Time Spell Read Online Free Page B

I tried to wriggle from his hold, but with a fierce grip on my arm, he pulled me toward the living room. If the circumstances had been anything but this, I would have oohed and awed over the book-covered walls and the stone-stacked fireplace complete with a glowing fire. I had imagined so many times what the inside of Jack’s house would look like and the image always held piles of books, scattered manuscripts, and this same fireplace. There was no doubt this wasn’t playing out like my daydreams.
    Lying across the coffee table was a manila package with a handwritten note perched on top. I couldn’t quite make out what was scribbled on the paper.
    “Ivy, you need to tell me what’s going on. Who are you?” His tone had softened, but his eyes had not. He released my arm.
    “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? What are you talking about?” I massaged my arm where his hand had been. I had never seen him like this before. I guessed we were skipping the usual pleasantries today. “Why are you acting like this? Did we get some bad press about Vegas Star or my new book? Because if that’s it, just tell everyone I’m working on it. Really, I’m working on trying to put something together. It’s only been a few weeks, and I just can’t turn out books like a news article. It takes time. You know that.” I kept rambling, not knowing what was happening. Why was he looking at me like I was sprouting horns?
    Unsure if I should sit or stand, I opted to sit, hoping it would lessen my fidgeting tendencies. I nestled myself in the closest chair I could find and looked at my riding boots. I felt silly for worrying about impressing Jack with a new outfit. Obviously, he wasn’t going there.
    “What is it? What is so serious that we couldn’t meet at the office?” I huffed.
    That should put him in his place. He was always concerned about our professional relationship; I just turned this right back on him.
    The creeping realization that this was not a business meeting was impossible to ignore. My witchy instincts were on high alert with every passing second. Nothing about this was normal.
    He paced toward the fire and propped both hands on his hips. He ran his hands through his hair and turned to face me. His five o’clock shadow was dark enough to cover the soft cleft on his chin. It gave him a simultaneous rough and sexy look.
    “This. This is what I’m asking about.” He pointed at the open package resting between us. “I got something in the mail today. Something about you.”
    “Me?” My stomach churned. “May I?”
    I didn’t wait for Jack’s answer as I reached across the coffee table for the package. I tried to meet his gaze, but he had already turned toward the fire. He pushed the sleeves up on his arms. He couldn’t stay still.
    At first glance, it looked like a regular query letter with all of the markings of a business correspondence, only handwritten and not typed. Jack probably got hundreds of these a week and if Ann, his assistant, was doing her job, he should only read ten a week.
    Ann sits directly outside of Jack’s office and fields all of his calls, impromptu drop-ins, and sorts a mountain of snail mail. Rarely did I stop by the office when she wasn’t dropping letter after letter into the black basket labeled return . She had a way of matter-of-factly picking up each letter, skimming the contents, and then immediately depositing it into one of the two baskets. She often adjusted her glasses, and took a sip of coffee before picking up the next request.
    Something about Ann always reminded me of the eighties. Maybe it was because her hair was always swept to one shoulder, or maybe it was her matching gold jewelry and skirt sets. It was possibly the way she decorated her workspace with a photo of her husband and two children.
    I watched her letter-sorting routine on each visit to Jack’s office with curiosity. My biggest fear as a writer had been that my work would end up in that dreaded