge, I would love to!” She hesitates, then rises and throws herself into my arms as I open them.

She’s so soft. Short and soft, as I am stringy and hard.

But I tell myself she could have been mine. The strength she carries, however she carries it, the height... The hope.

“Mom is fine,” I whisper, and I feel her nod against my shoulder as she hugs me tighter.

Maybe I can do this family-thing after all.