Page 31 of A Witch's Guide to Surviving Halloween
After hours of boxing up and relocating lively toys and decorations, a dozen or so one-on-one debates with opinionated books, and the promise of one free worm-sized latte daily, we had the store back in order. Just in time to get an hour or so of sleep before opening the store once again.
With more caffeine than I’d normally consume in a week flowing through my veins, I’d been able to keep up with the morning rush. But now that the afternoon lull has hit, standing on my aching feet seems like a feat comparable to climbing Everest.
As if she can read my thoughts, Lucy’s forehead hits the counter with athunk, and she groans into the sleeve of her flannel. I shoot her a sympathetic look as she rolls her head toglare at me out of the corner of her eye, her concealer failing to hide the dark circles bruising her paler than usual skin.
We get only a moment of quiet to ourselves before the bell over the door chimes, announcing another customer, and Lucy lets out something between a sob and a whine. I cringe, smoothing my features into a welcoming smile, and turn to find a large familiar form approaching.
“Oliver,” I breathe, snatching my spinning spoon from my cup before he notices its lazy circles.
Lucy’s head pops up at a comical speed, and she whips around to watch the new bakery owner approach the coffee bar, pastry box in hand.
He stops to take us in, steely eyes studying our haggard appearance. My mind goes to the newspaper article Grandma had kept from the day his grandpa inherited the bakery. When Lucy had first shown it to me, I’d had a hard time seeing the resemblance. But now that Oliver is right in front of me, wearing an eerily similar outfit of loose gray pants dusted with flour and a white T-shirt, I can admit that she was right. The resemblance is striking.
His grandpa was smaller and leaner, whereas Oliver is all Viking-level brawn. It’s like comparing a swimmer to a linebacker. But the smile? The dimples? The eyes . . . those are identical. They even have the same sure-of-themselves smirk.
“Rough night, girls?”
Without a second thought, my mouth pops open, ready to spill everything. The urge is so strong that I have to forcibly shut myself up to keep the words inside. Even then, the desire is almost overwhelming, the words pounding against my lips in a desperate attempt to be set free. Before, I would have assumed it was because of how comfortable he makes me.
Now I know better.
It’s the magic. I can feel it pushing us together so that it can drive us apart. Don’t get me wrong, the man is attractive, with a smile that makes my heart swoon, but I know now that it’s not just my long-dead love life that’s making me want him so badly.
I think back to what he’d said about not taking over his family business and how he’d give anything to have the type of connection I have to Moonlit Pages, and I want to be the person to tell him that he does. That hedidtake over a family business, even if he didn’t realize it. That I know why his grandpa left Ashwood Haven.
But then I remember why exactly his grandpa left Ashwood Haven, and that I’ve only known this man for a few days. I have no idea how he’ll react to knowing magic is real, that Lucy and I are witches, and that his family is cursed bymygrandmother. So I keep my mouth shut and hope Lucy does what Lucy does best: meddle.
To Lucy and I, magic is just another Wednesday, but to most people, the existence of magic is simply unfathomable. The last words Lucy and I said to each other this morning before we headed home for an hour of sleep runs through my head.
“Agreed?” she asked.
“Agreed.” I sighed.“I have to avoid Oliver until Halloween is over. It’s too risky.”
“Something like that,” Lucy grumbles, straightening her flannel, then her nose twitches. With a deep, long sniff, she comes alive by the second. “Oh my . . . Do I smell . . .”
Oliver smiles down at the box in his hands, which emanates the mouthwatering scent of yeast and sugar and fruit.
“Apple fritters,” he finishes for her, confirming her suspicions.
He flips open the top, and out wafts the most amazing scent. Instantly, my stomach growls; it’s so loud I clutch at my middle in a half-hearted attempt to muffle it.
Lucy bounces on her toes, clutching her hands to her chest to keep from lunging across the counter and into the arms of the man holding the box of fritters. I think there may even be tears in her eyes. She gets pretty emotional when she’s sleep-deprived.
“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she gushes, leaning forward to get a peek inside.
Oliver cocks an eyebrow at me, holding the box out in offering. “Do you want one before she eats the box?”
I bite my lip, shifting on my stool as I stare longingly at the glazed fried dough. I should say no. I’d spent what little time I had to think last night coming up with a plan for the rest of the festival. How I was going to play it cool from now on. No more flirting, no more going out of my way to see him, and inviting him to events. If I did see him, it’d be a quick hello, maybe a smile, and then I’d turn the other way. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but it was for his good as well as the town’s.
But now he’s here, looking at me with those snow-shadow eyes and speaking with that deep, warm, espresso voice, offering me a box of fritters . . . and I can’t do it. I think it might be the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Yes, please,” I groan, reaching for the nearest pastry.
The moment I grab one, Lucy snatches the box out of Oliver’s hands. Before I’ve even had a chance to bite into mine, she’s already moaning around a mouthful of pastry and fruit, flakes of glaze on her chin.
I bite into the fritter and am immediately transported to an apple orchard in the country that’s been around for so many generations, even the barn cats know how to make cider. The dough is fried to perfection, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, but not too much sugar. All the sweetness comes from the glaze that’s melting in my mouth and the chunks of apple that are soft enough not to be raw but crisp enough to add texture. It’s fall in a bite, burstingwith the flavor of slightly tart apples and autumn spices, and it takes all my self-control not to start making inappropriate noises right along with Lucy.
“How’d they turn out?” Oliver asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
