By Magic Alone (25 page)

God, this felt so good.

My mouth parted, and his tongue flicked lightly over my lips and then plunged inside, tasting me, branding me, as if nothing in the world could possibly be more important than this moment. Fire licked through my blood, through me, and a moan slipped out. I didn’t care. I pushed his head closer to mine and deepened the kiss. I reveled in the kiss. In
Scot’s
kiss.

We expelled ragged sighs when we separated. I missed him immediately. “That didn’t feel pretend,” I whispered. “That felt like you meant it.”

Scot cursed and pushed himself farther away from me, every muscle in his body tense. My heart dropped into my toes. “It has to be pretend. You’re in a relationship. Damn it, Julia! What about Jameson? I can’t be the other man. I
won’t.”

Hope and understanding flared. “You think . . . Of course you do. I . . . I’ve dated him once, Scot. Only once. It isn’t anything serious.” It
could
be. Jameson wanted it to be. But it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. “I was upset about what you said. About there not being a guy alive who was right for me, and I was trying to make myself feel better, and I was tipsy, and . . .”

Oh, shit. I’d let
my feelings
take control.

Comprehension dawned. “You exaggerated the truth?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I expected him to be upset that I’d lied. Because really, that’s what I’d done. Instead, relief eased the hard line of his jaw.

“So you’re not in a relationship?”

“I’m not,” I said firmly. My brain hollered for me to shut up, to find a way to save the lie, but my heart—my stupid emotions—fueled my words. “My parents would love it if I were, but as of this minute, I’m single and unattached.”

He blinked those long, luscious lashes and my stomach went all topsy-turvy. “That’s good. But we’re not soul mates. My grandmother cannot be right about this,” he said slowly, but with conviction. “You’re—no offense, Julia—you’re not the type of woman I see myself with.”

A little piece of my heart withered and died. But I nodded and smiled. “I know. You’re not the type of man I see myself with, either.”

“But there’s something . . .”

“Yes,” I agreed, going for matter-of-fact. “There’s something. So, what is this? What . . . um . . . what do you want, Scot? What’s going on here?” I purposely pushed Leslie, Jameson, magic, and all thoughts of soul mates out of my head and waited. Hoped a little, too.

His answer, when it came, was a low and determined growl. “That’s a massive question. Do you know what
you
want? Do you know what’s going on with us?”

I swallowed and shook my head. “No, but—” I bit my lips together. I couldn’t say this. I wouldn’t say this.

“But what?” His entire body angled forward, every ounce of his attention on me. “Tell me.”

And just that quickly, I surrendered. “I like kissing you.”

Scot ran his thumb over my lips and desire sprang to life. “I like kissing you, too.” He exhaled in exasperation. “Hell, Julia. I don’t know. You’re like no one I’ve ever known.”

Somehow, I didn’t think he meant that as a compliment. “Right back at you, buddy,” I said.

“So, about Vegas. I shouldn’t go.” He spoke in a serious, decisive tone. If I hadn’t been gazing into his eyes like a love-struck teenager, I would’ve bought it too. And I would’ve been crushed.

But his eyes didn’t mirror his words. They showed his conflicting emotions, his internal battle. They very much reflected mine. So I took a chance.

“I want you to go. Maybe a weekend away will give us some answers about . . . about whatever this is.”

“You’re sure? I should’ve checked in with you before making that decision.” He shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know why I didn’t. But I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“I’m sure.” Whether it made sense or not, the thought of having Scot to myself in a different place, a faraway place, suddenly seemed way too good an opportunity to pass up. Maybe that’s all it would take to put my head and heart back on the straight and narrow. “You took care of the flights, so I’ll handle the hotel reservations. In the morning.”

His gaze sharpened. I readied myself for rejection, or at least an argument.

“Two rooms, Scot,” I clarified. “One for each of us.”

Still, his nod of agreement surprised me enough that my breath locked in my chest. Then, everything stopped. I swear, the very air around us paused. Almost as if waiting for me to breathe again.

Scot settled his hands on my waist, his touch both electrifying and stabilizing. In agonizing slow motion, he kissed me again. The air moved when I exhaled, and the soft
scent of roses trickled in when I inhaled. But I was too busy melting to care.

When he left an hour later, I was even more wound up than earlier. So I packed. I almost didn’t bring the journal, but in the end tucked it into my suitcase with my clothes.

You know, just in case I needed a bit of magic.

I hate flying—something I probably should’ve mentioned to Scot before we boarded the plane. I didn’t, because while being thousands of feet up in the air, helpless, sitting in a metal tube, freaked me out beyond belief, I’d learned methods that helped me manage my fear.

Fortunately, I’d flown dozens of flights without losing myself to panic by using these methods. Somewhat stupidly, as it turned out, I assumed this flight wouldn’t be any different. Unfortunately, none of those flights were as turbulent as
this
flight. So while Scot sat next to me relaxed and reading and fending off our flirty flight attendant, I was staring straight ahead at my focal point—the bald head of the man two seats up—and attempting to breathe correctly. Deep, slow breaths that were supposed to reduce my panic.

I had the air from the valve above my head set on high and aimed at my face. I reminded myself that it was safer to fly than drive. I even went through the mental recitation of what turbulence is, because facts center me. Basically, I was doing everything right, everything that had worked before—but it wasn’t enough.

Partially, this was because we weren’t seated in the middle of the airplane. I prefer the middle. I always chose seats that were in the middle, my obsession forcing me to forego first class, which drove my parents crazy whenever we traveled together. But the middle seems more stable. Like the center of a teeter-totter. So sitting in the middle was always my first line
of defense. But I hadn’t purchased these seats. Scot had. And we were way in the back.

The biggest reason for my panic, though, was the fact that we were going to crash and die. Soon. Very, very soon.

“I’m on a bus. We’re driving over potholes. Potholes. I’m on the ground. Not in the air.” I spoke in a barely audible voice. When that didn’t help, I broke into song. In an attempt to keep my mind off of the horror of crashing to the ground and my body parts scattering in the wind, keeping my voice low, I sang, “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round, all through the day.”

“You’re doing it wrong!” A little boy’s freckled face peeked over the seat in front of me. “It’s all through the
town.”
Then, in a rather loud voice, he sang the song for me. All nine verses. When he finished, he offered a dismissive look that seemed to say he was way smarter than the dumb lady behind him, and faced front again.

His seat belt should have been on. Didn’t his mother know we were going to crash? I leaned forward to tell her to securely fasten the boy’s seat belt, but the plane bucked against another air bubble. I shoved myself against my seat, tightened my hands into fists, and breathed. Well, I tried. What I did was more like a series of ineffectual gasps.

“He told you,” Scot said lightly. His light tone didn’t fool me. Curiosity and concern also lurked. Nice of him, really. Sweet, even. But I preferred to keep my paranoia to myself. It was less embarrassing that way. Besides which, trying to hold up my side of a conversation greatly reduced my ability to stay calm.

“Yes. He did. Smart little guy. Why don’t you go back to your reading?” I offered. I continued to stare at the bald-headed man. His scalp was shiny. I wondered if he polished it or if
his skin was naturally that glossy. “I’m trying to concentrate. About work. And a new client I have.”

Scot’s book snapped shut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him tuck the paperback into the seat pocket in front of him. “Look at me, Julia.”

He pried open my right fist and wrapped his hand around mine, the dampness of my palm against the cool dryness of his creating a suctionlike grip.

“Can’t. I’m . . . ah . . . practicing meditation. My focal point is up there.”

“I thought you were thinking about a client.”

We hit another pocket of air and I made a noise that greatly resembled a squealing pig. My muscles stiffened and I pushed my legs together. I also clenched Scot’s hand in a death grip. Which was fitting, since death was right around the corner. “I am! I’m meditating about my client. Please go back to your book. I’m f-fine.”

“I don’t think you are,” Scot said softly. “Why don’t you want me to know that you’re afraid? Maybe I can help.”

The bald-headed man’s seat tilted back, and he must have scrunched down, because all of a sudden I couldn’t see much more than the very top of his head. He wasn’t supposed to do that! Not with this much turbulence! We were in the “keep your seats in their upright position and seat belts securely fastened” time. “Not afraid. I just need to stay focused on my focal point,” I added. My voice was thin and wobbly.

“I can be your focal point. Look at me, sweetheart.”

“I can’t. I’m trying very hard not to lose it. You don’t want me to lose it, Scot.”

“Look at me, Julia.”

He didn’t ask so much as command. A submissive part of my brain clicked in, and almost without realizing, I shifted
my vision to Scot. Warm, intense brown eyes met mine, and the effect was something along the lines of a cozy blanket on a frigid night. A tiny amount of my fear lightened immediately. Just by looking into Scot’s eyes.

“There you go.” He used his free hand—the one I wasn’t squeezing with every bit of my strength—to stroke soaked strands of hair off of my cheek. “What can I do?”

The plane shuddered over—through?—another series of bumps, and perspiration dotted my forehead and dripped down the back of my neck. I hadn’t handled air travel this badly in years. “If y-you talk, maybe. Focusing on something else helps a lot.”

“I can do that. Just keep looking at me. Try to relax.”

I nodded and buried myself in the depths of Scot’s eyes. He stared right back, and while that should have been uncomfortable because of the nakedness of eye-to-eye contact, it wasn’t.

Another ounce of tension evaporated when he began to talk. He kept his voice low and intimate, almost seductive, as if he were whispering sweet-nothings to his lover. Which, you know, he wasn’t. But that, along with his grip and his sturdy gaze, worked as well as an anchor steadying a ship in stormy waters. I opened myself completely, accepting this as another type of magic, and bit by bit began to relax.

He shared funny little stories from his childhood. Like the time he tried to “hard-boil” an egg in the microwave without pricking or cracking the shell, or without the use of water, and the forthcoming explosion that had sent him running to the house next door for help from a neighbor, his barking dog and screeching siblings in pursuit.

He related when his sister Elizabeth, at the age of six, “borrowed” money from their father’s wallet to buy an ice
cream from the ice-cream man without asking. Elizabeth would have missed a school friend’s birthday party as punishment, so Scot stepped in to take the blame.

He went on to talk about Alice, about how she’d fawned on him from the moment she could crawl, and how he’d pretended he hated it but actually loved her attention. I learned how Joe sneaked out of the house and drove the family car around the neighborhood before he had his license, just to prove he could. But he couldn’t. He took out a few street-side mailboxes before giving in and walking home to get Scot, who’d had to help Joe fix—and in one case, replace—every single one.

It all sounded wonderful. I’d never given much consideration to what it would be like to have a brother or a sister, but now I kind of thought I’d missed out on something spectacular.

“You take care of them. Your sisters and brother,” I said. “They’re lucky to have you.”

A deep laugh barreled out of Scot’s chest. “I don’t know if they’d agree with you. I gave them hell a lot, too. Still do. Depends on the day.”

“But when it counts, you’re there for them. That’s special, Scot.”

He fidgeted, apparently uncomfortable with my praise. “I told you that my family means everything to me. I’m sure your family is the same. Tell me about them.”

Ha. I hadn’t warned him about Gregory and Susanna—mostly because I had no idea what to expect from them at this point. “I don’t have any siblings. It’s just me and my parents.”

“What was that like, growing up as an only child?”

“Sometimes lonely, sometimes too much. Everything . . .” I tried to find words to express what it had been like. What it was still like. “When you’re the only child, everything rests on your shoulders. I can’t disappoint my parents. I can’t make a
mistake. There isn’t anyone else to pick up the slack, so I have to be perfect. Always perfect.”

Compassion and understanding flickered over Scot’s face. “That has to be difficult. But I’m sure your parents don’t expect you to be perfect. I’m sure they love you and want what you want. It’s okay to make a mistake, Julia. It’s okay to be human.”

I tried to laugh. “I am human! I have a job and friends, and . . . Kara and Leslie are good for me. I can relax around them. Kara’s been my best friend forever.”

“Really? How did you two meet?”

If it hadn’t been for Kara, I’d have spent most of my childhood with my head buried in a book. I shared that. “And then she met Leslie in college, and the three of us are a family now. I guess they’re the sisters I never had.”

Scot stayed quiet for a minute. “You’re not who I thought you were.” He tweaked my chin with his free hand. “You should show the world who you really are.”