Spellbound: A magical sequel to Bewitched (4 page)

Hugging her, I bury my nose between the collar of her coat and her neck, inhaling. Unlike the one time she smelled like a roasted chicken, her typical scent is sweet vanilla and spice. Not pumpkin spice, although she drinks enough of them.

“Hi to you, too.” A giggle follows her words.
 

Tightening my arm around her lower back, I run my nose along her neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“He’s downplaying what a miserable asshole he’s been all morning.”

“Hi, Tate.” Madison peeks over my shoulder at him.
 

“Ignore him.” I kiss the soft skin of her neck before releasing my hold and balancing her back on her feet. “He’s high on the power of becoming the new president of the Pumpkin Preservation Society.”

Madison stares at me. “Please tell me that isn’t a real thing.”
 

“I wouldn’t rule it out. This is New England. We have a society for everything.” Tate stops next to me. “Including secrets.”

“I think I’ve had my fill of secret societies lately. With Sam dancing around in the woods with candles to … Halloween, I think I’m at capacity for revelations this month.”

Tate stiffens beside me, causing me to face him. “You didn’t tell her about the super-secret initiation ceremony?”

“Initiation? Ceremony?” Madison’s voice is a squeak.

Resting his hand heavily on her shoulder, Tate leans close to her face. “Don’t let the blood part freak you out.”

“Blood?” The bloom of color fades on her skin. Her hair swings across her cheek when she spins toward me. “Andrew?”

My best friend’s obnoxious mule braying laugh stops when I slug him in the shoulder. “Stop touching her.”

“Ouch.” He rubs the spot where my fist made impact. I didn’t hit him that hard. “Sheeshesus. Was your sense of humor trapped in one of those pumpkins you smashed?”

“You’re smashing pumpkins?”

“The alt rock band from the ’90s? No.” I tuck her hair behind her ear and grin at her. “See? I still have my sense of humor. Tate’s teasing. The coven hasn’t used blood in our lifetime.”

I peck her lips to show her I’m kidding. As my mouth makes contact with hers, goose bumps break out along my arms. My chest rumbles with a snarl of possession.
 

A possessiveness takes over me. I cup her cheeks with my hands, needing to kiss the hell out of her here in front of Tate and the quad full of students so they know she’s with me and unavailable. She’s off-limits. They don’t deserve to look at her, let alone touch her.

Tate does that annoying thing of clearing his throat by fake coughing. I hope he chokes on his tongue. The distraction is enough to break my kiss with Madison. She leans back and blinks her eyes open to stare at me.
 

I’m expecting to see lust, maybe a spark of love, and maybe awe in her eyes. Whatever a swoon is, she should have it displayed all over her face after that kiss.

Instead, I’m greeted with shock mixed with a blaze of anger.

Confused, I go in for another kiss. Bad idea.

She presses her palms into my chest. “Andrew?”

I dip my head, avoiding her stare.

“Man, you’ve gone from invisible to campus spectacle.” Tate adds his unsolicited two cents.

“It was just a kiss.”

“Um.” Madison shifts her feet and I realize my hands are no longer on her lower back. They’ve drifted south and I’m not so gently cupping her ass. On the library steps. In front of the quad.

I glance around us and spot several people who are staring with open mouths. This rankles me. “What are you staring at?”
 

My shout startles a short guy in a Patriots hoodie and cap emblazoned with a B. He skitters away down the steps.

“What’s going on with you?” Madison sounds worried as she tugs on my sleeve. “Stop yelling at people.”

“I wasn’t yelling.” I duck my head with embarrassment and exhale. Something is off. The happy feeling of seeing Madison and kissing her evaporates. “Sorry. I’m being a jerk.”

I stuff my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.

“Why are you acting like some Heathcliff type alpha asshole?” She tugs on my sleeve and I unclench my left hand to hold hers.
 

Intertwining our fingers, I lift our joined hands to kiss the side of her thumb. “I have no idea.”

Because I don’t.

“I’m late for an RA meeting. You think you can attempt to be normal Andrew for a while without creating mass chaos with collateral damage?” Tate shifts his weight and adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. Without saying it out loud, he’s letting me know he’s been doing some invisible damage control.

I nod and Madison smiles at him.
 

“We’ll see. If he turns into a toad, I have an empty container from lunch I can keep him in.” She points at her bag.

Tate brays and grins at Madison, refueling my annoyance.
 

“Stop trying to kill your best friend with your eyes,” Madison whispers.
 

“Some best friend he is,” I grumble as I stare at the back of his dread locks. “How did I end up being friends with a white Rastafarian wannabe?”

“You’re lucky you have friends.” She’s still joking, but beneath her smile is a sharp blade of truth in her statement.

“I’m lucky to have you.” I lean in to softly kiss the corner of her mouth. She smiles when I make contact with her skin. “I’m sorry I’m a cranky bastard today.”

“Maybe you’re hangry? We have time to grab something before class.”

Thursday is the only week our schedules line up for us to grab lunch together. Otherwise we meet up in our literature seminar, the highlight of my week. I love listening to her passion about imaginary people and the injustices they endure. She’s the reason I’m taking an upper level English class on New England literature even though I’m a chemistry major. Sometimes it’s good to have connections in the registrar’s office.

I lower my brows and huff. “I ate lunch.”

“Okay. Is it me? Did I say something or do something to make you upset?”

I hate the hesitant uncertainty in her voice. Especially because I put it there.

“No, never. You’re perfect in every way.” I stare into her eyes and try to communicate how much I believe those words.

“Then what’s with the Mr. Hyde personality change? Someone slip you a cranky potion?”

“I didn’t like the way Tate was looking at you.”

“Like a person looks at another person? Or maybe a friend?”

“He’s not your friend.”

“Now you’re jealous of your best friend? I’m not going to go out with him on my own. I like him. As. A. Friend. It’s fun when we all hang out together. I know Sam would love the idea of a double-date.”

“Sam’s a meddlesome nuisance.” She’s also Madison’s best friend. Bad move to criticize the best friend.

I see the impact of my harsh judgment of her roommate hit her like invisible BBs. She flinches and twists away from me.

“She is not.” She jabs my chest. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you went from literally sweeping me off of my feet to a big jerk in the span of minutes.”

I stop her finger from its next impact with my chest. I kiss the tip. “You’re right. I must be hangry. Let’s go to the café and I’ll buy you something with pumpkin spice on it.”

Her smile crinkles her eyes. “That won’t set off your pumpkin hatred again, will it?”

“You’re good until Thanksgiving.” I settle my arm over her shoulder and pull her closer so I can kiss her again.
 

I need to figure out the root of this mood before I drive her away.

Something tells me hunger has nothing to do with it.

I swear I’m going to shake this mood. If it is that simple.

Mind over matter.
 

The thought of something more, something darker at work enters my mind. Maybe Tate’s right. I should be happier. I am happy, but it feels muffled and muted. What if—

I stop myself from assuming magic has anything to do with my current state. Instead I focus on Madison. With her beside me, I feel better.

Five

English seminar is uneventful. I’m exceptionally proud I didn’t murder Luke Hamilton.
 

He apparently has taken my jab as a challenge to win Madison back. Suddenly he’s contributing in class like a giant know-it-all. For a guy who called Hester Pryne a slut, he’s all about quoting Hawthorne and bragging about reading some obscure secondary sources for research.

A week ago I would’ve questioned his ability to read at all.

Now he won’t shut up with his opinions and quoting scholars to back them up.
 

If he sounded like his typical moronic self, I might not want to strangle him, but he’s making good points that have Philips nodding in agreement.

If this were a fairy tale, Hamilton would be the troll under the bridge or an Orc. His inevitable defeat and death would be cheered. I’d be celebrated by the villagers with a feast. He’s not some secret prince charming. If anyone is the prince in disguise, it’s me.
 

I glower at the toad prince.

Luckily Hamilton sits at the far end of the long wooden table from Madison and me.
 

I can’t believe she went out with him freshman year.

I can believe that she kneed him in the balls in the middle of the dorm lounge for touching her.

He deserved it. As an owner of the same delicate anatomy, I can sympathize with his pain, but for that very fact, I mean it when I say he earned it.
 

Professor Philips drones on in his deep bass voice about Hawthorne and his infamous house. All seven gables sit on the water in all their dark glory only a few miles from here. I pretend to listen while drawing circles on Madison’s thigh beneath the table. She squirms and her breath hitches a few times while she takes notes. My own pen lays on the table, unused.

“Shouldn’t you be writing things down?” she whispers while another student babbles about the meaning of the number seven.

I lean closer to her to whisper against her ear. “I say we visit the house and let the volunteer docents do the work for us.”

“Mr. Wildes and Miss Bradbury,” Philips raises his voice. “I realize the urge to kanoodle is strong with new love, but I would appreciate it if you could spare a few non-hormonal driven thoughts for the subject at hand, American literature.”

The use of the word hand makes me think he knows exactly where my left hand rests. Placing it on the table, I pick up my neglected pen with my right.

“Can we proceed?”

Madison nods and writes something on a blank page in her notebook.
I want to disappear.

In my own notebook I respond.
 

Passing notes in class, Miss Bradbury? Tsk tsk. Please try to give your attention only to the dead white guys in the room.

She giggles and covers her mouth with her hand.

Poor Philips. In spite of his warning and passion for literature, nothing he can say will draw my focus from Madison. I shift in my seat so our forearms touch on the table. The urge to touch her, to maintain contact is too strong to resist.

I have no idea what’s discussed in the rest of class. When Philips wraps up his discussion, I stuff my papers into my messenger bag and grab Madison’s hand.

“Mr. Wildes?”

I pause at the door where I’m nearly dragging her from the room.
 

“Don’t forget office hours.”

Of course.

That spoils my plans of taking her back to my room for an afternoon of hormone-fueled activity.

* * *

“Why are we going to the library?” Madison asks as I lead us up the stairs.

“Privacy.”
 

She gives me a questioning look, but follows me into the stacks. Glancing around, I find an empty row near the back wall on the second floor.
 

“What—”

“Shh, no talking in the library,” I whisper.

She lowers her voice. “What are we doing here and why do we need privacy?”

I answer her questions by pressing my lips to hers.
 

“Oh.” The word is nothing more than a sigh.
 

I take the advantage when she parts her lips to slip my tongue inside. While my mouth explores hers, I lift her hands above her head and hold them in place with my own. This brings our bodies flush together. I swallow her soft moans and gasps so we won’t be discovered.
 

My body reacts to her proximity and I wish I’d brought her back to my room instead of the library. Clearly, I’m not thinking logically around her.

I release her hand and she tangles her fingers in my hair, gently pulling me closer. Everything fades away as we kiss. I lose track of the quiet sounds of the library and even forget we’re exposed to anyone who might need a book on the Italian Renaissance.
 

Panting, she breaks the kiss and peers up at me. I stare into her eyes, losing myself in their depth.

* * *

An hour later, after our too brief make out session in the library, we’re standing outside Dr. Philips’ office.

With the hand not holding Madison’s, I knock on the door.

From the other side comes the sound of coughing and a dull thud of something soft falling against wood.

Madison raises an eyebrow. “Dr. Philips? Everything okay?”

The door opens, revealing a typically disheveled professor, sans elbow-patched tweed coat. His rumpled shirt still sports a starched color, evidence of a better start to his day than finish.

“Oh, I was reading Wharton. No offense to her, but she’s the perfect precursor to an afternoon nap.” He brushes some crumbs from his shirt and sweeps his arm behind him. “Come in, come in.”

With a deep inhale, I prepare myself. I need to tighten the leash on my anger.

“I’m so glad you could join me today.” His voice is welcoming as if he’s invited us out for pizza.

Now I want pizza and a pitcher of beer. I wonder if Madison’s ever been to The Grub.

Hamilton probably hangs out there all the time.

I scowl.

Madison elbows me when Philips turns his back to close his door. “Stop making that face.”