Page 3 of The Witch is Back

Splitting her attention between the job in hand and the mirror behind the bar, she’d unloaded all the white and was starting on the pink stuff when a draft that whispered winter was on its way snaked around her ankles. A shiver worked down her spine and she shrugged her shoulders out, sliding a bottle into the fridge. Odd she’d feel the draft down here.

She slid another bottle next to its sibling when movement in the mirror distracted her. Reflected, a man stood near the register, half turned away as if looking back at the doors.

Something struck her as oddly familiar about his stance, the exact detail of his face in profile. Intuition made her chest tighten as she stared at the mirror.

That was when he swiveled and said, “Hello?”

Emma’s heart thumped so hard against her ribs she could’ve sworn she heard them crack. When wine spilled over her fingers, she realized she’d snapped the wine bottle’s neck. She’d lost control of her magic.

He’d always had that effect on her.

No. It couldn’t be him.

But she found she couldn’t move from her crouch, even with the wine and blood mixing until her cuts stung like crazy.

Turn, she willed, stomach squeezing as she caught a quick flick of his eyes in the mirror. Blue.

Like his.

“Hello?” he repeated. “Is anyone here?”

That masculine voice, whiskey-rich silk, hit her in the gut. A thousand thoughts pushed forward as black sparks fizzed and popped in front of her eyes. Oh yeah. The whole breathing thing. She inhaled. Exhaled. It didn’t help. She wondered what her odds were of creating a portal where the customers wouldn’t see it.

Run?

The idea slapped her back. Where the hell had her backbone gone?

She pushed to her feet, holding tightly to a neutral expression like it was a life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

Captain, we’re going down.

Not on my watch, she told herself, bracing as she cleared the counter.

Her gaze tangled with his immediately. Like a piece of weather magic, a lightning bolt shot through the center of her, sizzling her skin with an almost painful intensity. His gorgeous face had only ripened with time, the cheekbones sharp, the lips soft in all that masculinity. He wore a shadow of dark honey stubble, his hair the same shade cropped close but with enough thickness to have locks brushing his forehead. That beautiful, undeniable face, like the navy eyes, revealed nothing except a flash of something she couldn’t define. Just one more question left unanswered.

The first one being where he’d been for the past seven years after he’d run out on her without even a note.

She fisted a hand, the one that had smashed the wine bottle. Focused on that small pain instead of the hurt that throbbed at her center. “Bastian.”

For a moment, they took each other’s measure before he offered one of his practiced smiles. “Emmaline. It’s you.”

Her throat felt thick, blocked. “What...” She swallowed, took a breath. It didn’t help. “You’re here.” In her bar. In her haven.

“I’m here,” he confirmed. His smile turned teasing, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon, is that any way to say hi to me?”

In her head she saw it, her hand shooting out, a poison ivy spell flying free to wrap around him. Not deadly, but oh-so-painful. It was so satisfying she almost believed she’d done it.

“Hi.” The word was toneless, not that he noticed.

“Good start.” He winked. Held out his arms. “Now, how about a hug for your fiancé?”

CHAPTER 2

Someone’s sharp intake of breath played across Emma’s ears, neatly underscoring Bastian’s damning question. She realized a beat later it had come from her. Her chest felt tight, as if someone had cast a crushing curse, ribs impacting until her lungs struggled to draw a second proper breath. She’d take that over having to talk to him. Him.

Bastian Truenote. The warlock she’d been friends with at ten, been obsessed with at fifteen, been engaged to all her life. Her first kiss. Her best friend, aside from Tia. The man who’d abandoned her when she’d been twenty-one, when they’d been starting wedding plans. Without even a note. Thank the Goddess he’d left one for his parents or they’d have all thought he’d been murdered.

He might not have been, but any respect and standing she’d had in witch society had been shot point-blank. Along with any belief he’d cared for her.

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