Page 35 of Strike It Witch

Hiding a smile, I plucked some of the mint I’d picked yesterday from a glass in the back of the mini fridge. “And I’m the first to admit I’m sexy, but I’m hardly beautiful.”

He finally looked up, rested his chin on his hands, and grinned up at me. “You are unique, and beguiling, and sexy.”

“On that, we agree.”

“And beautiful.”

I shook my head at him and puttered happily around the minuscule kitchen, leaning into the last of my wine buzz. The trailer had two burners, a small oven, a sink, and no counter space to speak of. It was the perfect travel trailer, but far from my ideal permanent residence.

“How long have you had the Airstream?” Ronan asked, as if reading my mind.

“Five years.”

“You got it for witchy stuff?”

“Haven’t ever heard it put quite like that, but yes, it was originally intended for my work.” The water was ready, so I crushed the mint leaves between my hands and added them in to steep. “It was supposed to have been my luxurious travel trailer—emphasis ontravel. I had a townhouse in a Tucson paranormal neighborhood that I used as a home base. It had the cutest backyard.” I washed my hands in the small sink.

“What happened to the apartment?”

“I let it go. The Siete Saguaro requires an elemental magical to watch over it. I couldn’t leave it.”

“Why?”

I poured the tea into two delicate cups and brought them to the table, along with lemon slices and a few cookies on a plate.

“The park is special. It protects the elder community living within it. After Mom died, I parked the Airstream in space one and moved in. It’s not permanent. I’ve been looking for someone to take over for a while.”

“I heard about that.” He squeezed lemon into his mint tea. Stroked the lavender.

Ronan wasn’t pushy with his questions. Whether that was due to fatigue or good manners, I wasn’t sure, but I appreciated it.

I stood, reaching over his head to turn on the radio, keeping the volume low. Tom Petty sang “Free Falling.” The chorus infused calm into me, and I retook my seat feeling better.

Ronan tucked the lavender into his pocket and picked up a cookie, examined it—oatmeal, no raisins—then smiled and bit into it. “I thought your mom had a house here.”

“She does—did. The house is still here. I use the garden room attached to it.”

“You don’t want to live there? Seems like there’d be more room.”

“No, I don’t,” I said.

The likelihood of Ronan not knowing I’d discovered Mom’s body in the living room of her house was pretty slim. Everyone in the paranormal community knew about her death.

For lack of something to do with my hands, I picked up a cookie. Then I remembered I’d neglected to eat any veggies today and put it down again.

Ronan didn’t comment on my answer about the house, instead directing his attention to the plate of cookies.

“Why’d you put the cookie down?” he asked.

I patted my belly. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t flat either. My witchy bloodline was filled with curvaceous women with fabulous round bellies, full breasts, and rounded thighs. Mom had called us “Rubenesque.”

“Oh please. Eat the cookie if you want it,” Ronan said. He lifted his shirt and pointed at the tiniest gut I’d ever seen on a man with abs like his. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Let’s enjoy our bellies tonight.”

I laughed. Broke the cookie in half, took a bite. It was delicious, of course. I’d made it. “I like that idea. I filled up on wine snacks earlier, so this will be enough.”

“I had a burger at some point, but that was hours ago.” He picked up the cookie half I’d left on the plate and ate it in one bite. “Did you make these?”

“Yes. I am a woman of many talents.” The trailer was warm and snug, and the tea was settling my nerves. So, naturally, I was getting flirty.

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