Never Been Witched (10 page)

Hard from remembering and anticipating more of same.

Carefully, so as not to smudge the paint, she raised the shirt over her head and flattened it on Morgan’s drawing board. With pastels and concentration, she painted, Cassock Wearers Welcome, above the hearts, added an I between the hearts, then Dare You beneath that.

Okay, so subtlety didn’t enter into this, but sexually speaking, Morgan seemed as thick as a California red-wood, and according to Meggie, he hated to turn down a dare.

Destiny mentally rubbed her hands with wicked glee, cackling like a cartoon witch, except that the apple she offered was hot and wet, free of poison, full of sparks, and aching for a sweet, tasty nibble.

She figured that wearing a suggestive shirt wasn’t quite like making the first sexual move. It was like opening the door so that Morgan might feel comfortable stepping inside to make
his
move—his first true move.

Down in the kitchen, near the lingering, coffee-making warmth of the prairie cookstove, she spotted the corner of a picture frame on the top shelf of the Hoosier cabinet, a perfect spot to leave her shirt, paint side up, to dry.

By the time she’d showered, wrapped a towel around herself, and gathered the mums, Chinese lanterns, and silver dollars she found in the backyard, her seductive shirt was done to a T.

Destiny loved working with acrylics, especially on fabric, because the paint dried quick as a wink. A tease like her needed a quick wink now and again.

After she dressed and applied her makeup, she put on the woven straw hat she’d bought to help fight breast cancer, took a container of yogurt from the ancient fridge, mixed in a handful of frozen cranberries and a teaspoon of flaxseed, grabbed a spoon, and went outside.

She found Morgan whistling a Sousa march as he painted the molding that formed squares on the front door, Caramello perched beside him on a wooden bench, talking up a storm.

“Good, gorgeous morning,” Destiny said. “Isn’t it?”

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Morgan said, turning a fine beet red as he leaned a hand on the paint can cover, paint side up, in an effort to appear nonchalant.

Once his indifference was blown, and he’d wiped his hand, he cupped her nape, pulled her close, lowered his lips to hers, and kissed her like she’d never been kissed in her life. His way of acknowledging the night before with thanks, she imagined. Fine with her. For a man with his limited sexual experience, ’nuff said.

Regaining his bearings—not an easy task, judging by his fumbling—he noticed the message on her shirt for the first time, and gave it a double take, an intrigued spark entering his eyes. “Cassock wearers get their own statement shirts?”

“Statement shirt? It’s a freaking engraved invitation. Cassock wearers can remove said shirt as well.”

“You’re wearing it inside out.”

“Just for you.” She spooned some of her yogurt into his mouth.

He made a sound of surprised appreciation. “You know anybody who wears cassocks?” he asked, returning to his painting.

“Scads of men.”

“Any of them ever take you up on that invite?”

She sighed. “Only in my dreams.”

Chapter Thirteen

“YOU’D better go find one then,” he said a minute later. “Can’t let that shirt go to waste.”

She froze and nearly dropped her yogurt. Huge disappointment. He’d played as much of the game as was in him in the light of day.

Backpedal, Cartwright. Don’t let him see you drool
.

“I thought you looked lonely out here,” she said, determined to draw him out.

He indicated Caramello adoring him from the porch rail. “Chatty Kitty here’s been keeping me company since I got up, though she went ballistic when she followed me into the shower and I turned it on. She can jump a six foot wall, did you know that?”

“She’s a regular catapult.” Destiny petted her arching cat while trying not to let Morgan’s embarrassment affect her. “Why do you never talk to
me
, Caramello?”

“Must be my animal attraction,” Morgan said.

Destiny elbowed him. “First time I see your cocky side. Your
emotional
cocky side,” she added quickly. “I like it better than your cranky side.”

Morgan eyed her shirt. “By the looks of that shirt, and the bra you’re not wearing, you’re bucking to see more of my . . . cocky side.”

She stepped closer. “Well, this invite is special.”

“So it is, which leaves me out.”

Caramello jumped into the space between them.

Destiny scratched her cat behind the ears, knuckle deep in soft, lush fur. “I think my Cara’s in love with you.”

“And she’s jealous of you.” Morgan raised Caramello for an eye to eye, and her cat got all feline flirty and überchatty. Humph. She did have a rival for Morgan’s affections. Good thing the cat had gotten shut out of their room last night. Cara wouldn’t have liked what they were doing.

Like a catapult, she would have tried to stop them.

“Thanks for soothing my nightmares last night, by the way. I hope you were able to sleep . . . after.”

This time only his ears got red. “Like a baby,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. Their first true eye to eye since the best sex of her life. “You?” he asked.

“Like a babe. Yeah, that.” She looked around, wondering what color
her
face had turned. The patch of Chinese lanterns growing between the porch and the plank walkway in front of the lighthouse looked brighter this morning, the trees in the distance like a watercolor wash of red, orange, and yellow. “Prettier than a painting,” she said. “I love this place.”

“I love it, too.” But he had given his attention back to his project.

“Coral is a great color for the door trim,” Destiny said as she took a turreted, multilevel Victorian birdhouse off the porch rail. Painted in shades of sage, cream, and eggplant, it looked like a regular painted lady of the San Francisco variety. “This is gorgeous, a truly talented work of art. Where did you get it?”

“It’s my design and my handiwork. I build birdhouses for fun.”

“You? Building birdhouses? Now there’s a hobby that doesn’t fit my image of the stern Morgan Jarvis.”

“You? Cooking? There’s a hobby that doesn’t fit my image of the mysterious Destiny Cartwright.” He wiped his paint-stained hands on a rag. “Hidden depths, the both of us,” he said. “I think the coral accentuates the brick perfectly.”

Deeply hidden depths. “Coral would be my choice.” It
had
been her choice, once upon a painting.

Morgan wiggled a brand-new paintbrush before her eyes. “Finish your breakfast, and I
might
let you help with the molding on the back door.”

“How grateful am I?”

They finished the trim on both doors by eleven.

“No more manual labor for today,” Morgan said as they made sandwiches for lunch.

“What’s this?” he asked when he saw her painting hanging on the kitchen wall.

“It’s a swarm of ladybugs on a coffeepot. See the spout?”

“I can tell what it is, but it’s new to the room. How’d it get here?”

“I found the frame on the top shelf of the Hoosier cabinet and knew it’d fit this old painting I had in my portfolio, so I went and got it. Do you mind?”

“I suppose you found this picture in your head, too?”

“Sure. Years and years ago. The date’s covered by the frame, but I was a kid.”

Morgan looked around and realized that the kitchen had come alive with fall flowers and old antique kitchen-ware no longer hidden from view but perfectly displayed. “Your ladybug painting looks as if you painted it with this room in mind. Like the fall flowers in that six-pack of milk bottles on the sideboard. You have an artist’s eye.”

“Thank you. I run a vintage clothing and curio shop. I have an eye for the rare and beautiful as well. The bottles were empty and crying for color. They’re gorgeous antiques.”

“Des, they’re milk bottles.”

“In their original metal stand, I might add. Do you know what I could get for that set at my shop?”

“Does it matter to you? The money, I mean?”

“No, because they’re beautiful where they are. They have a history,
here
, and I’m already in love with them.”

“You fall in love easily. They’re glass.”

“They’re history, I tell you.”

Morgan took a carton of milk from the old refrigerator with its motor chugging and vibrating the round case on top. “History matters to you, doesn’t it?”

She slathered mayo on the bread. “Our history is the foundation of our destiny.”

Morgan knocked over a glass. “God, I hope not.”

Destiny held the glass still while he poured. “Not fond of your history, are you?”

“Let’s just say that I never look back.”

“Let’s say that you hate to look back. Let’s admit that you blocked your past, which is sad, and yes, I can tell because I’m psychic, but I’ll save that argument for another day. Why are you painting the trim on the lighthouse, if you plan to remodel it? Seems like a waste of effort.”

“Keeping a historical building attractive and fresh is never a waste.”

“Aha! You
do
care about history.”

Morgan looked surprised. He shrugged. “Let’s say, I care more about the history of buildings than my own history.”

“Sure. Let’s lie.”

He gave a frustrated grunt, and she stuck out her tongue.

He reacted with shock then sadness.

“Morgan, I meant to be playful not rude.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just that somebody I used to know liked to do that, and it surprised me.”

“Meggie?”

“I hate when you know things you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know how to block my gifts, and I like it that way.” She unwrapped a package of cupcakes, the healthy kind, with chocolate frosting, a white swirl, and a five-year shelf life.

“Paint preserves wood, and my renovations will comply so seamlessly with the integrity of the original structure that everything will look original. It’ll take another expert to tell where one begins and the other ends.”

“You consider yourself an expert?”

“King, Aiden, and I flip houses for fun and profit. We buy old monsters, turn them into vintage beauties, and sell them, clean and quick.”

Destiny had frosting all over her fingers, until Morgan took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed each chocolaty fingertip. Then he licked the frosting off, finger by slow finger.

Her heart pumped harder than when the ghosts had appeared in her circle, while the texture of Morgan’s tongue did funny things to her insides, sending ripples through her, stroking and touching her everywhere.

She shivered. She flowered. Yikes. A proliferation of stimulation, if only he’d follow through and ravish her. Outdated word, but it fit her mood. Besides, ravishment at an ancient lighthouse sounded so romantic. Idiot witch.

When he finished, he licked his lips, and traced the
I
on her shirt between her breasts with a slow finger. “You dare me to do what?” he asked.

“You? Are you a cassock wearer? If so, I dare you to do . . . anything you’d like.”

“Those hearts surround your unencumbered nipples perfectly,” he speculated, watching her nipples pucker with arousal. “Like you might have been wearing it when the artist painted them. Odd that. They remind me of bull’s-eyes.”

“Do they?” She cleared her throat. “They do?”

He raised a hand toward her breasts, and she nearly lost her breath. Just last night, he’d cupped her
naked
breast. Cupped her bottom. Made her come. They’d made each other come, but the action had been all but hidden, like a fantasy acted out in one’s mind, though better.

But now, he stopped short of cupping her and simply thumbed the tip of a nipple. One freaking nipple.

She squeaked in shock and disappointment, and he picked up their paper plates and carried them to the dock.

Destiny growled in frustration.

By the time she joined him on the dock, she grabbed her sandwich and tried to ignore him. “I’m not speaking to you.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“What didn’t you do? My other nipple feels left out, never mind the rest of me.” Heck, one touch, and she opened like a flower.

“You’re scaring me, Kismet. I
want
to accept what you’re offering.”

“Then do try to get your head screwed on straight and figure the swell out what it is I’m offering.”

Chapter Fourteen

DESTINY took off her platform cork slides and slipped her feet in the water beside his, and
he
played footsie with her as he explained his plans for the lighthouse, which sounded totally familiar.

She couldn’t figure him out. He hadn’t said no to her invitation, but he hadn’t said, “Swell yes!” either. Sure, Morgan was a man who needed to think things through. She’d seen it in his work at the castle and here at the drawing board. She just had to give him time to make a decision.

She finished her sandwich and got up. “I’m going for a walk.” He watched her take the wheelbarrow and leave, but he didn’t say a word. She went to Paxton Castle, here on the island, her sister and brother-in-law’s place, and mounded her barrow with pumpkins and gourds from Harmony’s garden. She also grabbed some fresh herbs from the kitchen herb garden for cooking. On the way back, she gathered an abundance of fall treasures left by the Goddess: rose hips, poppy pods, bittersweet, and holly.

She parked the pumpkin-and-gourd-mounded wheelbarrow on the porch as a decoration in itself. Then she braided wreaths of bittersweet with seed husks and rose hips, and hung one on a nail beside the front door. Perfect.

She took pumpkins and wreaths into the house. A pumpkin went on each mantel, upstairs and downstairs in the center chimney structure, and she hung wreaths wherever she found a naked nail.