Page 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

W hit huffed a soft laugh as he stared down at the summer witch beside him. Over the last few hours, she’d slowly sunk down into his bed. It was past two in the morning, and the house was still. Whatever ghosts had been messing with her—Great-Uncle Andri most likely—had called it a night.

After he’d pretended not to know that she didn’t have social media and she’d given her reasons, she’d asked him to tell her all about the work he’d done on the house. He couldn’t believe she was interested. He’d almost declined to answer when she’d asked what his goals were. But he saw now that he was only nervous because of how Faustina would have responded.

Carefully, he flipped the top blanket off his legs and over Clover’s sleeping form.

She was not Faustina. There couldn’t have been two women more unalike.

At first, he’d talked adamantly about his passion, and Clover had listened with rapt attention. She’d even asked questions. But as the hours had ticked on, he’d noticed her eyes starting to droop. So he began going into long explanations with unnecessary details in a soft, low voice until she eventually fell asleep.

Looking down at her one last time, Whit smiled. Then he flicked off the light and settled in to get as much sleep as the rest of the night would allow.

It was the smell of bacon that awoke him. He thought something was burning. But when he popped up and took a deeper breath, he recognized the scent. His mouth watered.

Glancing around him in the predawn light, he saw his bed was empty. He ignored his disappointment at not waking up to Clover’s sleeping face. Of course, it’s empty, he scoffed. Who else would be cooking bacon?

Whit pulled on his robe and shoved his feet into his slippers before heading downstairs. He paused in the upper hall, hearing Clover’s voice carrying a tune from the kitchen.

Slowly and quietly, avoiding all the creaks in the floorboards, he crept toward the sound. Eventually, he recognized the song as Billy Joel’s “The Longest Time.”

Standing in the lower hallway, Whit peeked around the doorway to the kitchen.

“Oh oh oh oh!” Clover sang loudly, swaying her hips and clicking the tongs to the timing of the snaps in the song as she stood at the stove, bacon frying in the pan in front of her.

Whit’s chest warmed. It was such a mundane sight—someone’s wife singing as she cooked breakfast. But she wasn’t just someone’s wife. She was his wife. His wife who had slept in his bed, and this was their first morning together.

No, that’s not right . He stepped back from the threshold and turned his back to the wall. She’s just my housemate who got scared and fell asleep on my bed. And she’s just making breakfast because she happened to be up earlier than me. Who said any of that bacon is for me? No one has cooked a meal for me since I left my mother’s house.

Quietly, so as not to startle her, Whit slipped back toward the stairs. Then he shuffled his feet as he approached the kitchen through the dining room.

Clover glanced over her shoulder at the sound, smiling at him cheerfully as he entered the kitchen. “Good morning!”

Her greeting did funny things to his stomach. Whit dipped his head. “Morning.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the bacon from the freezer. You didn’t have a lot in there except premade foods. But there was enough for me to start our first morning off right. Do you and your grandfather not cook?”

Whit shook his head. “Not really, no. We’re both pretty busy, and we usually eat at different times.”

Clover shrugged. “Oh, well, I don’t mind cooking, especially until I find a new job and get new hours. We should go to the grocery store tonight after we move the rest of my stuff.”

She reached out and turned off the burner, then placed the bacon on a paper towel.

Whit watched as the summer witch efficiently moved about his kitchen. Somehow, she already seemed familiar with where the plates and silverware were.

He frowned as her words sank in. He didn’t mind it on the whole, but would he really have to work around having meals together? How often did he stay late at the shop to finish fixing or categorizing a new acquisition? How often did he rush off to some estate sale in the next county without so much as a word to anyone? Did a housemate require so much energy that he had to tell her where he was going and when he’d be home?

But when Clover grinned and offered Whit a plate of bacon, buttered toast, and the fluffiest scrambled eggs he’d ever seen, the effort required to send a text now and then—when his usual routine changed—didn’t feel like so much effort after all.

They took their plates to the dining room, and Clover sat beside Whit rather than at the far end of the table.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night while you were talking,” she said. “That was rude. I don’t want you to think I wasn’t interested because I was.”

Whit suppressed a smile, knowing he was being boring on purpose. “It’s fine.” He brought a forkful of eggs to his mouth, nearly moaning at the texture.

“Are you allergic to anything?” Clover asked. “I don’t want to start making meal plans if there’s something you can’t have.”

Whit shook his head, swallowing. “These are the best eggs I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

Clover beamed over at him. “I knew marrying you was a good idea. But be careful, you keep praising me like that, and I might get too full of myself.”

Whit’s world seemed to blur as a surreal feeling washed over him. Here he was with a beautiful woman smiling at him—his wife—eating a delicious meal she’d cooked for him at the table where only a few days ago he was eating instant oatmeal.

Could life change so fast?