“Umm . . . don’t you want to know where I live?” she asked, her expression curious.
Bloody hell—her blue eyes had knocked him off balance again, but he quickly recovered with a laugh. “That would indeed be helpful.” And he withdrew a small notebook from his coat pocket to take note of the direction he already knew quite well.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning, Rachel began her fish-packing stint and decided she had finally reached rock bottom. The fish were disgusting and the stench was enough to turn the most iron-clad of stomachs.
That afternoon, after a long hot bath that still hadn’t quite removed the stench from her nostrils, Rachel attended Mrs. Gregory’s funeral and, thanks to Chantal and Tiffinnae, the impromptu reception of sorts that occurred thereafter. It was at the reception that one of them came up with the bright idea that they should all celebrate Thanksgiving together, and before Rachel could stop it, they’d agreed to have it at her house.
When Rachel arrived home, with hardly enough time to prepare for her date, her answering machine was blinking with five messages.
The first one was from Dad. “Rachel, call me when you get in, please,” he said in a voice that sounded more impatient than anything else. So she made a mental note to call him someday and went on to the next four.
They were all from Dagne. Her first message was to report on her date with Glenn, which, she said, had been surprisingly hot. And then she had called wanting her spell book for another date with Glenn. Her third message was to inform Rachel she had come by and picked up the spell book, and her fourth message was her explanation that she had returned the spell book, along with a cream Rachel was to use in conjunction with spell number forty-two before her date tonight, because that combination had apparently worked wonders for Dagne. She ended the call with a plea to call her first thing in the morning, and oh yes, she’d left a little gift for her on the dining room table.
Rachel found the cream on the dining room table, along with the spell book, and a lovely moonstone necklace. The accompanying note from Dagne explained she had picked it up off eBay for her and she was to wear it, as it was her stone and had been blessed, naturally, by Dagne, Goddess of Kitsch.
Rachel was not above kitsch.
She took the cream, moonstone, and spell book upstairs to her bedroom and master bath with the idea of having one last try at ridding herself of the fish smell, please God.
By the time Flynn arrived, she had donned her new dress and boots, had her hair artfully arranged at the nape of her neck with delicate sliver filigree wending through it, and was wearing the moonstone necklace that went very well with her crystal earrings, a combination that, according to the spell book, would bring her harmony.
She didn’t know if she had any harmony, but for the first time in a very long time, Rachel felt pretty.
When she opened the door, Flynn smiled broadly and stood back to admire the full length of her. “God,” he said. “You’re bloody gorgeous!”
That remark earned him a smile with enough wattage to light all of Providence. As he stepped across the threshold, he leaned forward as if to kiss her lightly, but then thought the better of it and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her more fully as Rachel giggled against his mouth.
“Beg your pardon, but you do have that effect on me,” he said with a lopsided grin as she laughingly wiped the lipstick from his lips. “You look smashing, Rachel.”
She laughed, grabbed up her coat. Flynn took it from her hands, held it open for her to slip into, and as she straightened the sleeves of her dress, he nuzzled her neck. “That perfume you are wearing . . . it smells a bit different,” he murmured against her skin
“Fish?” she asked weakly.
“More like . . . cake. Whatever is, it certainly has my full attention.”
“That’s the intent,” she said, relieved that it was not fish and appreciative of just how powerful a little bit of vanilla and a scent spell could be. She belted her coat, turned around, and noticed Flynn was looking around the living area of her bungalow. “I know, I know, it’s really cluttered,” she said apologetically. “You’re probably the neat type, right?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m never in one place long enough to be one sort or the other.”
Why that should make her feel strangely insecure, Rachel wasn’t certain, other than the fact that he had used the words never and in one place all in one sentence. But never mind that—she glanced around, winced a little as she realized what he was seeing—books and plants were everywhere, dozens of strange knickknacks, a stagnant, half-completed project on a large loom, and crystals hanging in each window to ensure positive energy flow.