Page 17 of Witchy Woman

“Oh yeah. It was obvious.” His eyes trail to the window, lighting up when they find her outside. “I knew the second I laid eyes on her that she was different. I thought it was weird atfirst, how quickly we connected. I even asked her if she’d ever felt anything like this. But that soulmate bond goes both ways. I want her just as much as she wants me.”

Does Ash want me just as much as I want him? In my determination to keep him safe, I may have ignored how he is feeling. Noah is making me realize that pushing Ash away may be even harder than I thought.

He laughs. “Well, that’s a face. Soulmate troubles?”

“Would you keep your voice down?” I practically whisper-screech. “Of course not. I don’t have a soulmate.”

His amusement is clear as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Of course not. It’s definitely not a family thing that you all share.”

I pout.

“I won’t say anything to Hazel.”

“Oh, bullshit!” I laugh. “You tell her everything. She just has to give you a look and you melt at her feet like an obedient puppy. You, sir, are the very definition of golden retriever vibes.”

He shrugs. “I am what I am.”

It’s hard to be mad at a sunshine puppy. But I may have just spilled the beans about my soulmate problem to the one person I don’t want to talk to about this.

Okay, the second. I don’t want to talk to Ash or Hazel.

Or Grandma.

Or anyone.

Chapter 7

I Will Light You On Fire

Warm skin underneath my fingertips. Muscles shifting with each deliberate movement. Ash’s scent in my nose as I cling to every second of sweet bliss.

RING RING.

My phone ringing pulls me out of an entirely too pleasant dream. My dreams are the only place I can have Ash—the only place I can be with him and keep him safe and pretend like everything is easy—and I may actually murder whoever ended that dream too quickly.

Where the fuck is my phone? I slap my hand around, finally finding it in the mass of blankets.

“What?” I growl. Who the fuck calls people anymore? Pretty sure my generation replaced that with text messages.

“I’ve dreamed about how your voice might sound when you just wake up, but goddamn do you put my best dreams to shame, Goldilocks,” says the raspy voice that features in my dreams.

A blush travels up my cheeks and I thank God he can’t see me.

“Ash, why are you calling me at—” I check the time “—FIVE A.M.?”

Frustration boils over. The man has a death wish.

His chuckle floats through the phone, all low and smoky. “You promised to come with me this morning, and I need your address.”

“I did not promise a wake-up call before the sun comes up. Call me back in three hours.”

“You promised to let me show you something, and that something won’t be there in three hours. Text me your address or I’ll keep calling every five minutes.”

He’ll do it, too. The fucking nag.

“Oh my God, fine!”

I expect he’ll probably be here within the next thirty minutes, so there’s no point trying to return to my much-needed beauty rest. If I look like a zombie, that’s entirely his fault.