Midwinter Magic Read Free Page A

hard.
    She snuck a glance over her shoulder.
    His eyes were dark, unreadable. But he stepped off the stoop with a shake of his head and fell in beside her.
    “Where are we headed?” he asked. But as soon as they rounded the first corner, awareness registered on his face. “Doña Camila? She’s not open on Sundays.”
    Sarah didn’t answer. Partly because she wasn’t used to answering him—conversational skills tended to deteriorate when you spent your life as someone’s invisible shadow—but mostly she didn’t answer because he was right, and he was wrong.
    Doña Camila ran a small restaurant attached to her home. She wasn’t open on Sundays because that’s when her son dropped off the grandkids, but he and his wife had miraculously stumbled across a four-pack of tickets to a rodeo they hadn’t even known was scheduled for tonight. Because Sarah had just invented it. Which meant Doña Camila had no particular plans for the evening, outside of fixing dinner for stray walk-ins.
    Jack’s pace quickened as soon as he caught sight of the older woman sitting out front in her wood-and-leather rocking chair. Sitting outside on a rocking chair was pretty much the only entertainment available in Santita.
    She greeted them with a smile, and bid them to take any seat they chose. The restaurant layout was typical for the area—small, open, nothing more than a simple pitched roof atop a few rustic columns, with a tiny kitchen tucked in the back, where she did all the cooking. The few tables were preset with menus, silverware, and small white candles. Since there were no walls, every seat had a great view.
    Jack picked a table up in front, with the best breeze and a splendid vista of the mountains. When Doña Camila came to take their order, he gestured for Sarah to choose first.
    “You go ahead.” She pushed her menu away. “I already ate.”
    She hadn’t eaten, of course. Ever. In her life. And as much as she’d like to taste non-conjured food, now that she was visible and could actually have some, she wasn’t really sure what would happen if she tried. Were angel metabolisms suited for human food? Did angels even have metabolisms?
    He gave her a long, hard look, then ordered his meal in flawless Spanish.
    Everything Jack did was flawless. He’d been early to walk, early to read, early to college, and early to become CEO of a multibillion-dollar enterprise. None of which had anything to do with Sarah. He’d become a corporate raider and, later, a formidable multinational investment tycoon entirely on his own.
    Her job was limited to keeping him safe, not keeping him rich or powerful or successful. Just safe. How he spent the rest of his life was up to him. It would be so much easier on both sides if he would just stop choosing to spend his time barreling headfirst into reckless, risky adventures.
    His scheduled coronary wasn’t slated until the week after his seventieth birthday, but it had been tough as hell even getting him halfway there. The man was fearless. He knew no boundaries, no limitations. If he wanted to manipulate a controlling share of the U.S. economy, then so be it. If he wanted to go traipsing through third-world countries, outrunning dengue mosquitos and sloshing knee-deep in nonpotable water, then by God, he would. And Sarah would do her best to keep him safe while he did so. She had to. It was going to be hard enough to lose him when he turned seventy. There was no way she’d let him go early.
    She fidgeted with her napkin and tried not to overtly stare while he enjoyed his meal. Thirty-five years she’d been watching over him. Watching him ride a bicycle, pledge a fraternity, pilot an airplane. She’d seen him through sickness and through health, through the birth of his niece and the death of his father, through a string of unhappy relationships and many lonely nights, closing his eyes in a Parisian or London or Bangkok penthouse between whirlwind meetings. She’d laughed with him, cried