Page 6

Oh no. Oh no no no no—

"What was that?" Willoughby asks. His fluffy white curls stir in the breeze, looking sharp in a plum-colored vest and burgundy pants. His eyes drift to where I'm kneeling in the dirt beside the pathetic pumpkin.

For a moment, I can only open and close my mouth like a fish. The pumpkin was supposed to receive the magic, but it didn't glow, sparkle, or do anything at all.

But Willoughby had.

When I became distracted halfway through the word and looked at him instead, he'd glowed purple like the wizard's magic.

What have I done?

"I was—well, I had this… spell."

Willoughby's warm brown skin (flawless in my entirely unbiased opinion) pales, his eyes becoming saucers. "A spell? Randy, what do you have a spell for? What does it do?" he asks, taking several quick steps toward me.

I stand and hastily brush the dirt from my gray slacks. "Well, you were so upset about your garden," I start. "I thought I'd get some magical assistance to ensure your last pumpkin would still be fit to compete in the festival."

He stares at me, mouth ajar.

"Randy!" he says, and his voice is sharper than I've ever heard it. I wince as he takes a deep breath. "Randy," he says, a little calmer. "Part of entering the festival is the hard work and dedication of growing a pumpkin, creating amazing life with your own hands. Using other people's magic defeats the purpose."

I blink away, thoroughly chastened. I hadn't considered that. I'd only wanted to make my mate happy.

"I don't think it worked," I offer weakly, hoping that might absolve me of the wrongdoing I nearly committed. With the best of intentions, of course.

"You have to ask before you meddle with me and my garden, Randy. You can't do magic without consent."

I duck my head. That's fair. In truth, since the mating magic sparked between us, I haven't been thinking very clearly. "I'm sorry I crossed a line. I was trying to help, but I can see I wasn't very successful."

Willoughby appears a little stunned, and hot indignation flares in my chest. Is he so surprised that I'd apologize? I know we haven't been very friendly neighbors, but I'm not a monster. Well, I'm not that kind of monster.

"What does the spell do?" he asks.

"It was supposed to strengthen the pumpkin, I guess," I say, gazing at the pitiful gourd. "I don't think it worked, though."

He blows out a breath. "That's probably for the best." He glances at the ruins of his garden. "I need to go to the shed out back and get a barrel and a couple of tools," he says.

"I could assist you."

"No," he says quickly, and my heart drops. He studies me for a moment, and his expression softens. "No, I mean, I'm very particular about my shed. But if you want to stay, I'll bring the tools up and we can work together on moving some of these stones," he amends.

Hope bubbles immediately back to the surface. Is this an olive branch? It feels like an olive branch.

"Yes, that would be gre—I want to help—yes." I flounder, then wonder if the spell somehow damaged my ability to construct a non-embarrassing sentence.

Willoughby suppresses a grin. Suddenly, humiliating myself doesn't seem quite so terrible. He turns and strides away.

Willoughby has a strong build from years of working outdoors. The muscles of his back flex beneath his vest, and that ass in those burgundy pants is so perfectly round that I want to bite it like an apple. I press my fist to my mouth and turn away, closing my eyes until I can regain some semblance of dignity.

When I open my eyes again, I'm no longer standing in the front garden.

I turn abruptly, trying to orient myself. I'm now behind the house. The back door to Willoughby's cottage is in front of me. The shed stands open behind me, and Willoughby is inside loading rakes, shovels, and gloves into a wheelbarrow.

When he turns, his face falls and his brows draw together.

"Really, Randy? We just talked about asking permission and respecting boundaries. I asked you not to come back here."

"But I didn't," I insist.