By Magic Alone (34 page)

“You thought you had the facts,” I rushed to say. Scot cared deeply about his family, about his role as big brother, as protector. He wouldn’t be Scot if he hadn’t reacted. Though there was still a missing piece. A bit of crucial information I didn’t have. “And you saw me as a threat. Like I said, Scot. I get it. I really do. But I’m glad . . . well, I’m glad we’ve moved beyond that. But I’d like to know—”

Ugh. I wanted to ask about the ghost, about Miranda. But
the last time I brought her up, Scot had shut down, and that wouldn’t help either of us. Not when we seemed to be making headway.

“It isn’t an excuse.” Scot captured my hand with his. Warmth and comfort and hope swarmed my senses. He leveled his eyes with mine. “I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

“Well,” I admitted in complete honesty, “you weren’t totally off base in your thoughts. I . . . I shouldn’t have entered Magical Matchups and snooped. I’m sorry about that. Really, I am.” Though if I hadn’t, maybe Scot and I wouldn’t be sitting here now. Fate? Possibly. Deciding it was time to put my cards on the table, regardless of the result, I said, “But this soul-mate thing. Why does your grandmother believe in our . . . um . . . connection so strongly?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve tried to get it out of her, but she refuses to say anything other than ‘It’s critical,’ and to trust her.” Scot swallowed a gulp of coffee. “And pushing my grandmother doesn’t do any good. She clams up and does whatever she wants.”

“Then we’ll have to try to talk to her together. Because, Scot . . .” Beads of perspiration slicked the back of my neck and my heart picked up an extra beat. “I know we started off as pretend. I know that’s all this was supposed to be. But it’s changed for me. I don’t understand how or why—” My words got stuck in my throat. God. Why was this so freaking hard? “My feelings for you aren’t pretend. Not anymore. Maybe your grandmother is right? Maybe we are supposed to be together. Is that crazy? I—I—”

“Stop, Julia,” Scot cut in, his voice firm, his tension plainly visible. “I can’t say . . . There are too many things you don’t know.” He snapped his jaw shut and shook his head. “There are things you need to know. We can’t have this discussion until you do. You might not feel the same once you hear everything.”

He continued to hold my gaze, but I couldn’t read him. This had to be about Leslie, whatever it was he’d tried to tell me our first morning in Las Vegas.

“This is about Leslie, right? I thought you said you two were over.”

Leslie.
For the first time, I understood what she’d been going through. She’d dated Scot for longer than I, and if her feelings were anywhere near as strong as mine, then seeing me—one of her best friends—kiss Scot had to have been agonizing. Much worse than Ricky abandoning me for Celeste. Yeah, now I understood. With complete and utter clarity.

Heartsick, I stood. “Then, what?” I gathered our empty plates and napkins, needing to move, needing to do anything but sit still. Opening the cupboard beneath the sink, I dragged the trash can out. He still didn’t answer, and my insecurities about Leslie and the guilt I felt because of our friendship hit me hard. “Just tell me, Scot. I’m a big girl, remember? Whatever this is about . . . I need to hear it.”

“Damn it, Julia. Sit down and look at me.” When I didn’t, he jumped out of his seat and came to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Look at me, Julia.”

“Is this about Leslie or not?” I crumpled the paper plates and shoved them in the trash. I could handle this. Hell, if he had even one iota of feeling left for my friend, they should give it another go. Even if it killed me. After all, she had first dibs.

“Partly, but—” His gaze moved down and his grip on my shoulders tightened. “What is that?” he asked, his tone stiff and disbelieving. “That box . . .” Letting go of me, he reached into the trash and pulled out a squashed white bakery box. “This is from Elizabeth’s bakery. What is this doing here?”

Startled by his sudden vehemence, I staggered backward away from him. “That’s what it is. A box from her bakery. Why does it matter?”

The brown in his eyes turned almost black. His jaw, shoulders, every part of him, went rigid. Anger pooled over him, but when he spoke, it was with steady control. “Yes, Julia. How did a box from A Taste of Magic end up in your trash?”

Weird, right? Every one of my senses perked up, warning me to tread carefully. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. This question was important. But why? “The brownies,” I whispered. “You must have told Elizabeth that I had a cold? Which, actually, I didn’t. I was just nervous about going out with you, after that first kiss. Anyway, she . . . um . . . delivered them on Wednesday. As a get-well thing. I thought it was nice, Scot.”

I watched him continue to fight for control, still not comprehending the reason for his distress. And because I didn’t understand, I didn’t know what to say or how to help.

“Well, isn’t this wonderful?” he said. He dropped the box in the trash and shoved his thumbs into his pockets. He stared at me for what felt like forever. My ears roared from the deafening silence, from the distance growing between us. We might have been standing miles, rather than just a few inches, apart.

I touched his arm. “I . . . I want this to be real. You and I. I want to see where this might go, if we give us a real chance.”

He expelled a gravelly sigh. Angling away, he glanced at the container of brownies and then back to me. I saw his decision the second he made it, and I almost toppled over from the force of my disappointment and despair.

“This isn’t going to work. I won’t . . .” Scot’s mouth straightened into a firm line. He closed his eyes for a long moment. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

He was halfway to the front door before I caught up to him. “Stop! What’s going on with you? Why do you care if Elizabeth baked me brownies? We were having a conversation, Scot. An
important conversation. You need to know that I’ve never felt this way—”

Scot paused, turned on his heel and looked me straight in the eyes. “Of course you haven’t. None of this is real, Julia. You deserve . . . better than this.” He combed his hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I won’t be bothering you again, and I won’t be running an ad, and I’ll make damn sure my family leaves you alone from here on out.”

“Scot! What—?” I clamped my lips shut. My head hurt with the want to understand, the need to change his mind. But everything I knew told me both things were impossible. I held myself straight and kept my chin up. He would not see me cry. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” For a millisecond, I was sure he was going to say more, but in the end he didn’t. He just shook his head, pivoted, and let himself out.

The door closed behind him and a host of nonsensical, stupid, ridiculous, and intangible emotions exploded inside. And every one of them hurt like hell. “Well,” I whispered. “I guess what they say about Las Vegas is true: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Especially when magic was involved.

I tried to get my bearings. I tried not to cry. I reminded myself that this was ending the way it began, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. And while I was curious why the bakery box had upset Scot so much, in the end, what did it matter?

Probably, he didn’t want his family getting close to me—a woman he had zero intention of staying with. He didn’t introduce women to his family often. It had been like a decade. So yeah, the fact that Elizabeth liked me enough to bake me something, believing I was ill, had probably made him realize we were playing a dangerous game.

I understood. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t blame him.
The blame rested on
my
shoulders. On the magic I’d used to become desirable. On the spell I’d cast to ensure a passionate weekend. And as much as I hated this, as much as it hurt, as much as my heart cried out, my brain and the rational side of me knew I’d never be happy with a man who didn’t want me for me.

Without conscious thought, I moved to the closet to get Scot’s jacket. In his haste to get away from me he’d forgotten it. I put on the coat, hugging the leather around me, pretending that he was holding me.

I blinked and one tear, and then another, fell. I wasn’t Cinderella. Scot wasn’t my prince. We weren’t a fairy tale. But once upon a time, he’d had feelings for Leslie. He’d believed he might love her. He was going to introduce her to his family. And she . . . well, I knew she still had feelings for him. I knew she still wanted a future with him.

Maybe my role in this really was to bring them back together. Maybe Verda had been wrong the entire time, and Leslie and Scot were meant for each other. Damn it! That made sense. So much freaking sense I nearly crumpled to the ground.

Leslie had gone to Magical Matchups before me. Leslie already had feelings for Scot. They had a history. And yes, she’d made a mistake. A horrible mistake. But she regretted her actions. The only reason Verda focused on me was because I’d gotten stuck at her place, and the only reason I was there at all was because Leslie and Kara had backed out of our agreement. All of it started with Leslie.
She
should have received the journal and the magic. Not me. And all I’d done was muck everything up.

Tears sped down my cheeks. My eyes burned. My throat was raw with emotion, with the sobbing that wouldn’t stop. I pulled my spine straight, thought everything through, and made a decision. Maybe the hardest decision of my life. I could
fix this. I could set things straight.
I
could give them another chance, if I was strong enough. If I put my own selfish wants and desires on the back burner.

I ran to my bedroom before I could change my mind. With Scot’s scent around me, with the feel of his jacket on my body, I retrieved the journal and grabbed a pen. This wish was important. I had to do it right. I didn’t want to force anyone to be with anyone—I’d learned my lesson there. I just wanted to open the door of opportunity, so if Scot and Leslie chose to step through they might have a chance for that happy ending. For a love like my parents’. That was the greatest gift I could give.

I wiped the wetness from my cheeks and wrote,

The magic came alive instantly. It whirled around me, through me, heating my skin and the air with the weight, the electrifying sizzle, of power. I closed my eyes, my breathing rapid, as my body rippled from the energy of my spell. It was stronger than ever before. More intense. More vibrant and vivid. More everything. And every second hurt like nothing I’d experienced.

When the magic finally ebbed away, I curled into a ball, knees to chest, and cried. Sobbed, really. I didn’t try to stop my tears, and I didn’t try to rationalize them away. I simply let myself feel.

I stayed home on Monday and ate Elizabeth’s brownies, watched
Seinfeld,
and cried. I thought about calling Verda to get some of my questions answered but couldn’t face the reality of actually picking up the phone, dialing her number, and delving into magic, ghosts, soul mates, and anything else she might say.

Missing Scot was a physical ache. After spending three nights with him, it seemed incomprehensible that he wasn’t with me. I also recognized how foolish—maudlin, even—I was behaving. I’d always laughed at those sappy heroines in movies and books who climbed into their beds for days, stuffing their faces with junk food over a broken heart. Over some guy. When the bruised woman was Kara, I’d pat her back and offer her comfort, but inside I’d shake my head in disbelief. Now, I understood. A part of me hated that.

That didn’t stop me from eating another brownie. It didn’t halt my tears or ease the hollow ache deep inside. And it sure as hell didn’t stop me from missing Scot. Or from hoping he’d stop by, even if it was only to pick up his jacket. I yearned to see him, to talk to him.

Tuesday was much the same. Kara came over twice, but I told her I was ill. It didn’t feel like a lie. I attempted going to work on Wednesday but made it as far as my closet before giving up and crawling back to the couch to call Diane. She’d already worked two full days due to my absences, and this would be the third. My winnings from Vegas would pay for her extra hours, though, so I didn’t care. I even canceled dinner with my parents so I could stay home and mope.

I fell into a chocolate-induced coma late in the day. I woke up with hair sweat-plastered to the side of my face, and a stomachache from my nutrition-absent, sweets-heavy menu. My mouth was dry, my throat hurt, and pain pounded at my temples.

I stumbled to the bathroom to swallow a few Tylenol and, in the process, caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My wrinkled T-shirt had two coffee stains and one I didn’t recognize. Orange juice, maybe. The pale skin below my puffy eyes was bruised with purple shadows. My cheeks were devoid of color. Seriously. My skin resembled the shade of a bottle of Wite-Out, only whiter. And my hair . . . my God, what a mess. I looked a little—okay, a lot—like the bride of Frankenstein, only worse. So. Much. Worse.

Laughter bubbled up and out as I stared in shock. Who the hell was this person? How had I allowed myself to drop to this level? Screw this! I didn’t need it. I hadn’t asked for it. I hadn’t gone looking for magic, ghosts, or Scot. I hadn’t even believed it possible to fall in love, so I certainly hadn’t gone looking for
that.
But the damn universe, destiny, fate—whatever—decided to give me a wake-up call and had swooped in and changed every last freaking thing. In two weeks my view of the world turned upside down, shifted focus, and I’d gone and fallen in love. Any rational person would say that was impossible. But I was living proof that it wasn’t.

My laughter subsided. Anger rolled in. I wanted to scream at someone, kick something, demand answers. Why me? Why now? And why Scot? I could have learned the exact same lesson by falling for . . . for Jameson. Now, not only did I love a man I couldn’t have, but I knew what I was missing. Oh, and let’s not forget Introductions. Not only did I want a fairy-tale relationship, but I wanted a damn job that I loved.