Nervous, frustrated, and more than a little freaked out, all I really want to do is bury my head in a good book and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist—even if part of that world is actually sharing my headspace with me.
But ten minutes into that plan, I realize it’s a bust. I’m still way too hyped-up from a combination of nerves and residual energy from what was probably the most amazing flying lesson in the history of flying lessons to just sit around on my bed.
Maybe I should have gone to girls’ night with Macy after all. At least I’d have something to do besides watch my own fears chase one another around and around in my head all night. But if I’d gone, I’d be forced to make small talk with people I don’t know, and that’s a whole different level of stress. Especially since I’ve never been very good at small talk even at the best of times.
In the end, I decide to take a quick shower, hoping that will settle me down. But that doesn’t work, either—I’m still bouncing off the walls even after I dry my hair and straighten up my side of the room.
I think about calling Jaxon, but he’d looked really tired when we parted tonight. He’d mentioned going to bed early. If he’s actually done that, I don’t want to be the one to disturb him.
The best thing I can do for me is also to sleep—my mind has been through a lot over the course of the last several months. Too bad sleep currently feels about as foreign as a walk on the moon.
With nothing else to do, I gather up Macy’s and my dirty laundry and head down to the laundry room on the second floor. I’ve never used it before, but I know where it is because it’s attached to one of the student lounges where Macy gave me a tour my first couple of days at Katmere.
Normally I’d do only my laundry—I’m not sure how witches normally handle things, and the last thing I want is to upset the status quo—but since I’ve heard Macy bemoan being short on tights three different days this week, I might as well help my cousin out. It’s the least I can do after everything she’s done for me.
It’s not until an hour later, as I’m loading clean clothes from the washer to the dryer, that Hudson finally shows back up again with a “Boo!” so loud, I swear it shakes the rafters.
I’ve been expecting him and still he startles me so much that I drop my wet clothes all over the place—and nearly scream loud enough to be heard in the art cottage.
I bite the scream back at the last second, but it still takes me a little bit to get my breath back. “You know you’re a jerk, right?” I snarl at him when I can talk again—and after I’ve picked up all the clothes he made me drop.
“You’re just saying that because you missed me,” he tells me from where he’s perched on the lid of a washing machine several washers down.
“Missed you or wanted to make sure you weren’t somewhere plotting world domination? It’s a fine distinction, really.”
“But an important one,” he says with a grin that lights up his whole face.
I immediately distrust it. “Exactly what are you so smiley about this evening anyway?”
“Can’t a guy just be happy for no reason?” he asks with an arch of his brow.
I throw the last of the clothes in the dryer and slam the lid with a solid thud. “Not when the last time he was happy, he was plotting a hostile takeover of half the paranormal world.”
“You wound me. It was at least three-quarters.”
“Remind me. How’d that work out for you again?” I ask as I empty out the lint trap and hit the start button.
“Pretty well, considering I’m sitting here tonight with a superhot gargoyle’s panties on my shoe.” He holds up his left foot and sure enough, my black lace panties are dangling from the toe of his merlot suede Armani loafers.
“How is that even possible?” I demand, leaning down to yank them from his foot. They come off, but when I look at my hand, there’s nothing there.
I mean, of course there isn’t. Just because I can see him sitting on that washing machine doesn’t mean he’s actually there. Any more than it means my panties were actually dangling from his shoe. Except I saw them.
“Abracadabra,” he answers, complete with full-on magician hand gestures. Which…
“Oh my God. Are you high?” I ask.
“I’m inside your head, Grace. If I were high, wouldn’t that mean you are, too?”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am,” I mutter as I gather up my laundry supplies, because I cannot think of another scenario on the planet where Hudson would behave in such a bizarre manner. The fact that the whole routine is just a teeny, tiny bit charming is also of paramount concern.