Free A Little Magic by Nora Roberts

room with him, hiding in the mists.
    But when Cal turned and stepped back to the door, he saw only a charming room, a fogged mirror, and the thinning steam from his shower.
    Imagination working overtime , he thought, then let out half a laugh. Whose wouldn’t, under the circumstances? But he shut the bathroom door firmly before he dressed and went down to find her.
    She was spinning wool. Humming along with the quiet, rhythmic clacking of spindle and wheel. Her hands were as graceful as a harpist’s on strings and her wool was as white as innocence.
    Her dress was blue this morning, deep as her eyes. A thick silver chain carrying an ornately carved pendant hung between her breasts. Her hair was pinned up, leaving that porcelain face unframed.
    Cal’s hands itched for his camera. And for her.
    She looked up, her hands never faltering, and smiled. “Well, did you decide to join the living, then?”
    “My body clock’s still in the States. Is it late?”
    “Hmm, nearly half-ten. You’ll be hungry, I’ll wager. Come, have your coffee. I’ll fix your breakfast.”
    He caught her hand as she rose. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
    She laughed, kissed him lightly. “Oh, we’d have trouble soon enough if you thought I did. As it happens, it’s my pleasure to cook for you this morning.”
    His eyes gleamed as he nibbled on her knuckles. “A full Irish breakfast? The works.”
    “If you like.”
    “Now that you mention it…” His voice trailed off as he took a long, thorough study of her face. Her eyes were shadowed, her skin paler than it should have been. “You look tired. You didn’t sleep well.”
    She only smiled and led him into the kitchen. “Maybe you snore.”
    “I do not.” He nipped her at the waist, spun her around and kissed her. “Take it back.”
    “I only said maybe.” Her brows shot up when his hands roamed around, cupped her bottom. “Are you always so frisky of a morning?”
    “Maybe. I’ll be friskier after I’ve had that coffee.” He gave her a quick kiss before turning to pour himself a cup. “You know I noticed things this morning that I was too…distracted to take in yesterday. You don’t have a phone.”
    She put a cast-iron skillet on a burner. “I have ways of calling those I need to call.”
    “Ah.” He rubbed the chin he had neglected to shave. “Your kitchen’s equipped with very modern appliances.”
    “If I choose to cook why would I use a campfire?” She sliced thick Irish bacon and put it on to sizzle and snap.
    “Good point. You’re out of sugar,” he said absently when he lifted the lid on the bowl. “You spin your own wool, but you have a state-of-the-art stereo.”
    “Music is a comfort,” she murmured, watching him go unerringly to the pantry and fetch the unmarked tin that held her sugar supply.
    “You make your own potions, but you buy your staples at the market.” With quick efficiency, he filled her sugar bowl. “The contrast is fascinating. I wonder…” He stopped, stood with the sugar scoop in his hand, staring. “I knew where to find this,” he said quietly. “I knew the sugar was on the second shelf in the white tin. The flour’s in the blue one beside it. I knew that.”
    “’Tis a gift. You’ve only forgotten to block it out. It shouldn’t disturb you.”
    “Shouldn’t disturb me.” He neglected to add the sugar and drank his coffee black and bitter.
    “It’s yours to control, Cal, or to abjure.”
    “So if I don’t want it, I can reject it.”
    “You’ve done so for half your life already.”
    It was her tone, bitter as the coffee, that had his eyes narrowing. “That annoys you.”
    She cut potatoes into quick slices, slid them into hot oil. “It’s your choice.”
    “But it annoys you.”
    “All right, it does. You turn your back on it because you find it uncomfortable. Because it disturbs your sense of normality. As I do.” She kept her back to him as she took the bacon out of the pan, set it to drain,