Something Magical (Witches of Hawthorne Grove Book 1) (18 page)

“In that case ...” He bent and scooped her up into his arms before heading to the stairs.

“Jordan, wait!” she squealed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you upstairs, Kaylee. I find I cannot wait another minute to make you …
feel
things
.”

“Oh?” she asked, looping her fingers at the back of his neck, a teasing smile flirting across her lips now that she was certain of his feelings for her. “And just what do you propose to make me feel, Mr. Parker?”

He took the stairs two at a time in his haste, and as he carried her up the wide staircase, Kaylee's gaze drifted back to the antique letter box standing open on his kitchen table, now serving as the perfect base for her newly repaired snow globe. How like Jordan and I those two are, she thought. Apart, much like she and Jordan had been, they were empty and broken and alone. But together they each had purpose. Together, they were filled and fulfilled and whole.

“Something magical,” he said, his voice was low and husky with promise—one that matched the look in his eyes—as he pushed open the door to his bedroom and then carried her inside where he deposited her carefully on his bed. It was the promise of forever.

S
amuel Ethan Huntingdon III
stood in the middle of his mostly bare, eleven hundred and some odd square feet of workshop, both hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans, while he watched his newly engaged best friend, Jordan Parker, carefully disassemble the antique
chiffonier
he'd purchased at an estate sale a while back.

“You're going to need to replace some of the hardware.” Jordan handed him the door and then the hardware—a pair of ruined iron hinges and what was left of a once intricately crafted wooden pull handle—he'd just removed. “You might be able to find these at Seville's. If not, I can check with a few people in Center, but I'd stop in at Seville's first.”

Seville's was actually
Seville's Antiques and Collectibles
—a battered, run-down, miserable looking little shop on the edge of town that just happened to be the only genuine antique store in Hawthorne Grove. The place was managed by three sisters who'd lived in the area since way before Sam moved into the small town a handful years ago. Jordan had found an antique letter box there shortly after he'd come to Hawthorne Grove—one he claimed was instrumental in getting him an introduction to his soon to be wife—and Kaylee Dean, his fiance, said the same thing about a snow globe she'd purchased there.

“Great idea. Maybe I'll run into my future wife while I'm there and we can get started building a replica antique cradle when we finish with the restoration of this old thing,” Sam teased.

“Go ahead and laugh, old man. Your turn's coming.” Jordan shot back. His reply was muffled because he was leaning head and shoulders inside the cabinet, thumping and fumbling around with something inside. Shelves, most likely, Sam thought, until the door swung back and Jordan emerged, holding what looked like an old quilt rack—at least that's what he thought they were. It was what his Grandmother had always called the things she kept near the foot of every bed in her house, anyway.

This one was a little bit plain. It bare and dusty and a little beat up, but with some wax and polish and some simple good old TLC, Sam knew it would be as good as new. He reached out to take it so he could set it aside for now, but Jordan was too busy inspecting the thing to hand it over.

“What in the world? Looks like a hand-made saw horse or something,” Jordan said, eyeing the piece quizzically. “No, I don't think so, now that I give it a closer look. It's too detailed for that but I don't think I've seen anything like it before. You got any ideas, Sammy?”

“It's a quilt rack,” he said, proud to be able to claim a little knowledge—in this area, at least. “Gramma used to have one of these in every bedroom.”

Each one had always seemed to be holding a different variety of hand-sewn quilts, too, as he recalled, all lovingly stitched by his grandmother and sometimes, a few of her friends. The smell of springtime and sunshine seemed to have been infused into them, too, now that he thought about it.

Gramma never had embraced the idea of electric dryers. She hung her quilts outdoors on the clothesline Grampa had stretched for her until the day she'd died, and the scent of her quilts, freshly taken in off the line, was one Sam didn't think he'd ever forget. She'd been snuggling him into the things since he was a toddler.

Shaking free of the unexpected wave of nostalgia, he glanced up and caught Jordan still eyeing the thing skeptically. He tried to explain. “A quilt rack, Jordan. You know? A place where you store your extra quilts when they're not being used every night but it's still too cool out to stuff them away into the back of the linen closet for summer storage?”

He reached over to take the piece from his friend and set it to one side. “I remember coming in late, sneaking up the back stairs back before Gramma passed away. She would catch me every time. She'd give me a pat, feel my cheeks, worry over how chilled I was, and tell me there were plenty of extra quilts by the bed if I needed them. All I had to do was pick one and snuggle in.”

“Gramma Ellie.” Jordan nodded. “She was a great lady, Sam. I know you miss her.”

Sam nodded. “She and Grampa were the only constants in my life. Dad was always out in his rig on yet another cross-country run, but the only running Gramma ever did was to the grocery store on Wednesdays. Remember that? I used to think the only reason she went there was to pick up cookies. ”

Jordan sat the quilt rack to one side and leaned one hip against the wardrobe, a smile of fond reminiscence on his lips. He chuckled. “Double fudge chocolate chip. How could I forget?”

“Did Sam forget Lindsey's coming by the coffee shop today, or have you two decided to play in here all day?” Kaylee Dean, Jordan's fiance, poked her head around the workshop door to ask. Lindsey Vale, the owner of Vale Vintage Interiors and a long-time friend of Kaylee's older sister, was coming in to talk with him about upgrading the coffee shop.

Jordan handed over the hardware he'd removed from the
chiffonier
and hurried across the shop to greet her with a warm kiss while Sam looked wryly on. “We were just about to head out, Kaylee. Now that you're here, you can help us wrangle Sarge out of Sammy's forty acre field out back.”

The field in question was really just a huge back yard Sam had recently fenced in where his new Husky pup, Jabez, was allowed to roam free. Kaylee laughed. “Sarge loves it when you bring him for a visit now. I think he likes playing protector. ”

It only took a minute to collect the Golden Retriever Jordan had adopted from the animal shelter where Kaylee worked a few months ago from his back yard, and then Sam walked with them to Jordan's pick-up.

“I'll meet you two at the coffee shop,” he promised Kaylee. “Jordan says I should stop by Seville's to look for replacement hardware and since it's on the way, I think I'll stop in. If the sisters don't have what I need, you can ask around in Center this afternoon when you and Kaylee go up to look at wedding dresses.”

* * *

T
he soft sound
of musical bells ringing over the door of the antique shop was accompanied by an almost electrical hum of awareness that brought Emma Riley's head springing up, but only long enough for her to peek inquisitively through her lashes and over the rim of her glasses to see who had come inside.

A tallish man with hair the color of wet sand and a contagious friendly smile walked into the showroom, surprise clearly evident on his face at how different the interior of the small antique shop was in comparison with the almost frighteningly debilitated look of the exterior.

Hiding a smile, she quickly ducked her head back down before he could make eye contact, forcing herself to focus once again on the display of antique puzzle boxes in front of her instead of checking him out.

As a Freelance Research Specialist, her job often brought her into contact with all sorts of rare, artful things, but her latest client, a writer, needed some information about antique puzzles and that was why she had driven down here this morning—to see what she could find, if anything.

Her friend, Lindsey Vale, had suggested this particular shop. Lindsey was an interior decorator and she frequently hung out in antique shops or at estate sales, looking for the perfect pieces with which to transform the bland, boring interiors of her clientele. Lindsey had warned her about the fallacy of Seville's battered exterior, promising sheer magic awaiting her beyond the ramshackle appearance and half-rotted wooden doors.

Emma hadn't been so certain when she'd gotten her first look at the place. Once inside, however, she'd found herself enchanted by the beautiful selections on offer and now was having a difficult time making up her mind over which of the puzzles waiting with infinite patience in front of her that she should buy. She hadn't actually come in this morning with the intent to actually purchase a puzzle, but now that she was here, looking directly at them instead of viewing them from a set of badly shot photographs on the Internet, she couldn't seem to will herself to resist.

One puzzle in particular, made from an especially warm hardwood with a slightly worn image of a charming Victorian couple on front, pulled at her. She knew she'd probably settle on it in the end, but right now, she was enjoying the momentary back and forth debate in her mind of trying to decide between it and another which sported an ancient world map—which she loved—but it seemed far less sophisticated as far as the cut of the individual pieces went.

“Good morning! Can we help you, sir?” came the lilting voice of the woman who had settled behind the counter a few moments before, right after she'd carefully lain out the most interesting quilt Emma had ever seen.

Made up of black and white squares, each one sewn together in a lovely pattern she knew probably had a name though she hadn't a clue what it might be, Emma figured the only reason she found the antique coverlet intriguing was because it was so simple. The piece was crisp. Practical. Useful. A bit like herself, she supposed. Maybe that was why the thing kept drawing her eye?

“It is lovely, isn't it?” The woman behind the counter ran her hand over the material in a gentle sweep, caressing the fabric as if it were something precious and rare. “The lady we acquired it from said it had been in her family for at least six generations, and look—not a stitch out of place after all that time.”

“My grandmother made one like this, only she used bits of multicolored fabric where this one has solids. Interesting that this piece was done in simple black and white,” the man who had come in earlier replied, his voice moved over her slowly, and like a ray of sunshine stepping boldly out from behind the shadows of a cloud, it warmed her.

Blushing at the realization, Emma cast a quick, surreptitious gaze in his direction, and gasped. She had somehow managed to gravitate over to the counter without the slightest awareness of having done so, and she was now standing right beside him—so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body! No wonder she had imagined his voice was warming her like the sun!

Flustered now, she glanced down at the quilt they'd been discussing. The sight of his large, tanned hand resting firmly atop the cloth conjured imaginings of that same hand on her body, smoothing gently across the tense muscles of her shoulders and back, and her gaze jerked upward once more. It clashed with his and held, refusing to break away.

“The simplicity of it is what makes it so special,” Emma said, responding in a voice gone breathless, and to her surprise, he wholeheartedly agreed.

“I'll take it,” he said, glancing up at the proprietress, “along with four sets of each of these if you have them.” He held out his other hand to show the woman what he needed, and Emma, now freed from the intensity of his gaze, was suddenly galvanized into action.

“Oh, no. You can't! It's—” Emma laid the puzzle box she didn't remember picking up on the counter beside the quilt and turned an imploring gaze on the woman behind it, her fingers finding and sliding over the warm cloth. “I—I'd already decided to purchase it, you see,” she fibbed, stuttering out an explanation while her eyes silently willed the shopkeeper to go along before she said, “I'll take the puzzle, too.”

Guilt over her fib instantly plaguing her, Emma tilted her head upward by tiny degrees until her eyes met his—and she could feel the cloth beneath her fingertips changing, firming, expanding until it seemed to have come alive and now felt as if she were caressing the planes and contours of familiar bare skin—sculpted, muscular, hot
male
skin.

Her body was spontaneously delighted while her fingers tingled with pleasure, similarly thrilled at the touch. Gasping, Emma snatched her hand away and quickly turned her head away to break eye contact with the handsome stranger, but not before she noticed the flecks of tawny gold highlighting his eyes go bright, changing the bright green to a marbled, molten amber.

Flushed with embarrassment, her face heated. He couldn't possibly have known what she was thinking. Could he? Keeping her gaze lowered, she merely nodded her head when the woman behind the counter asked if she wanted the puzzle and quilt wrapped. She could sense movement at her side, but didn't dare look up again. Not while he was still there.

The minute the puzzle and quilt were both wrapped and bagged, Emma hastily signed her name on the check she'd been making out and handed it to the woman, then grabbed up both packages and hurried from the store, head down, her eyes firmly focused on nothing but the path in front of her.

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