Page 27 of Bewitched By the Siren
Brendan freezes, looking at me with a confused expression. “I’m sorry. What?”
“What?”
He reaches out and takes the cheese from me. “Where did you tell me to put this?”
“In the buggy,” I say, my brow furrowing with confusion.
He points toward the receptacle in question and asks, “You mean thecart?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re in Georgia, now, buddy.Thatis a buggy.”
“If you say so,” he sing-songs with wide eyes, dropping the cheese into the basket and pushing it forward.
I hurry to catch up, falling into step beside him and saying, “You know, if we were in a town that had one, we’d be filling this buggy atThe Pig.”
His head snaps toward me. “The Pig?”
I nod. “ThePiggly Wiggly, to be exact.”
He barks out a laugh. “You’re making that up.”
“Look it up,” is all I say, and he stares at me for a long moment before fishing his phone from his pocket.
I grin to myself as his eyes widen, then lift to meet mine. Shaking his head, he shoves his phone back into his pocket and pushes the buggy forward, saying, “The south is weird.”
He doesn’t say it with any malice, so I don’t take offense. I just chuckle and walk beside him as we head down the dry goods aisle to find the pasta he’ll need. We make short work of finishing up, and I’m feeling relaxed and happy as we pull out of the lot and head back toward home.
A familiar pop song comes on the radio, and without a thought, I start to sing along. My words cut off, though, when Brendan’s head snaps toward me, his expression confused.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. You just…sound different from when I saw you on stage.”
Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Of course, I sound different to him. I’m wearing my necklace. He doesn’t realize it, but he can tell the difference between my regular voice and my siren-magic voice.
“You still sound amazing,” he quickly adds, mistaking my expression. “It just hits different. It’s probably the different atmosphere and the lack of sound equipment.”
“Yeah,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Isn’t it that way for every performer?”
He stares at me for a long moment, then returns his gaze to the road. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
He’s quiet, and I’m a nervous wreck for the rest of the short trip home. But when he pulls his car in front of my house, he seems to have forgotten the awkwardness as he turns to me with a smile.
“We should just take the groceries into your house, since I’ll be cooking there.”
“Yes. Of course,” I say, and he nods and climbs out of the vehicle.
I meet him by the trunk, and we load up on bags, taking them all in one trip. Once we’re inside and have packed the cold items into the fridge, Brendan pauses to look around. I look, too, seeing the nautical motif with new eyes as he turns to me and cocks his head.
“This is a textbook beach house,” he says with grin, motioning toward the blue and green hues, the wooden anchor on the wall, and the shelf of seashells on the wall opposite the sink.
“It’s kind of my mom’s thing,” I say. “She loves everything about the ocean.”
An uncomfortable silence falls then, and Brendan seems to take notice. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he smiles and says, “Five o’clock, then?”
I nod, and his smile widens. He gives me a little wave and sees himself out. Once the door closes behind him, I deflate, leaning back against the counter with a sigh.
