By Magic Alone

by Tracy Madison

  “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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  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 y
ou 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.”

  Pleasure soaked me. “So you no longer think—” The plane shook and vibrated, and I gasped. “Aren’t we there yet? Talk to me, Scot. Please.”

  “Sure,” he said easily, but his gaze remained watchful. “Any particular topic?”

  “Your family’s ghost.” Oops. I hadn’t exactly meant to say that. But now that it was out . . . why not? “Tell me about the ghost.”

  He schooled his features into a mask of nonexpression. “What ghost, Julia?” he asked lightly. “I think the altitude might be getting to you. How about if you talk for a while? Tell me why you decided to open a dating service.”

  If I hadn’t sat and listened to Scot’s cadence for the past thirty minutes, I might have missed the nuance in his voice. But I had, and I didn’t, and his raised pitch was more than simple shock at being asked such an out-there question. He knew what I was referring to. And I was fairly sure that his surprise wasn’t at the question itself, but that I knew enough to ask.

  “Your family’s ghost,” I repeated. “You know, Scot. The one who smells like roses. I’d like to hear more about her. Well, I think she’s a she, because I don’t know any guys who smell like roses. Unless that’s an afterlife thing? Do all ghosts smell like roses?”

  He blinked and shifted in his seat. He even dropped my hand to flex his fingers. Though perhaps that was simply because of that death-grip thing. For half a second I doubted my sanity, because Scot kept staring at me in the oddest way. You know, as if I had the word crazy stamped on my forehead in flashing neon lights.

  Then he let out a noisy sigh. “Did my grandmother tell you about Miranda?”

  Miranda. A whole bunch of stuff slid into place: Verda’s “message from Miranda” when I was stuck at Magical Matchups, not to mention everything that happened while I was there. The way she’d laughed when I asked her if I could call Miranda. The fact that Isobel “should believe” in Verda’s mystical mumbo jumbo because she’d “seen Miranda.” And yes, even the name that Ethan and Alice had given their daughter—Rose.

  Huh. A family ghost. And magic. Soul mates?

  “No. I’ve sensed her. Smelled her. So tell me, Scot . . . Who is Miranda?”

  “This is a conversation you—no, we—should have with my grandmother and sisters. They know a lot more about Miranda than I do.” His eyes and his voice held all the right notes. He was being 100 percent honest.

  Still, he had to know something. Excitement that some of my questions might be answered buzzed away a large chunk of my remaining fear. “Just share what you know.”

  Scot’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a heavy swallow. “She was—is, I guess—my great-great-great-grandmother. I’ve never seen her, but others in my family have. Well, the women. I don’t think Joe or Dad have.”

  “Do you know why she’s hanging around? I mean, I never believed in ghosts before, but assuming all of this is true, there has to be a reason she’s here, right?”

  “I don’t know if any of us know her reason,” he said carefully. “But if I were to guess, based on certain recent events, I’d have to say . . .” He snapped his jaw shut, and his face paled a full shade. “When you say you’ve sensed Miranda, what do you mean?”

  His sudden intensity combined with my nerves weighted the air between us. My mouth went dry. “The roses. I mentioned that I can smell the roses. That made your grandmother very happy, by the way. But there have been other things, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Breezes when there shouldn’t be. That . . . um . . . feeling you get when someone else is with you. You know, like when you’re out somewhere, and you’re sure someone is staring at you, so you turn around to see—and there usually is. An old friend or a cousin, or even a stranger, but in these cases, I was completely alone, Scot. There wasn’t any
one else with me. So . . . I’m assuming I sensed Miranda.” I shivered. “Who is, apparently, an actual ghost. At least I know I’m not losing my mind!”

  I tried to sound relieved, but in reality, I was reeling. It’s one thing to decide that a ghost might be haunting you. It’s another to discover that a ghost truly is haunting you.

  Scot’s shoulders and jaw hardened. A shield dropped over his eyes, effectively hiding his emotions. “Miranda is real. But anything else I might say is only conjecture.”

  He didn’t appear angry, but tension reminiscent of the night he’d barged into my place thickened his voice and tightened his mouth. Huh. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what he was thinking. But I wanted the other Scot back, the one who held my hand and calmed my fears. The one who’d talked to me in that intimate, seductive voice. So it wasn’t that hard to fake a smile and say, “It’s good enough to know that I wasn’t imagining things. You asked about my family. Guess what I just found out? My parents are going to sell their house and travel the country in an RV.”

  The severe edge of his shoulders softened. Slowly, his mouth stretched into a grin. “Is that so?”

  I nodded. Now it was my turn to talk and watch. So I did.

  By the time we landed at McCarran, the shroud of stress surrounding Scot seemed to be gone. His color was back to normal, too. Both good things. But I had the feeling he was pretending, and that if I brought the Miranda topic up again, our weekend would end before it started. So, fine. I’d hold my tongue and wait for our return to Chicago. But if I had to corner all of the women in Scot’s family to get my answers, then I would. Because yeah, it was obvious that someone outside of Scot’s family sensing Miranda was not the normal state of affairs.

  No way was I going to hazard a guess as to what that might mean.

  Scot and I caught a cab outside of the airport, neither of us much in the mood for further conversation. I stifled a yawn. Air travel always tires me out. Add in the two-hour time difference between Chicago and Las Vegas, and my body was in rapid wind-down. Luckily, the evening’s agenda was up to me and Scot.