Big Witch Energy - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,4

the hell am I doing?

I think I’m… having fun.

She laughs. “From me? Or from the turtle?”

Another laugh slips out of me. I lean close enough to touch my nose to hers. “From you.”

Our eyes meet with a jolt of electricity, hers dancing with laughter and… awareness. “You’re on!”

The DJ plays some rousing music and then starts talking about each turtle as the crowds of people push forward. Romy and I are standing near the front, in a corner where we have a great view. I shift behind her because I can see over her head.

“And they’re off!”

A man lifts the plastic container off the turtles in the middle of the round track, and they start moving. Well, three of them do. Donatello doesn’t budge. I hope he’s alive. I stare at him.

Yep, he’s alive. As the other turtles meander and waddle, stop and start, his little legs begin to move. Maybe he needs a little help… a little wizardry…

Wait. What am I thinking? I don’t do that shit anymore. But for a kiss from Romy… “Go Donnie!” I shout, earning a mirthful look from Romy.

As people cheer on their turtles, creating an unholy din in the bar, Donatello sprints. Well, he shuffles.

“Look at him go!” Romy cries.

I set my hands on her shoulders as we cheer and watch the turtles mosey onward. Raphael is left in Donatello’s, er, turtle dust. The animated atmosphere infects me as I cheer on my shelled reptile. Slow and steady wins the race, and in a few minutes he’s declared the champion of the night.

“Woo-hoo!” Romy turns to me, laughing. “Donatello for the win!”

“You know what that means…” I lean closer.

Her eyelashes flutter. “I do.”

For a few seconds, I just admire her… smooth cheeks, pretty lips in a sweet, enticing curve, the warm scent of vanilla and sugar rising from her skin. Then my eyelids lower and I lean in and brush my mouth over hers. Once. Twice… and again, this time our lips clinging in a longer, sultry kiss. Heat pulses through me.

We draw apart. Our eyes meet in a protracted look laced with heat and… surprise.

She blinks.

I swallow. Well. “Another drink?” I say hoarsely.

“Sure.”

We return to our table and order another round of beers. “Okay, that was ridiculous.” I shake my head, having regained some equanimity. “But fun, I admit.”

“See? It was!”

When we have our drinks, Romy says, “So, Trace, what do you do for a living?” She gives me big blue eyes. “What’s your passion?”

“I’m in the construction business.”

“Hammering. Nailing. Screwing.”

With a straight face, I say, “No, that’s my personal life.”

“Ha ha. Good one!” She tips her beer to me again, and I join in her laughter.

“I have done the hands-on work,” I say. “I worked for the family business in the summers when I was a teenager and in college.”

“Apparently you built some muscles.” Her eyes move approvingly over my shoulders and chest.

I flex one arm to show off my biceps. “Yep.” I lower my arm. “Now I’m in management. But I keep my skills sharp by renovating my own house. It’s a big old Victorian.”

“Nice.” Her eyes gleam. “I love old houses.”

“Me too. Grew up in one. Bought one myself.”

“Awesome.”

I pick up my beer. “I love building things and restoring things. Especially old houses. Our mission is to give people their dream home.”

She nods. “That’s wonderful. Home is important.”

“Yeah. It’s more than just shelter—it’s a sanctuary. A gathering place for family. A center for our lives, the place we come back to every day.” For a moment I lose my focus, memories of family and the home I lost crowding in.

She gazes at me wordlessly. “Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s true.”

“So.” I direct my attention back to her, shaking off sadness. “It’s nice to have a home that’s special to you.”

She wrinkles her nose and nods. “I like that.”

“You should see the old house we’re renovating near here,” I say. “It’s amazing.”

“So you don’t just do new construction?”

“Nope. I manage the renovation part of the business.”

“What’s amazing about it?”

“Well, it was built in 1898 by Lewis Granger. He’s a pretty well-known architect in Chicago.”

She lifts her shoulders to indicate she hasn’t heard of him. That’s okay.

“It has six bedrooms, two and a half baths. The front door has the original glass, and there’s a grand staircase with a window seat.” I watch her reaction. Lots of people zone out when I talk about stuff like this, but she’s hanging on my every word like a kid on monkey bars. “There’s