Page 11 of Accidentally Engaged
Do not think about big hands, big feet, big...
Think about the rest of the sentence. “Why don’t we at least try?” You could, what would it hurt? If you broke things off right now, I think your ribs would break. His heart would break.
Focus!
Is your magic ever wrong?
No. Not really.
I can’t figure out if that’s something I want to admit just now.
He’s still talking, a nervous, eager babbling that’s utterly adorable. Call me crazy, or maybe a little bit of a wuss myself, but I couldn’t do what he’s doing with a total stranger, magic or not. I know a lot of strong men. They’re lovely. They’re nice guys. Maybe they’re super vulnerable at home, but not with me. This open-book view of Jared and the fact that he’s willing to put it all on the line...
“Can I maybe get a glass of water?” I cut him off with a croak, fanning myself.
“Of course! Are you okay?” Jared rushes forward, thinks for a minute, and scoops me up, so gently, like he worries he shouldn’t, or he worries I’ll break, and puts me on the couch. “Water coming up.”
“Thank you.”
He leaves the room, and I get to see his profile for a few seconds as he dashes off.
From the front, he’s cute and cuddly. From the side—I can see the harder angles under their padding.
He’s handsome. And cute. Obviously smart.
Didn’t die. Didn’t even pass out. You gotta put that in the plus column.
I’m sure there are negatives, but right now, the more I think, the faster the positives are stacking up, the harder my heart pounds, and the louder my libido screams in the background, reminding me that I haven’t had sex in so long.
Why don’t you let your magic take control? It’s a pain in your butt most of the time. This is one of the few times it’s done something wonderful—probably.
Because it was an accident. Against either person’s will. So this is wrong.
“Here, honey. Do you need something to eat, too? The fridge is empty because I thought I’d be gone for Spring Break, but I think a couple of stalls at the Night Market are still open. I could go get you something? I could make something with what I have in the cupboards, like... spaghetti?”
I take the water and stare up at him.
“Did you just offer to make me spaghetti at like... one in the morning?” I ask, tears springing to my eyes. No one has cooked for me in years, not since the last time I managed a visit home to my parents. I didn’t expect Mr. Sexy Faelord to get his wings dirty in the kitchen, but I always dreamed of finding a man who would cook for me.
“Yeah. I mean, it wouldn’t be my fresh homemade marinara sauce, but I have some emergency stuff in jars. Pretty good, made locally and bought at the Onyx Farm’s little market... I’m babbling. I babble when I’m worried. Or nervous. And I shouldn’t. I told myself that I was going to start taking charge more in my life after being pushed around a lot by my ex.” He shrugs and rocks side to side, hands shoved in his pockets.
Fuck, why is that so cute?
Is this what it’s like when you’re bespelled? Or just in love? That everything they do is cute?
“Chloe?”
“You cook?” I blurt out.
He gestures to his middle. “You didn’t think I built this figure on diet sodas and salads, did you? I love to cook. Pampushka, pierogies, pasta... Too many carbs. Way too many carbs, but... Carbs make me happy. And my family is Ukrainian, Siberian, and Italian. Both of my grandmothers equated love with cooking—and eating.” He takes his glasses off and fiddles with the stems for a second. “My dad is built a lot like me. He says we’re insulated. Cold weather ready.”
“You don’t have to sell me on you anymore. I’m trying to resist,” I groan, closing my eyes and trying to erase the mental images flying through my brain like a video on triple speed.
Cozy nights in a little townhouse here in Pine Ridge. Homemade spaghetti on the table. Candles. Wine. Talking and laughing, simply being, as Marmalade snoozes under the table, napping between our feet.
County Sligo, where my parents still live, is one of the coldest places in Ireland. The damp and the cold and the mist around the rural spot where my parents live... They’re great for atmosphere, not great if you feel lonely. But now I’m picturing Jared and I spooning in front of their fire, my head resting on his arm as his hand strokes my hair, my sides, down to my hips, and then onto my—
“Why are you trying to resist?” Jared asks, still standing in front of me, like he’s afraid to sit on the couch and get in my space.
