Never Been Witched Read Online Free PDF Page B

she watched him ignore them. “Morgan Jarvis, you grab my clothes.”
    He got his hands on the dock’s edge again, and she couldn’t stomp on them this time, which annoyed the stinging nettles out of her.
    “You want these things floating around me?” he asked. “Here’s the deal. Let me in the house, and I’ll bring the clothes with me.”
    “ You tried to throw me out first.” True, she came to get away from him, but that was a moot point.
    “I apologize,” he said, so close he made her jump, and scream, and step on his hand by accident.
    Prepared, he’d pulled away, giving her an evil, teeth-chattering grin, retribution written all over it. He was pulling himself along the edge of the dock, coming closer and closer to her.
    “Get my clothes!” she snapped.
    “Lock that door, and you can’t have them.”
    “Damn. Witch’s promise.”
    “Is a damn witch’s promise as good as a hot witch’s promise?”
    “Yes, damn it—slam it. My clothes are going out with the tide. Please, Morgan, get them.”
    “A deal with a sorceress, or so she claims. One of my former teachers just turned over in his grave.” Morgan hooted and went fishing for clothes.
    At least he was in good spirits, stronger, too, probably because his cracked head and sore balls were numb with cold.
    “I’ll throw your things on the dock,” he said. “Leave them. I’ll get them when I get out. No need for both of us to freeze to death. One of us should be able to function.”
    She went in the lighthouse to get a blanket for him, and when she saw her second cart, she was happy that he hadn’t grabbed the cart with her art supplies and portfolio. True, some of her clothes would be lost or ruined, but most would be fine. Salt-stiff, wrinkled, and scratchy as nettle shirts, but nothing a good washing or dry cleaning couldn’t fix.
    Good Goddess, her magick supplies. They were packed beneath the blanket. She would have lost them, too, if he’d taken the wrong cart. She needed them to find her psychic path and—barn door closed too late—throw her attraction to Morgan in the sea.
    She guessed she’d already done that by throwing him in the sea.
    Why hadn’t he gone to Scotland as planned?
    Wait. Why had she gotten a vision of the lighthouse when it was practically Morgan’s? He’d been coming here for years. Did the universe want them together? Where were the ghosts she’d seen? She looked for them as she went back outside.
    She wanted to ask if he’d ever seen them, but he hated ghost talk, because, according to him, ghosts didn’t exist. Then again, neither did witches.
    Outside, he was climbing the ladder up the cement foundation that jutted into the sea and kept the land beneath the lighthouse from floating away. The ladder led to the boat shed.
    Morgan came out the back door, dripping icicles.
    Destiny wrapped her blanket around him and eyed her wet clothes strewn about the dock. “I don’t suppose we have a clothesline out here somewhere?”
    He went back into the shed and came out with a wheelbarrow, which he filled with her clothes. “There’s rope in the lighthouse. I’ll string you a clothesline at the base of the light tower steps, between the stair rails and lantern hooks.”
    “We have to hang them tonight,” she said, “so they don’t get moldy, or so stiff and wrinkled they’ll stand on their own. I’m gonna look and smell like a slimy stinkhorn in those things.”
    He looked her up and down. “You know my answer to that.”
    She huffed. “Go home?”
    “No. Go naked.”
    She raised her chin. “Care for another swim?”
    He gave her a full-bodied shiver and pushed the wheelbarrow of wet clothes to the house. “I’ll leave these in the tower, put on dry clothes, and be back to help you hang them.” He stopped in the kitchen while she got the mop from the corner. “Do you know how to make tea?”
    She patted the cast-iron monster dominating the kitchen. “On a stove out of Cabin and Wagon Train