Page 64 of The Magic We Made

“But... but I thought you said he went into a nursing home?”

“He did, after the accident. It was the burn unit. He lived there for a couple of weeks, but...” He shrugs.

“Ash.” I sit up in bed to face him. “That sounds really horrible. I’msosorry you went through that.”

“It was fine. Essentially, he died doing what he loved. Isn’t that the best way to go? How did your dad die?”

“He had a massive coronary while trimming the fat off a twelve-pound pork belly he was going to make into the special for that evening—porchetta.” I give him a rueful little grin. “So I guess in a way he, too, died doing what he loved. He loved cooking, and he especially loved porchetta.”

Ash reaches out to pull me back down to his side. His body is warm and welcoming, his arms strong. “That sucks.”

“Thanks. It sucked most of all because I was helping him in the kitchen at the time. I was the one who ended up giving him CPR. Not that it worked—we didn’t have a defibrillator in the restaurant back then. But the coroner said it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.”

A widow-maker, Dr. Hopkins had called the heart attack. Dad was dead almost before he hit the floor.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Ash says, dropping his lips to my neck.

His voice is so earnest and heartfelt, I feel tears spring to my eyes. He notices right away.

“Hey,” he says, his grip on me tightening. “I’m sorry. Why are we even talking about this stuff? We’re supposed to be busy lowering our risk of heart disease and dementia while seeing if we’re sexually compatible—”

I start to laugh. “I think we’ve pretty much established that.”

“Well, I’m not so sure. You’recrying. That’s not exactly reassuring to a guy’s libido.”

I reach up to wipe the tears from my eyes even as I continue to laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never cry—at least, not over my dad. Not anymore. It isn’t that I don’t miss him, exactly. It’s just—”

I don’t know what comes over me, but suddenly, I’m telling Ash Merit things I’ve never told another living soul.

“I just have this weird feeling that we’re going to meet again someday, you know? Not in heaven, with angels flying around, or something silly like that. Some scientists believe that our consciousness really does go on after our hearts stop beating. So maybe I’ll see my dad again in a different dimension, or another life, or something. And when I do, I’m going to get to tell him about all the stuff he missed while he was gone, like smartphones and the birth of his grandchildren and the fact that Mama Giovanni’s profit margin has increased so substantially thanks to witch tourism. I know that sounds corny, but—”

“That doesn’t sound corny at all.” Ash is looking at me very seriously, not smiling at all. His eyes, in the dim light of my bedroom, are like the lake outside my house on a winter morning: deep, dark, and in many ways, unfathomable. “I think that’s beautiful.You’rebeautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And the smartest—”

“Oh,please.”I try to pull away from him. But he only drags me closer.

“I’m serious,” he says, earnestly. “Why won’t you ever let anyone give you a compliment? Look at you, you’re physically trying to pull away from me so you won’t have to hear nice things about yourself!”

“It’s not that. It’s just—”

He keeps me wrapped in his arms, not budging an inch. “I think you’re beautiful, and intelligent, and funny, and kind, and if I were your dad, I’d be trying like hell to get from wherever he is now to your side so you could tell me all about how much witch tourism has increased Mama Giovanni’s profit margin—”

“Stop it.”

But I’m laughing. Who even is this man in my bed? Is he the absent landlord whose benign negligence has been driving me crazy all year? Or is he the sweet—maybe a little screwed up—but very handsome and attentive lover who so heroically rescued one of the missing girls from the mud beneath his back deck?

I don’t know. But something is happening. Something that, if I weren’t so jaded, I might even callfalling in love.

Not that I would ever admit that out loud, especially to Ash. I’m well aware that I’m more likely suffering from the effects of the dopamine and oxytocin and other pleasure hormones that fill women’s brains after orgasm.

“I’m sorry about what happened toyou,” I say instead ofI think I might be falling in love with you. He’s loosened his grip on me enough that I can lay a hand on his warm, hairy chest. “Boarding school at age seven?Thatshould never happen to any kid.”

“What?” His tone is incredulous. “Are you kidding? That school was in the Alps. I was on the schoolski team. We had Nutella-filled crepes and croissants for breakfast every morning, and field trips to Venice and Paris. Don’t waste your sympathy on me. Save it for people who need it.”

“Oh,nowwho can’t take a compliment?”

“That wasn’t a compliment. That was pity!” In a second, he hasme pinned back down to the bed and is hovering over me, his lips just inches from mine. “And I don’t want your pity, Dr. Giovanni.”

That’s very apparent. And very delightful.