Page 89 of Hex and the Kitty

Together.

SEVENTY-ONE

The Whispering Pines Autumn Festival transformed the town square into a riot of color and activity. Vendors lined the cobblestone streets with booths selling everything from enchanted trinkets to shifter-friendly clothing designed to withstand unexpected transformations. Delicious aromas wafted through the crisp air—caramel apples, cinnamon pastries, roasting nuts.

Molly breathed deeply, savoring the sensory feast. Beside her, Warrick walked with casual confidence, his hand entwined with hers. Occasionally he nodded to townsfolk who called greetings, but his attention remained primarily fixed on her—as if, even surrounded by an entire festival, she remained the most fascinating sight.

“Your Fire & Spice cupcakes sold out in record time,” he noted, gesturing toward the Bewitched Bakery’s festival booth where Mari supervised a rapidly dwindling stock. “Though I suspect people are buying them more for the heat resistance effects than the flavor.”

“Are you implying my magical properties outshine my baking skills?” Molly affected an offended tone, though her smile betrayed her.

“Never.” He squeezed her fingers. “Both aspects are equally impressive. Like their creator.”

Two weeks of living together had revealed countless sides of Warrick Shaw—the meticulous way he arranged his books by historical era rather than author, his habit of rising before dawn to practice martial arts in the garden, the unexpected gentleness with which he braided her hair when her shoulder still ached too much to reach behind her head.

Each discovery made her fall deeper, her heart expanding to accommodate this growing certainty that they fit together with unlikely perfection.

“Molly! Warrick!” Daisy’s vibrant voice cut through her musings. Her pink-haired witch friend bounced toward them through the crowd, Roarke following at a more measured pace. “You have to try these enchanted maple candies! They make you speak in rhyme for five minutes—it’s absolutely hilarious!”

Molly eyed the golden confections Daisy thrust toward her. “I’m not sure testing magical sweets is the best idea given my recent head injury.”

“They’re harmless,” Daisy insisted. “I’ve had four already!”

“That explains the iambic pentameter,” Roarke noted dryly, catching up to his fiancée. “She hasn’t spoken a normal sentence in twenty minutes.”

“That’s not true, my dearest heart! My speech has been pure verbal art!” Daisy clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening in mortification.

Warrick’s chest rumbled with suppressed laughter. “Perhaps we’ll sample those later.”

“Wise choice,” Roarke agreed, his arm settling around Daisy’s shoulders. “Enjoy the festival. I need to get this one away from the candy stand before she starts composing sonnets.”

As they departed, Warrick’s hand found the small of Molly’s back, a warm anchor as they continued their path through the crowded square. The casual possessiveness of his touch—fingertips splayed protectively against her spine—sent pleasant shivers racing along her skin.

They strolled past artisans displaying intricate crafts: a gnome carving wood figures that danced when touched; a water nymph creating glass sculptures filled with miniature perpetual rainstorms; an elderly witch weaving protection charms into colorful bracelets. At each booth, Warrick maintained some form of contact—her hand clasped in his, an arm around her waist, fingers absently playing with a curl that escaped her ponytail.

“You can’t seem to stop touching me,” Molly observed as they paused to watch a shifter child demonstrate partial transformations for an impressed audience.

Warrick’s golden eyes flickered to her face, unabashed. “Does it bother you?”

“Not at all.” She leaned into him, savoring the solid warmth of his body. “Just noticing the change. Three weeks ago, you probably would have maintained a proper two feet of distance in public.”

His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her more firmly against his side. “A month ago, I hadn’t almost lost you.”

The quiet admission stilled her teasing. She remembered little of the beam collapse at the Fireman’s Ball—only fragments of chaos and pain. But Warrick remembered everything: finding her crumpled on the ground, blood staining her emerald dress; carrying her lifeless form through panicked crowds; the eternal minutes waiting to know if her injuries would prove fatal.

“Hey,” she murmured, turning within the circle of his arm to face him. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

His expression softened as he brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead, fingers lingering against her skin. “I know. But my tiger remembers. He needs the constant reassurance of touch.”

“Then touch all you want, tiger. I’m not complaining.”

A full smile transformed his features—one of those unguarded moments that still took her breath away. Before he could respond, excited shrieks erupted from the central fountain where a crowd of children had gathered.

Molly turned toward the commotion in time to see a brightly colored balloon twist free from a gnome balloon artist’s grasp. The balloon—shaped like a dragon—floated upward, pursued by the determined gaze of a small boy with pointed ears marking his fae heritage.

“I can catch it!” the child called, scrambling onto the fountain’s edge, arm outstretched toward the escaping prize.

“Oliver, no!” A woman’s panicked voice rose above the crowd noise.

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