Page 28 of Bewitched By the Siren
What have I gotten myself into, here?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brendan
I checkmy watch for the umpteenth time, and it’s still not five yet. I’ve been ready to head over to Hali’s for ages, but she seemed tense when I left earlier, and I don’t want to make things weird again by showing up early.
It’s my own fault, reacting so visibly when she started singing. I meant what I said. She sounded amazing. But there was definitely something different from when I saw her on stage. Just like when I overheard her through her bathroom window, I didn’t feel that buzz underneath my skin. The awestruck adoration I felt after her first note. The need to hear nothing but her voice for the rest of my life.
Thinking about it now, my reaction that night atMemaw’sseems way over the top. I shake my head. Like I told Hali earlier, it was probably the atmosphere. The lights and the band and the speakers pushing the music deep inside me.
I check my watch again, and it’s two-til-five.
Close enough.
Smoothing my palms down my shirt, I head out and jog over to Hali’s. Taking a moment to run a hand through my hairnervously, I lift a fist and knock on the door. A few seconds tick by, then the door swings open and there she is.
My brain goes a little haywire at the sight of Hali. She looks gorgeous in a long dress held up by thin straps that crisscross over her chest and tie behind her neck. Her hair is piled up on her head in a messy, yet somehow elegant bun, and her face is clean and make-up free.
“You look beautiful,” I say before I can stop the words, and her naturally-tanned cheeks turn a bit rosy.
“Thanks,” she says, stepping aside to invite me in. “You look good, too.”
I look down at my khaki pants and a bright blue polo that matches my eyes. “You’re sure I don’t look like a car insurance salesman?”
Hali’s laugh rings in my ears as she closes the door behind me, making my heart beat faster. She leads me into the kitchen, where she already has the ingredients we bought today spread out on the counter. A large pot of water sits on the stovetop next to a large, rectangular glass baking dish.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says as she grabs a bottle of Pinot Noir from the fridge and two large wineglasses from a nearby cabinet. “Wine? I put it in the refrigerator an hour ago to chill it a bit.”
“I’d love a glass,” I say as I set about organizing the ingredients I need for the lasagna.
I frown at the jar of sauce I bought, but I didn’t have much choice. The small grocery store didn’t have all the ingredients I’d need to make my signature homemade sauce, so I improvised. Turning to the stove, I turn on the burner underneath the pot of water and set the oven to the right temperature.
Hali approaches, handing me a glass of wine, and I thank her before taking a small sip. I’m about to ask her about her mom when I hear movement in the hallway. Setting my glass down,I straighten my spine as a burly man in green scrubs pushes a wheelchair into the room.
“Thanks, Denny,” Hali says, and the man nods before bending over Hali’s mom.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says, and the older woman nods and smiles.
Denny, obviously an in-home nurse, calls out a goodbye to Hali and nods at me before making his way toward the front door.
“Brendan,” Hali says, “this is my mom, Grace.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say, moving forward to take her hand.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Grace says, a twinkle in her hazel eyes. She looks up at Hali. “You didn’t tell me he was this good looking.”
Hali squeezes her eyes shut as I stifle a laugh at the woman’s cheekiness.
“You didn’t?” I ask, sounding appalled. “Hali, how could you not tell her how handsome I am?”
“Yes, that should’ve been the very first thing you told me,” Grace says, leaning into my act.
“Very funny, you two,” Hali says, then shakes her head and mumbles, “What have I gotten myself into?”
Hali’s mom and I chuckle, and it feels like we’re immediate co-conspirators. I wink at Grace before moving back toward the stove to check my water. Hali pours her mom a glass of wine, then hands it to her before rolling the wheelchair up to the dining table just outside the cooking area.
“Brendan,” Grace says, gaining my attention, “did you know your name comes from the patron saint of sailors?”
