Page 4 of A Witch's Guide to Surviving Halloween
Chapter Two
Stepping back, I scrutinize the display table I’ve been arranging, tilting my head this way and that. Something about the display still seems . . . off. Halloween is all about fun and mystery, and everything here is too polished and put together.
I twist one of the apple cinnamon candles slightly to the left so the label is off-center, and then step back again. Pyramids of candles are nestled among autumn-colored silk leaves and flowers. Strands of cotton cobwebs are strung between branches I plucked off the sidewalk on my way to work yesterday, hung above plush black cats with purple pointed hats and a variety of crocheted ghosts. The whole thing is accented by the glow of orange and purple string lights hidden among the foliage, and I eye the ghosts again.
The little one with a purple and orange hat has been calling my name since the day Lila dropped them off to sell on commission. I make a mental note to buy it tonight if no one takes it today. It would be perfect on my bookshelf at home, its little smile making my heart melt.
Satisfied with the display, I turn to head back to the counter and run face-first into a broad chest.
“Oh!” I squeal, stumbling back.
A large hand catches my elbow before I run right into the table I’ve spent all morning working on and ruin my perfectly disorganized setup.
A deep voice wraps around me, instantly reminding me of a warm, steaming cup of coffee on a cold winter morning. “Careful.”
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble and do my best to regain my balance, inadvertently reaching out to steady myself against him before pulling my hand back just as quickly.
“No, I’m sorry. I should have said something before I startled you. I would have, but I thought you heard me come through the door.” He jerks a thumb toward the front door with a still-swinging wreath. The movement emphasizes how his shoulders tug at the seams of his dark gray button-down. He’s brawny in the way guys are when their muscles come from a need for actual strength, as opposed to those who work out for the aesthetic of it.
I let out a strained laugh, trying and failing to brush off the embarrassment warming my cheeks. As I do, I step away, putting space between us to ward off a shiver that skitters across my skin at his proximity. The feeling makes me twitchy, something familiar in the goose bumps that I can’t put my finger on.
“I must have been lost in my own little world. Can I help you find something?”
A crooked smile lifts his cheek, a dimple revealing itself in a way that makes my heart stutter. Before I can stop myself, I press a hand to my chest, as if that will stop the strange feeling.
“Yeah, actually. A person. Don told me to come introduce myself to Miss Amelia, the owner.”
Again, my heart squeezes, this time at the sound of my name on his lips. It’s so unsettling, I try to remember all the signs of a heart attack the doctor told me to look out for when Grandma had her first medical scare. Does my left arm hurt? I’ve felt nauseous all morning, but I chalked that up to pre-speech nerves.
He eyes the way I’m pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you okay?”
I swallow hard and force a pleasant mask onto my face between one breath and the next, letting my hand drop to my side to try and hide my sudden discomfort.
“Yes, I’m fine.” The words come out more exasperated than I intend, though I know it’s not his fault, whoever he is. I’ve just repeated the words so many times I’m starting to think they’ll be written on my gravestone when I finally die of exhaustion from saying them. So, instead, I add a cheery note to my words, in hopes he knows it’s not him I’m irked by.
“You’ve found her. Amelia Nova, at your service.” I give him my best customer service smile and run a palm over my skirt to smooth a non-existent wrinkle to distract myself from his steel blue-gray eyes.
Bemused, his head tips to the side, showing off a strong jaw and thick neck. “You’re . . . Sorry, when Don said Miss Amelia ran the bookstore, I assumed you’d be . . .”
“Old?” I finish for him.
His gaze drops to the floor as he bites his lips, and I swear a hint of blush starts to color his cheek as he runs a hand through his golden-brown hair. “Yes.”
I let out a lighthearted laugh, this time genuine, because I completely understand the confusion. “That’s okay. Don calls everyone miss or mister; you’ll get used to it.”
We stand there for a moment, those blue eyes studying me with an intensity that has me squirming.
“So,” I start, clearing my throat and straightening one of the candles a millimeter. He jumps as if he forgot we were in the middle of a conversation. “If Don sent you over, that must make you the guy who bought Miss Laura’s bakery.”
“Yes, sorry. I’m supposed to be introducing myself. I’m Oliver. I . . . bought the bakery, like you said.” He presses his lips into a tight line, shifting from one foot to another. “I’m not doing a very good job of this.”
I soften, ignoring the weird energy between us as sympathy warms my chest. Having never really left Ashwood Haven for longer than a vacation, I have no idea what it’s like to be the new person in town. I imagine it isn’t easy, no matter who you are.
“You’re doing great.” I stick out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.”
Thick fingers curl around my hand as our palms meet. Heat from his touch crawls up my wrist as he gently shakes my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Amelia.”
For a moment, our connected hands hang in the open air between us. I meet those wintery eyes and lose myself in their glittering embrace. Their depthlessness could be pulled straight from the winter landscape of a Viking fantasy series, the one he seems to have materialized from, the precise color of an icy shadow.
