Page 37 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Nia gasped, grabbing the bucket. “Don’t use magic! There are too many people. We don’t want to piss off Aurelia.”
Aurelia, the eraser witch of Stella Rune, was a name that could silence even the boldest witches. Her job was to clean up magical slip-ups before they caused real trouble—wiping memories if necessary, issuing fines, and in more serious cases, handing out jail time. Lochlan had never met her, and had no intention of doing so. He’d seen her once wag a finger at a werewolf twice her size. By the time she was done, the wolf had looked like a scolded puppy.
“Oh, please,” Ivy scoffed, trying to wrestle the bucket back. The batter sloshed dangerously. “No one’s paying attention. They’re too busy wondering if you and your husband are about to make out.”
Nia’s face went red as she yanked the bucket back, her voice low and sharp. “Shut up.”
“Admit it!” Ivy teased, her grin wide and unapologetic.
Lochlan stepped in as the batter swayed dangerously close to the rim. “Easy there,” he cautioned, hands outstretched?—
But he was too late.
A tidal wave of batter surged over the edge, drenching him and Nia in thick, sticky streaks. Somewhere in the background, Johanna let loose a string of muttered curses, the kind usually reserved for particularly bad burns—magical and otherwise.
“Oops,” Ivy chirped, not even attempting to hide her glee. “I guess you two better go get cleaned up.”
Lochlan turned to Nia. The left side of her hair was plastered with beige goo, dripping onto her equally drenched clothes. She looked like she’d been caught in a batter storm. He glanced down at himself—his chest and lap were soaked, the cold batter seeping through the fabric and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
When he glanced up, Nia’s eyes were glistening with barely contained laughter.
“Come on,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and pulling him along behind her. They wove through the thinning crowd toward her building, stopping at a door labeled Private Apartments. “We can use my place,” she said, swiping her key. “I need to rinse my hair. And I might have a shirt you can borrow.”
They climbed the stairs in silence, the tension between them building with each step.
The inside of her apartment was… mostly empty space. She gestured toward the kitchen before heading for a nearby closet, rummaging around for a towel and a shirt.
“Here, this should do,” she said, handing him a bundle of cloth. “I’m going to rinse off and change.”
Lochlan nodded, his ears buzzing as he tried not to think about the fact that she was about to be naked in the next room. He clutched the towel and shirt and reminded himself of his plan—to take things slow, to show her that he was worthy of her trust. Memories of what it had felt like to have her in his arms flickered at the edges of his mind, tempting him, testing him.
It took everything he had to keep his thoughts in check.
Lochlan wandered the kitchen, searching for anything—anything—to distract himself with. He forced his attention onto the little details of the space, hoping to latch onto something, some glimpse of her. But there was nothing. The apartment felt functional but bare, almost like a dormitory or hotel room: a place to eat and sleep.
It didn’t feel like Nia.
The sound of running water from the bathroom made his pulse quicken. He clenched his jaw, dragged himself back to the task at hand and began stripping off his soiled shirt and wiping the sticky batter off his pants. Before he’d finished, Nia reappeared in the bathroom doorway, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders.
She froze mid-step, her eyes widening slightly as she took in his still-shirtless body.
“Shit,” he muttered, yanking the borrowed shirt over his head. It was ridiculously small; the hem barely grazed his belly button, and the sleeves strained against his arms. Across his chest, a large pink flag with bold SC lettering stretched wide. Stella College’s logo warped with every breath he took.
Nia let out a disarming laugh. She stepped closer, her eyes bright as she grabbed the discarded towel. “You still have batter on you,” she murmured, holding the cloth up in silent question.
Lochlan nodded, jaw tight, the words catching somewhere between his chest and tongue.
She reached up, dabbing gently at his cheek, wiping away stray streaks. Her touch was light, hesitant, but it undid him all the same. He leaned into her hand without meaning to, instinct chasing the warmth of her palm.
Flashes of a bonfire and the memory of his hands gripping her skin surged through his mind—dangerous and all-consuming. He shoved them down with a slow, forceful breath, focusing instead on the curve of her lips, the scattering of freckles across her nose, the way her damp lashes framed her eyes.
“I’m sorry about the mess back there.” Nia reached up to wipe his hair. Her voice was quiet enough to make him lean in without thinking.
The motion brought her chest against his, and Lochlan’s grip on the counter tightened, his fingers digging into the wood. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to close the space between them, but he forced himself to stay still, the tension winding tighter with every passing second.
He cleared his throat, his voice rough as he said, “Are all your fundraisers like that?”
Nia kept running the towel over his skin, even though he was sure there couldn’t be any batter left. When her hand swept over his lower stomach, he sucked in sharply, heat pooling low in his abdomen.
