Ian started a little. “What should she be called? Esmerelda?”
“Better than a witch named Cleo,” she muttered.
Ian stared at her blankly.
“Cleo? Miss Cleo? Notorious telephone fraud?” she prompted.
He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s pop culture reference I missed, I guess.”
“Bless you,” Cleo said fervently. “How did you miss it, though? Were you raised by wolves?”
Ian smiled at that. “Not quite wolves. Not quite that bad.” He breathed out heavily. “How much do I owe you?”
“For that?” Cleo asked. “Nothing.”
Ian shook his head. He was mostly dry now, but his hair dried in sweet little curls at the ends. He must brush out those curls, she realized. But the curls suited him.
Ian ran a hand self-consciously through his hair
“I like it,” Cleo said before she could stop herself. Her impulse control was for shit. “I like your hair.”
“Glad someone does,” he said sourly. He shook off the mood. “But I do owe you something. Jen would kill me if I didn’t pay a witch.”
“Why?” Cleo asked. “Is there some… witchy, cosmic, magical reason to pay?”
He laughed at that. “I believe she said something like, ‘traditional women’s work is undervalued in our heteronormative culture, and to counteract that, one must acknowledge and then pay a fair and living wage.’”
Cleo blinked.
“She’s aware that she sounds like a textbook, but she doesn’t give a shit.”
“She and Opal are friends, right? Like, feminist sisters or something?”
“Thick as thieves, those two are.” He spun the mug around in his hand, passing it from one slightly furred hand to the other. It was hypnotic, and Cleo forced her eyes back to her mug.
“Okay,” Cleo said slowly. “You essentially just asked for information - was the ring under a curse. I gave you that information. So now I’m asking for information in return.”
“How about I make you a nice little Adirondack chair?” he asked a little helplessly.
“No,” Cleo said firmly. “I need information. I need Jenny’s number.”
Ian closed his eyes, and ran a big hand over his face. “I can give you that. I can’t promise she’ll answer. She’s...unpredictable.”
Cleo thought of Orlaith. “I’m used to unpredictable.” Her mouth twisted.
“Used to it, but don’t like it, it looks like?” Ian asked.
“No,” she said shortly. The room suddenly felt too hot. If she wasn’t careful, she could like this man. Really like his attention and kindness and gorgeously broad chest.
As if he could tell her attention was slipping away from him, Ian stretched out long, muscles moving and on display. Something in his back popped, so she assumed it wasn’t totally a front. But his eyes were hot on her face, and there was a question there, too. Not one he was going to get answered today, Cleo decided.
She plucked the mug out of his hands, careful not to brush his skin. Cleo stood up, the scrape of the chair legs like an alarm, too loud in the cozy room. She set the mugs in the sink, conscious that she was being rude. Cleo found a receipt underneath her keys on the counter and a spare pen from the mug of pens.
“Here,” she said, shoving both towards him.
Ian’s face closed, not meanly, but the absence of warmth was as jarring as it was unexpected. He jotted down his aunt’s number.
“I should probably get going,” he said, and got to his feet. He gave her a half smile, a little wave, and then headed out the door.
Cleo waited until he was gone to get the scrap of paper. Underneath Jenny’s name and number was Ian’s name and number. His information was an unexpected gift, and not one Cleo was entirely sure she’d earned.
Chapter Eight
Jenny apparently was hard to get ahold of. Cleo had called twice before leaving a polite voice message about being Ian’s neighbor and having some ‘questions that I thought you might be able to answer.’. She waited two long days, then called again and left another voicemail. Cleo waited three more days before leaving a long, rambling voicemail where she found herself talking about her Nan, her mom, growing up a green witch, working on curses, feeling stuck, and needing help. “I need so much help, I can’t -, I don’t know the questions I need to ask.” Cleo winced at the memory. There was no way Jenny was going to return that call. She was rambling and desperate. No one needed rambling and desperation in their life.
Jenny called back five minutes after Cleo left the voicemail. The call was brief, Jenny’s voice warm but abrupt. “Can you be here in a half hour?” Jenny’s voice was high and perky, the words running together. “Good. Great. Get here, and then we’ll talk.” Jenny hung up after that.
It turned out that Cleo did need Ian’s phone number, because she had to text him to get Jenny’s address.
Given the strangeness of Jenny’s phone call, maybe Cleo shouldn’t have been surprised when Ian showed up instead of actually responding to her text.
“I’ll drive you,” he said simply when she opened the door.
He had on sunglasses and another thin, soft-looking t-shirt, this one in the softest gray. Cleo was conscious of her dirt-streaked men’s long-sleeve shirt and cargo pants - work clothes good for gardening, but terrible for first impressions.
She ducked inside with a nod to Ian to follow her into the house. “I’ll be right back,” she called as she broke into a near-run to her bedroom. What should she wear to meet a fellow witch, a potentially knowledgeable witch? What said, ‘I walk the White Path, and you should definitely trust me with forbidden and arcane knowledge?’
Cleo grabbed a clean white tank top and denim shorts. She took her hair out of its ponytail and put half up in a clip. She looked mostly clean and sweet. Her shorts gave her legs for days, though, maybe she should wear a skirt? But the day was hot, and the thought of being in her car with fabric around her legs was intolerable. Shorts it was, then.
“Ready to go?” she
