Page 8 of Witches and Wine
A quaint bellsounded from the top of the wooden, white-washed door when I walked into the bakery. Scents of bread, vanilla, and cinnamon wafted through the air, already calming me. A center circular display with handwritten price placards harbored dozens of baked goods—muffins, bread loaves, cupcakes, and pastries. Toward the back was a domed, glass display case in front of the counter and cash register. Floor to ceiling stained glass windows, and an arched metal design with intricate patterns and foliage bordering it stood behind it.
“Sorry, sorry,” a woman said from the back, hurrying to the counter while dusting her hands covered in flour. “You caught me in the middle of loading more loaves into the oven.” Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she batted strands of her snowy blonde bangs from her eyes. She offered me a resplendent smile. “How can I help you?”
Snickering, I approached the counter and all but shoved my nose against the display case. “Don’t suppose anything in here has the cure for self-pity?”
“I have just the thing,” she responded in a sing-song tone.
My spine zipped straight, not expecting her to answer my joke so suddenlyorseriously. The woman slid a door of the case to one side and, using wax paper, grabbed a chocolate cupcake covered in bright blue frosting, matching the blue hue her blonde hair trailed into at the tips. Her heart-shaped mouth matched the similar angle of her jaw, and when she looked at me again, I was in awe of her radiantly violet eyes.
“Here we are.” She proudly rested the cupcake on a paper plate on the counter in front of me. “Chocolate hazelnut with blueberry frosting and—” Rubbing her fingers together above the dessert, shimmers of blue sparkles fell from seemingly nowhere, settling over the icing. “—a little magic.” Her lush eyelashes caught on her bangs when she bounced in excitement, gauging my reaction.
“Is that glitter edible?” Dumbly, I pointed at the cupcake.
The woman’s smile turned into a concerned frown, and she tilted her head to one side. “Of course, I—” Pausing, the grin slowly curved back onto her lips. “—you’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?” My cheeks burned, and my Scottish heritage always made my skin flush pink from my face down to my neck.
A tender smile formed on the woman’s plump lips, and she extended a hand. “I’m Sylvaria, but everyone calls me Sylvie.”
“Chelsea.” I shook Sylvie’s hand, and when our skin made contact, a discomforting pang struck the back of my skull.
If I’d made a reactive face, Sylvie didn’t notice or pay it any mind. She kept smiling and proceeded to put the cupcake in asmall white bag. “Welcome to Arcane Cove, Chelsea.” She held the bag out to me and wiggled it. “First one is on the house.”
Blinking, because I couldn’t have heard her right, I took the bag with a stiff arm. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s not a big deal. How much do I owe you?” I fished for my card in the tiny pockets of my yoga pants.
Sylvie waved her hands in the air while shaking her head, making her lusciously long blonde waves shift. “Nope. This one is on me, Chelsea. I’m sure you’ll be in here again.”
If it tasted nearly as good as this place smelled, for the sake of my ass and thighs, I’d have to forciblynotcome here every dang day.
“In that case, then, thank you. Sincerely.” Displaying the bag with a brightened smile, I backpedaled toward the door. “Have a good night.”
Sylvie’s eyes seemed to twinkle, not some glint from the candles, an actualsparkle. “You too.”
Holding the bag with two fingers as if it were a stinky diaper versus a delectable treat, I stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the quiet streets. Most businesses were closed given the ungodsly hour, but an establishment across the way still harbored a single flickering candle near its sign—Tobias’s Smoke & Cigar Shop.
Chelsea, you shouldn’t. Turn around and walk home. Just because it’s conveniently open twenty-four hours like the bakery does not mean you need to go into it.
Despite the pep talk to myself, my flip-flops remain cemented. While staring at the shop, still debating on buying a pack of cigarettes, I decided to distract myself with a bite of cupcake. The precise moment the taste burst across my tongue felt akin to a surprise orgasm—the kind that sneaks up on you while doing crunches or when the male narrator of your audiobook hits that perfect decibel. I figured it would be a tastytreat, but the decadent flavors exploding in my mouth were enough to make me audibly gasp.
My shoulders relaxed, my mind cleared, and I instantly wished to feel more of it—all of it. So, I did what any other self-respecting woman with a deliriously amazing dessert would do—shoved the rest of it in until my cheeks puffed out like a greedy squirrel.
While chewing and resisting the urge to sexually moan on a public street corner, I became distracted once more by the quaint cigar shop.
“Screw it,” I eventually decided because you know what? I’d been through a lot lately, and moving to an entirely new town where I didn’t know a soul took a lot of guts. The likes of which I’d forgotten I possessed.
After crumbling the empty bag and tossing it in the rusted metal trash can, I whisked open the shop door, resonating another bell sound. This one hadn’t been as pleasant sounding, in fact, it was irritatingly clanky at best.
“Hello,” a man’s voice chimed from somewhere. There were endless rows of cigars and rolled cigarettes displayed behind humidity-controlled glass. The back wall was entirely composed of pipes, cutters, and other smoking accessories.
Turning circles, I searched for the voice’s source but saw nothing but merchandise. “Hello?”
A figure appeared over the counter piled high with boxes of overstock. He stood on a wooden rolling desk chair and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. His ears were more prominently rounded and stuck out from his head. Little hair was atop his head, but a thickly lined pair of mutton chops traveled from his temples down to his chin.
“Apologies. I don’t often have that many customers at this time on a weekday morning. I was in the back room and hadn’t heard you come in straight away.” The man offered a warmsmile, the bifocals he wore creating a fish-eye effect, making his eyes appear that much larger.
Waving him off, I walked further in, looking for a shelf with plain domestic cigarette boxes. “Not a problem. I’m honestly glad you were open.”
“The name’s Tobias. Are you looking for something in particular? Country of origin? Aromatic? Potion-laced?” Tobias slipped his thumbs under his burgundy suspenders and let them rest there.
