Page 60 of Last Witch Attempt
“And that butt?” I challenged. “Are you going to get that back?”
Landon tried to look over his shoulder at his butt and failed. “What the hell is wrong with my butt?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. I like a squishy butt. When I met you, however, you could bounce a quarter off that thing.”
“You had better be joking.”
I laughed as I headed toward the field exit. “I like it squishy. It’s fine.”
“Don’t even look at me,” he complained as we headed toward the trail. “You’re the meanest person I know.”
“I love you too.”
He didn’t respond. His eyes were focused forward. For the rest of the walk, I heard him muttering, but I knew that he would not be up and heading to the gym at six the next morning.
BECAUSE WINCHESTER WAS STAYING AT THE INN—everybody agreed it was best not to have the dog out between the guesthouse and The Overlook with arachnids on the loose—there was plenty of room in the bed when I rolled under the covers and snuggled up at Landon’s side.
He was reading something about 75 Hard, which apparently involved working out for forty-five minutes indoors and outdoors every day for seventy-five days, sticking to a diet, drinking a gallon of water daily, and a number of other stipulations. He wasn’t going to stick to that, of course—he couldn’t when eating at The Overlook multiple times a day—but he’d convinced himself it was an option.
“Goodnight.” I kissed his cheek. “I love you.” My eyes were already closed when my cheek hit his shoulder.
“I love you, too. Wearegetting up to work out tomorrow morning.”
I merely smiled.
“Also, Aunt Tillie is okay. I understand that you have very specific worries about what’s happening—and you have the best instincts of anyone I know—but you’re overreacting. She is not losing her mind.”
I wanted him to be right, but he wasn’t. I was too tired to have that conversation again. Instead, I rested my hand on his stomach—it still felt pretty hard to me—and smiled as I drifted off.
I expected to sleep hard. Dreams are part of the game, especially when you’re a witch, but I was still surprised when I woke in a filmy dreamscape. The edges of the dream were blunted, fuzzy. That was my first clue that this dream was different. Often my dreams were more metal than pop. This dream, however, felt as if I was about to wander into jazz land.
“It took you long enough,” Aunt Tillie said when I found her standing on the bluff where we conducted our witchy rituals—and occasionally danced naked. Her expression was dour. “You spend too much time trying to bolster your hairless monkey’s self-esteem and not enough time focusing on the important things in life.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
She bobbed her head. “He’s a man. He already thinks enough of himself.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I prodded with a grin. This was clearly Aunt Tillie preparing to unleash a hex on me. She was angry about what had happened earlier, and this was her punishment.
And, yeah, sure I shouldn’t be happy about the fact that I was likely going to smell like Brussels sprouts or fish all day. The fact that she could plot this hard did bolster me some.
“That is how I feel. I’ve never understood why you and your cousins—and now your mother—feel the need to pledge yourselves to a single man when you could have ten men at a time. You know, one to fit each need. It’s ridiculous … and traditional. The lot of you weren’t raised to be traditional.”
“It’s not about tradition,” I argued. “It’s about belonging to someone. Landon and I belong together. Mom and Chief Terrybelong together.” I considered it a moment. “You can be as obnoxious as you want, but I know darned well you felt the same about Uncle Calvin.”
Aunt Tillie’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I know you loved him. I also know that it wrecked you when he died. You didn’t want to open yourself up after him, and I get it. Loving someone else would’ve been an insult to his memory.”
“Now I know you’re confusing me with someone else.” Aunt Tillie’s expression grew even more dour. She looked as if she was sucking on a lemon. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Oh, no?” I was amused. “Is this part of the game? Is this where you tell me that you’re an evil witch from another plane and you’re here to kill Santa Claus? I still remember when you told that story on Christmas Eve when I was eight.”
“You shouldn’t have believed in Santa when you were eight.” Aunt Tillie looked disgusted. "One man with one sleigh delivering millions of presents in a few hours? How does that work?”
I shrugged. “I was eight.”
“Thistle figured it out before you.”
