Magic Unchained by Jessica Andersen Page A

his hair dry. It blocked his sight and muffled his words as he said, “Thanks for hooking me up with the grub, Carlos.” He lowered the towel, started scrubbing at his chest. “I couldn’t face going back out to the kitchen and— Oh. Cara. Sorry, I thought…” His eyes locked on her and he trailed off, and for a second it was like it had been earlier, with the rest of the world falling away and her perceptions coalescing to the two of them.
    Play it cool,
she told herself even as her skin prickled.
Don’t stare
. But she couldn’t stop herself.
    His skin was the delicious golden color she remembered from his beach-bum days, when he’d been deadheadinghis way through life as a part-time surf instructor, part-time wreck diver, and full-time party animal. Now, though, he was also in fighting form, bulked up through his chest and shoulders, yet still swimmer-lean in the flat planes of his stomach and the ripped lines of the abs that arrowed toward the waistband of the sweats as if deliberately trying to drag her eyes lower.
    He made a harsh noise at the back of his throat, then rasped, “What are you doing here?”
    For a second her mind blanked. Then she sucked in a breath and said too quickly, “I came to thank you. Tempers got a little hot earlier and I never said how grateful I am for you and Mac rescuing me.” Exhaling and telling herself to slow down, relax, not make this into something more than it really was, she lifted the hot dogs. “These are for him.” She suddenly felt like an idiot, holding out a ten-pack of wieners as a peace offering.
    He nodded, though. “He’s nosing around somewhere. I’ll give them to him when he gets back, and make sure to tell him they’re from you.”
    “Good. That’s good.” She wasn’t even sure what she was saying, as if one part of her was automatically being polite while the rest of her stared at his chest, caught up in the unexpected intimacy of having him standing there in nothing more than socks and sweatpants, the resentment of knowing that he probably hadn’t given it a second thought. She told herself to leave, but instead headed for the kitchen nook, where she put the hot dogs in the fridge. Like the coyote cared if they were warm.
    Then, telling herself she would make the gesture and go, she turned back to him and pulled a crinkling bag from her pocket. It was a package of Skittles, a smaller version of the ones they used to plow through duringlong winter nights, when she, Sven, Carlos, and her mom, Essie, had engaged in cutthroat tournaments of the
patolli
. The ancients had anted up with everything from gemstones and pottery to household furnishings, slaves, and sometimes even their own lives. Her family members had played for chores or a special treat, but most often, they had wagered Skittles.
    Giving him the bag was a nod to the past they had agreed to leave behind, but somehow back in her quarters it had seemed like the perfect thank-you. So she held out the Skittles, grateful to see that he’d zipped his sweatshirt to his throat. “These are for you, from my private stash… unless you’ve outgrown crappy candy with one hundred percent artificial everything and zero nutritional value?”
    His lips curved. “Hand ’em over.”
    The almost-smile made him seem far too approachable. His chest might be covered now, but the sweats were worn soft and clung to the lines of his body, putting a twist in her stomach. And, gods, could she be more hormonal? He obviously didn’t share her problem—he was just standing there like it was no big deal for them to be alone together in his suite. Then again, for him it
was
nothing. And she needed to pull it together and remember that she wasn’t an idiot teenager anymore, or even the girl who had left Skywatch when he told her to go. She had status and responsibilities of her own now, and they had nothing to do with him.
    Steeling herself, she resisted the urge to toss the Skittles, and crossed the room