Free Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen Page B

the door and pulled him toward the bed, tugging at his dinner jacket and shirt as they went.
    He laughed and let her push him onto the mattress.
    “So what brought this on?” he asked as she pulled down his zipper.
    She straddled him, looking down at his face. She paused for a moment, not meaning to incite his anticipation. But he expected such skill from her that he naturally assumed it was for his pleasure, and that excited him. His hands tried to coax her hips down and he began to move under her, but she remained motionless.
    She enjoyed sex, and she knew she had a gift, a skill in bed. But was her mother right? Was this all she had? If she didn’t have this, would he still be here? Should she be worried that Sydney was back? “Hunter John,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him, “do you love me?”
    His laugh ended in a groan as he got himself worked up by what he thought was foreplay. “Okay, what did you do?”
    “What?”
    “Did you buy something?” he asked indulgently. “Something expensive? Is that what this is all about?”
    He assumed this was because she wanted something from him. And to be fair, it was. It always was. She always got what she wanted from him through this. All except one thing. It didn’t escape her that Hunter John hadn’t answered her question. He didn’t tell her he loved her.
    But he had loved Sydney, which meant she had to do what her mother said. Work harder to keep what she had.
    “I want to buy a red dress,” she said, feeling like a bird caught in a briar bush—prickly, scared, mad . “A beautiful red dress.”
    “I can’t wait to see you in it.”
    “You will. And then you’ll see me out of it.”
    “That’s what I like to hear.”
     
    Monday afternoon, Claire hung up the phone at her work desk in the storeroom, but she kept her hand resting on the receiver.
    When you know something’s wrong, but you don’t know exactly what it is, the air around you changes. Claire felt it. The plastic of the phone was too warm. The walls were sweating slightly. If she went out to the garden, she knew she’d find the morning glory blooming in the middle of the day.
    “Claire?”
    Claire turned to find Sydney in the doorway to the storeroom. “Oh, hi,” Claire said. “When did you get back?” Sydney and Bay had been to visit Tyler again, the fourth day in a row.
    “A few minutes ago. What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t know.” Claire took her hand off the warm phone. “I just got a call to cater a party at Mr. and Mrs. Matteson’s house this weekend.”
    Sydney crossed her arms over her chest. Then she dropped her arms to her sides. She hesitated before asking, “The Mattesons who live in that large Tudor home on Willow Springs Road?”
    “Yes.”
    “Short notice,” Sydney said cautiously, curiously.
    “Yes. And she said she’d double my normal fee because of it, but only if I had enough help for the night.”
    “I always liked Mrs. Matteson,” Sydney said, a spark of something popping in her words, like static. Something, something like hope, was trying to make itself clear. “Are you taking the job? I’ll help you.”
    “Are you sure?” Claire asked, because things still seemed wrong. Sydney used to have a relationship with Hunter John, and she used to be friends with Emma. If she’d wanted to see them again, she would have gone before now instead of spending all her time cloistered in the house or hiding over at Tyler’s.
    “Of course I’m sure.”
    Claire shrugged. She must be reading too much into things. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
    Sydney smiled and turned on her heel. “No problem.”
    Claire followed her into the kitchen. There were some things that hadn’t changed about Sydney, like her light-brown hair that had just enough natural curl to make it look like waves of caramel icing on a cake. And her beautiful lightly tanned skin. And the freckles across her nose. She’d lost weight but still had a stunning figure, petite in a way that