Page 9 of Wooing the Wiccan
I shake my head. “No, but it didn’t taste like I thought it would. When you first bite in, it’s sweet, but the sour takes over very quickly. I like it for preserves and in cooking, but not so much for eating.”
He chuckles. “Good thing you only got a dwarf tree then. Imagine if you had a full-size one full of fruit.”
“There aren’t enough jam jars in the world,” I agree, slowing as we reach the bookstore. “Here we are.” The plate-glass window glows with warm light from within, and I take a moment to glance at the current display. There’s something so wonderful and welcoming about a bookstore.
Inside, Raðulfr glances around and then inhales deeply. “Ah. Books.”
A young couple passing us on their way out snicker, and his cheeks tinge pink. It’s adorable.
“It’s a comforting smell, isn’t it?” I ask. “It’s silly in this age of technology, but I still find it so awe-inspiring that this room currently contains somuch. Information and stories and ideasand…” I trail off, feeling a little embarrassed myself now. I got carried away.
But he looks at me with warm understanding in his gaze. “Yes. And the possibilities—don’t forget those. There’s already so much here, but it’s also going to inspire more.” He nods toward the children’s section. “That’s why it’s so important we teach the young how to read and process what they’re learning.”
God and goddess, it would be so easy to fall in love with this man. I clear my throat to keep myself from asking him to marry me. “I agree,” I say instead. “The café is toward the back.”
Once we’ve found a table—it’s usually busy here in the evenings, because college kids come to study while drinking their dozenth espresso drink of the day, plus the store hosts a few different book clubs—I ask him what he’d like to drink and then go to order.
When I get back with an order number and the barista’s assurance that she’ll bring our drinks right over, Raðulfr is reading the flyer that lists all the store’s upcoming events. “This is wonderful,” he says without looking up. “There’s something for everyone. What a great way to build a community.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t come to a regular book club here, but I enjoy some of their special events.” I tap the line announcing a book signing with one of my favorite fiction authors. “Like this.”
Before I can lift my hand away, he captures it in his and raises it so he can examine my fingers—my paint-stained fingers. I try not to squirm.
“Itispaint,” he exclaims. “I wondered. Are you an artist?”
Oh boy. If that’s what he’s expecting, this is probably going to be a letdown for him. “No, I teach kindergarten. We had an incident today, where somehow one of my students got into the paint I used on the backdrop for our holiday concert. It’s a little less washable than what they use for their art, so while I was cleaning up, it ended up staining me.” I grimace. It’s going to bea while until I can get the last of it off the table and chair Kole was using too.
“Kindergarten?” Raðulfr repeats. “That must be so rewarding—paint mishaps aside. All those curious little minds so excited about every new thing they learn.”
“Itisrewarding, though sometimes it’s like herding cats who’ve been playing in a catnip patch.” I’m glad he’s not one of those people who thinks I play with the kids all day and they practically look after themselves. “I especially love this time of year, when they’ve mostly mastered their letters and are beginning to read bits and pieces. It’s like watching them unlock a door to a new world, you know?”
He smiles at me. “Yes, I know.”
Our gazes lock, and for a long second, I can’t catch my breath.
“Lemongrass tea?”
Blinking, I glance up at the barista holding two mugs with teabag strings dangling over the sides.
“Oh, uh…” Shit, Raðulfr is still holding my hand. Is heholdingit, or did he just forget he had it?
Before I can decide whether or not it would be awkward for me to pull away, he lets go. I try not to be disappointed, but I don’t know what to do with my hand right now. I fiddle awkwardly with the chain that holds my amethyst pendant.
“That’s mine, thank you,” he says, sitting back so she can set the mug down.
“And Earl Grey for you,” she announces, putting it in front of me. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you. This is perfect,” I tell her, and then wait for her to leave before saying to Raðulfr, “So, uh… what is it you do? When you’re not helping others learn magic, I mean.”
He casts a quick glance at the tables around us, surprising me. Does it bother him that someone might have heard me say that and know he’s… Well, I don’t know for certain that he’sWiccan, but I’d say he’s some form of pagan, given the attitudes most modern religions have toward magic use. Is he unable to practice openly? Maybe because of his job or family?
“I work in government,” he says, partially answering my unasked questions. Government departments can’t legally discriminate based on religious affiliation or practices, but depending on the government, they can sure as hell make things difficult. “Management. It’s one of those jobs where either things are happening all at once, or nothing’s happening at all.”
“Not like teaching kindergarten, then,” I say wryly. “Little kids can turn the most mundane thing into a parade-worthy event.” My tone is light, but somehow, the easiness we had before is gone. I feel super awkward, a reaction to the combination of the hand-holding incident and him not seeming comfortable discussing magic in public. I fiddle with my pendant chain again, glancing away.
“What is that?” he asks, and I look back to see him reaching toward me.
“Uh…”
