Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(51)

“Of course, of course. I shouldn’t have called during your business hours.” And still she makes no move to hang up the phone. Instead she says, “You know, Xan, if you need me . . . if you get into trouble . . . you can always call me. I’ll come.”

I can’t help but soften toward her. The sincerity in her voice, the obvious love, is just one of the reasons she’s my favorite of my mother’s six sisters.

“I’m good. I swear.”

“You sure about that? Declan’s treating you right?”

“Declan’s doing everything he can to keep me in bed and out of trouble.”

I didn’t catch the double meaning in my words until my aunt burst out laughing, and then my cheeks flushed even though she couldn’t see me. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant, darling girl. But I’m sure Declan’s doing everything in his power to keep you in bed.”

“And on that note . . .”

She was still giggling when she said, “Well, I’m glad you’re doing so well, sweetheart. I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you any longer. But please, consider coming to Ipswitch for a visit. I miss you terribly. You’re my favorite niece, after all.”

I laugh. “You say that to all of us.”

“Maybe I do. But I really mean it when I say it to you.”

“I’m glad.” Even though I know she says that to everyone as well. “Because you’re my favorite aunt.”

“I hope so—close only counts in horseshoes, after all. Besides, all the gray hairs you’ve given me through the years better be worth something. Take care, Xandra. And come home, soon.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do more than think about it.” And with that statement—which sounded a lot more like a royal decree than a request—she hangs up the phone.

Yep. Definitely acting as my mother’s stooge. Which is fine. Because if I can help it, it will be a long time before I step foot in Ipswitch again. My mother might have sat by my hospital bed a week and a half ago and sworn that she’d turned over a new leaf, but it’ll take more than a few words to convince me to believe her. That belladonna poisoning was one for the record books.

Before heading to the kitchen, I take a couple of minutes to finish up my tea and enter the receipts that came in after I left the shop yesterday. I want to get started on my muffin batter before Travis leaves for class in an hour and I have to take over the front of the house. Then again, considering the way my staff responded to my bumps and bruises, maybe I’ll let Marta handle it. Scaring customers away is not on my short list of things to do today.

I sink gratefully into the routine of baking. I’ve always loved to cook, but lately it’s been more than just a creative outlet and a job. It’s been a way for me to keep my sanity.

Baking is so orderly, so precise. You have to measure the ingredients exactly, add them in a certain order, mix them to a certain consistency. The more jumbled and chaotic my world gets, the more I appreciate the precision of these moments in my kitchen.

I manage to get two batches of banana chocolate chip muffins in the oven and am just filling the tins with the batter for my best-selling strawberry cream cheese muffins when Travis pokes his head into the kitchen. “Nate’s here. He’s following up on your phone call.”

“Awesome. Tell him I’ll be right out.”

I finish up the muffins, get them in the oven and set the timers so Marta and Jules know when to take them out. Then I make a quick chicken panini sandwich for Nate. I plate it up with some chips and fruit and grab his favorite iced tea. I know the way I take care of Nate whenever he comes in annoys Declan, but I do it for all my friends. And these days, Nate needs the TLC almost as much as Declan does.

He grins when I slide the plate onto the table in front of him, but his smile quickly fades when he gets a look at my face. “Xandra! What happened?” he demands, his hands clenching into fists.

“It’s nothing,” I tell him.

“That’s nothing? You look like someone mistook you for a punching bag.” His hand comes up and probes gently at my jaw, in much the same way Declan did when he first saw me last night. With Nate it feels a little uncomfortable—we’re friends, but we were once on our way to being more than that, before Declan came to town.

It must feel weird to him, too, because he drops his hand after only a second or two. “Who did this?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Did Declan—”

“No! Of course not!” I answer impatiently. “I told you it wasn’t like that. I got this looking for Shelby.”