Page 11 of Warlocks Don't Win
“Salvia sclarea is my favorite plant.”
I stared at him while my mouth went dry. Clary sage’s official Latin name was salvia sclarea. “Why? There are much more useful varieties.”
He shook out his wet hair, long, thick, lustrous locks that the whole world drooled over. “It makes the best hair infusion, and you know how vain I am about my hair.” His arrogant smirk faded and he shrugged. “I actually value it most for its anxiety and stress relieving properties.”
I stared at him. “You shouldn’t have told me that. It sounded honest.”
He furrowed his brow. “Did it? It was only partially honest. Who would tattoo a plant on their chest to commemorate their anxiety relief? I’m not that mental.”
I bristled like he was saying I was the reason he had that stupid tattoo. “You’re saying that you tattooed me on your heart?”
He shrugged his broad, annoying shoulders. “I don’t know any other Clary Sages. Do you? I have an extensive collection of sages in the garden. They do better on the west coast than the east. You’d like my garden.”
I walked past him without saying anything else, also without stabbing him, mostly because I was clinging to my towel and didn’t have anything stabby handy. He’d actually tattooed my name on his chest? How dare he? Then again, maybe he’d tattooed it before he testified against me and went to jail. Either way, it was horrible. At some point he’d thought he loved me enough to think it was a good idea to tattoo himself with a plant,but that hadn’t made him loyal. Of course not. He believed in justice.
Whatever. I believed in washing tomato juice out of my hair. Clary sage did make the best hair infusion. I hadn’t taken good care of my hair ever since it started sprouting stripes. It’s hard to appreciate shine when it’s horribly clashing colors. I should, though. I’d had extremely good hair before stress happened. And clary sage was good for stress. The plant, not me. Clearly Winston the Warlock was getting inundated with all the ways I wasn’t the same cute, sweet, wholesome girl he’d gotten engaged to and written into his heart.
I shuddered. What my mother would do with that binding was enough to make me nauseous. No, that was from having a familiar in the back of my head pawing through leaves, searching for fallen berries. Both. Going back home, I’d have to face my memories, my heritage, and figure out what to do with it.
Yes. I’d start making hair infusions after this whole mess was over.
Chapter
Five
Icame out of the shower, feeling safe in my black sweats, only to find Winston the Warlock wearing my natty comfort clothes on the bed eating fried chicken.
I climbed on the bed and grabbed the leg out of his hand, eating it before I could control myself. It was so good, and I was so hungry. It took me a few seconds to notice the entire other box of fried chicken on the side table.
He stared at me, close enough I could have face-butted him because I was straddling his legs while I devoured his chicken.
I pulled back, shocked at my incredibly bad manners and lack of self-control. I cleaned off the bone and dropped it into the empty box on the side. There were three boxes. “Sorry,” I mumbled as I grabbed another box and moved to the far side of the bed.
“You’re so hungry because of your familiar binding.”
“She’s not my familiar,” I muttered before I ripped into another leg.
“That’s right, you gave her to me. I forgot. We must be really close if you’re trusting me with your familiar.”
I glared at him. “You’re wearing my underwear. How much closer can you get?”
He raised a brow and considered. “I’ve never worn another woman’s underwear before. I’m surprised they fit you with how perfectly they fit me.”
I rolled my eyes and finished that chicken leg before grabbing another one.
After a few minutes watching me eat, he said, “The potatoes are terrible, but it’s what the nearest truck stop had. Jerry the clerk’s sister ran and got it for us. Also, there isn’t another room we can get, because the motel had a plumbing issue, so the plumbers are working on it, slowly, because plumbers in this part of the world, apparently, make their own hours. Or not as the case may be.”
“You checked to see if we could get two rooms?” I frowned at him. Also, he’d manipulated Jerry’s sister into getting us dinner. Did he not want to sleep in the same bed as me? Not that he’d be sleeping with me. I’d be on the floor. Of course he didn’t want me these days. I was a wreck in denial about her skunk familiar that had sprayed him. I fell into the wouldn’t-touch-her-with-a-twelve-foot-pole, category. And he was a movie star.
He smiled slightly. “Jerry explained before I could make any requests.”
“Oh. Too bad about the one bed trope.”
“Trope?”
“Yeah. You know, two people that hate each other are stuck having to share one bed and then through the inevitable snuggling, they fall desperately in love. Don’t you read anything?”
He blinked at me. “Ah. That one bed trope. I have a tv show. That means I’m currently illiterate. Still, sounds grabby. I could use it in the next season.”
