Page 40 of A Witch's Guide to Surviving Halloween
“Rude,” I grunt, but Oliver just snorts.
“I have the stuff for a loaf.”
I chuckle. “Will it be sourdough?”
“That thing still won’t shut up,” he laments, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “At least I won’t have to worry about it tomorrow.”
“What’s happening tomorrow? Aside from the haunted houses.”
“I was thinking I’d open the doors for the night and hand out samples. Chocolate-orange cookies, chai apple cupcakes . . .”
Lucy perks up at the sound of that. “Apple fritters?”
Oliver shoots her a look out of the corner of his eye that suggests she’s already hit her fritter limit for the week, which earns him a pout that he promptly ignores.
“Anyway, since it’s a night of haunted houses and ghost tours, I figured no one would notice a whining, screeching sourdough starter. That gives me one more day to figure out what to do with the damn thing.” He lets out a heavy sigh before returning to the subject at hand. “So, bread-breaking ritual. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” I purse my lips in thought as I count another shelf of self-help books, marking the numbers on a pad of paper. “Something about it feels wrong. I’m not saying it’s necessarily a bad idea, but it doesn’t seem like enough.”
“It’d be more powerful than what we tried. More intentional,” Lucy offers.
“That’s what worries me. Not only is Halloween in two days, but we’re trying a more straightforward approach. Do you realize how badly that could backfire?”
“That’s what the barrier is for,” Oliver reminds me.
“Besides, the whole town will be gathered in the square for movie night. That means we have the place to ourselves, and if something does go spectacularly wrong, maybe no one will notice.” Lucy gives a happy little wiggle as she takes her first sip of her pumpkin-spiced latte, her red curls brushing her shoulders.
I give her a flat glare, shifting my gaze to the worm sitting on the shelf beside me.
“I think this town could use a bit more variety,” our new friend informs us, raising its little nose in the air. “It is the spice of life, after all, and you all seem to be very speciesist.”
I roll my eyes until they land on Lucy once again, who at least has the decency to grimace.
“Point taken,” she mutters as she takes another sip.
If the last few days have taught us anything, it’s that the magic is being anything but subtle. At this rate, I wouldn’t even be surprised if our next punishment was for the characters on the big screen to step right onto the streets of Ashwood Haven and start terrorizing townspeople; how very Frankenstein.
The movie, not the book.
I turn my attention back to the bookworm. “If a customer comes in here, you’d better hide.”
“Just proving my point,” it declares.
I run my hands over my face, digging the heels of my palms into my eyes. Between running the bookstore, dealing with magical outbursts, and the worst of them all, hosting the festival, I’m absolutely exhausted. I can handle everything else, but hosting duties have drained my social battery down to its dregs, and I can tell I’m about to snap. All the attention, socializing, and responsibilities are wearing me down day by day, and I keep reminding myself that Grandma did this well into her sixties. Hell, she would have done it from her deathbed if given the choice.
If she can do it, so can I . . . I just need to figure out how she did it.
I can feel both Lucy and Oliver’s eyes on me, and when I look their way, the concerned expressions on their faces make me want to cave in on myself harder.
“I’m fine,” I grit through clenched teeth, snapping at the pair of them.
The two exchange a meaningful look, and I’m starting to think that maybe I don’t like seeing them together after all.
“If you have something to say, then say it,” I snap once more, giving in to the exhaustion wearing on my bones.
Lucy quirks an eyebrow at me, and an icy mask starts to slip across her face.
So much tension builds between us that even Oliver starts to squirm on his stool, looking a lot like someone who’s been caught in the middle of something they didn’t mean to walk in on.
