Page 33 of A Witch's Guide to Surviving Halloween
“Oliver.” His name is sweet on my tongue as I touch his hand where it’s leaning against the desk without thinking. He stops his rambling, looking so distraught at the prospect of having violated some kind of unsaid boundary that I can’t help but comfort him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He sighs with relief, his entire body relaxing. His hand turns over to grasp the tips of my fingers. The soft pad of his thumb brushes against my knuckles with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible for someone with such calloused hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “After you ran off last night, I felt like the biggest ass in the world. I made the fritters as an excuse to come over and make sure we were okay.” He snorts, laughing at himself and shaking his head.
Longing pulls at my heart, and my entire chest starts to ache. I can’t believethisis the man Grandma had to curse. Why did she have to bar me from the guy who’s so upset over the prospect ofalmostkissing someone who wasn’t that interested? Or so he thinks. Of all the assholes and pushy jerks in the world, it’s the one who looks like he stepped out of a fantasy novel and brings apology apple fritters that I’m not allowed to be interested in.
Even as we stand there, mere fingers touching, the magic of Ashwood Haven tenses, ready to lash out at any second.
I pull my fingers from his. “I can’t talk right now. I’m sorry, but you need to go.”
His brows furrow again, but this time, he looks at me as if he’s realizing something for the first time. We stand there without talking for so long that I’m about to ask him to leave again when he whispers, “You can feel it too, can’t you?”
My eyes widen, and a whirlwind of emotions stops my heart. Hope that he is saying what I think he’s saying. Panic that he might already know my secret. Desperation that he understands what it is he’s feeling, and dread at the prospect that he doesn’t realize its magic at all. That he can feel it but has no idea what it is.
“What?” I breathe.
A crash and cry of surprise startles us both, and we jump as if a gun has gone off. It takes me a heartbeat to pull myself together before racing around the end of the desk and toward the only customers in the store. I prepare myself for any number of things. Flying books, bowling pumpkins, or the return of Ashwood Haven’s newest resident: the bookworm.
Instead, I find the two women huddled together over a pile of books on the floor, giggling.
The one in the Halloween dress blushes, pulling the books into her arms. “Sorry. I’m a butterfingers.”
I sigh with relief, a small laugh escaping me as I hold a hand to my chest in an attempt to stop my heart from beating right through my ribs. The bell over the front door chimes, and when I turn, Oliver is crossing the street to his bakery.
Chapter Fourteen
Steam swirls in the chilly night air, carrying the mouthwatering scent of tomatoes, garlic, and ground beef from my ninth spoonful of chili. I’m immediately hit with the sweet and acidic taste of fresh garden tomatoes swimming in a thick, meaty broth, followed by a subtle but noticeable kick of cayenne. The warmth slides all the way down to my stomach, and a toasty heat starts to spread throughout my body, fighting off the frigid night.
I take my time, focusing on the aftertaste lingering on my tongue, before furiously filling my scorecard with quickly scrawled scribbles. Ellie watches us from the other side of the table, trying to deduce the final tally by staring into each of the judge’s souls.
I happily hand my card to Stacy before giving Ellie a sympathetic yet encouraging smile. I know she’s nervous, but out of all the chilis I’ve tried tonight, hers is easily my number one, which isn’t surprising coming from one of our few full-time firefighters. She flashes me an eager grin, bouncing on her toes and stuffing her hands deep into the pockets of her Carhart coveralls.
Impatiently, I wait for my fellow judges to finish filling out their cards. While this has by far been my favorite hosting duty so far, I’m itching to get to the desserts. So far, we’ve judged barbecue, mac ’n’ cheese, tacos, curries, sausages, and now, chilis. But all the savory foods are over, and it’s time to move on to all kinds of pies, cakes, cookies, and my all-time favorite: the wild cards.
The ‘wild cards’ is a sweets category set aside for desserts that don’t fit into one of the five other categories. I always learn about new dishes from all over the world during the wild card category, which usually turns into my year-long fixation. Last year, it was knafeh khishneh, a baked Palestinian dessert consisting of shredded phyllo, sweet cheese, syrup, and pistachios. It was so good that I paid Amir to make it at least once a month for the last year, knowing I’dneverbe able to replicate it, no matter how many recipes I tried.
“Are we ready, folks?” Don asks, clapping his hands together, ready to continue leading our little procession; my fellow judges and I all nod.
“Wonderful! Because this year we’re going to be starting with cake decorating, then we’ll move on to our wild cards.”
Mike flashes me a pearly white smile, the one Lucy and I referred to as the ‘movie star’ smile growing up. When we were younger, we had the biggest crush on him despite our decade-wide age gap, only to be disappointed when we learned that the reason he married Jim was that we would never be his type.
“I’m so ready for cake decorating,” he gushes, rubbing his gloved hands together. “I caught a glimpse of one earlier, and I’m pretty sure it’s as big as Sophie.”
“That’s going to be a sight to see. Do you remember last year with the full-sized tombstone? With grave dirt, moss, and the aging of the engraving? That was impressive.”
“I heard,” one of our fellow judges interjects, turning to gossip over her shoulder, “that there’s been a last-minute entry in the wild cards category this year.”
“What?” I gasp, eyes going wide as our small group shuffles forward. “But slots have been closed for weeks.”
Simra shrugs, dark brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I guess they made an exception since he’s so new to town and didn’t have a chance to enter before.”
My shoes turn to lead, halting me in my tracks.
“Ugh, please tell me it’s the new bakery owner,” Mike groans, his head tipping back as if he’s pleading to the gods above. “I need to know if he’s anywhere as good as Laura. I miss my Sunday morning carrot cake muffin.”
Our fellow judge winks and gives a suggestive shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to see.”
