Page 56 of Hex and the Kitty

“We haven’t seen him this happy in centuries,” Annalise said gently. “Not since before?—“

“Mother,” Warrick warned.

“Well, it’s true,” Annalise finished stubbornly. “And we’re grateful.”

“Speaking of grateful,” Maxwell changed the subject smoothly, “these petit fours are extraordinary, Miss Hues. I detect a hint of magic in them—joy enhancement?”

Impressed by his sensitivity to magical subtleties, Molly nodded. “Just a touch. To complement the natural pleasure of good company.”

“Skillful work,” he acknowledged. “Balanced and ethical. Warrick mentioned your magical talents extend beyond baking?”

“I have minor psychic abilities,” Molly explained. “Glimpses of potential futures, mostly. Useful for helping customers find pastries that might bring them insights or comfort.”

“She’s being modest,” Warrick interjected. “Her protection wards rival Luna’s, and she sensed a cursed object at the station that even I missed.”

The pride in his voice warmed her from within.

“Tell us about your childhood,” Annalise prompted. “Warrick mentioned you grew up in a witch-friendly township?”

Molly shared stories of her magical upbringing—her first accidental spell that turned all the kitchen utensils pink for a week; her mother’s patient guidance through the unpredictable manifestations of her psychic gift; how she and Mari competed to create the most outlandish magical baked goods as teenagers.

“My most spectacular failure was attempting enchanted soufflés that would tell diners their greatest strength,” she recounted with a laugh. “Instead, they whispered everyone’s most embarrassing moments at full volume before deflating spectacularly. Our neighbor Mr. Jenkins never looked at me the same way after his soufflé announced he once got his head stuck in a stair railing at age forty-five.”

The table erupted in laughter—even Maxwell’s dignified reserve cracked into genuine mirth. Warrick’s hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing gently, his thumb tracing patterns against her skin that sent delicious shivers up her arm.

As dinner concluded and they moved to the living room for coffee with her desserts, Molly found herself drawn into a conversation with Annalise about magical gardening techniques while the twins cornered Warrick nearby. Though she couldn’t hear their whispered conversation, the identical smug expressions on Zara and Zella’s faces suggested they were thoroughly teasing their brother about something—likely her.

“He watches you constantly,” Annalise observed quietly, following Molly’s gaze. “Even when engaged elsewhere, he’s aware of exactly where you are in the room.”

Molly blushed. “He’s protective.”

“It’s more than protection,” Annalise said with gentle certainty. “I’ve known my son for over three hundred years, Miss Hues. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

Before Molly could process this revelation, Maxwell approached with a small, leather-bound book. “Found it,” he announced triumphantly. “Warrick at age ten, attempting his first formal shift for the royal counsel.”

The evening continued with photo albums, embarrassing stories, and subtle threads of connection being woven between Molly and the Shaw family. By the time they prepared to leave, she felt less like a nervous guest and more like someone welcomed into their fold.

“You must come again soon,” Annalise insisted, embracing Molly warmly. “Perhaps you could teach me that protection spell Warrick’s been praising?”

“I’d like that,” Molly replied sincerely.

The twins hugged her simultaneously from both sides. “We’re keeping you,” Zara declared. “Warrick has excellent taste for once.”

“Don’t frighten her away,” Warrick grumbled, though his eyes sparkled with rare happiness.

Even Maxwell shook her hand with genuine warmth. “A pleasure, Miss Hues. I suspect we’ll be seeing much more of you.”

The meaningful look he exchanged with his son sent butterflies swarming through Molly’s stomach.

FORTY-THREE

The drive back through Whispering Pines was peaceful, streetlights casting golden pools on the cobblestone streets. Warrick drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee, thumb stroking small circles that sent sparks of awareness through her body.

“Your family is wonderful,” Molly said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Nothing like the intimidating royals I imagined.”

Warrick’s lips quirked upward. “They were on their best behavior. You should see them when they’re not trying to impress a guest.”

“They wanted to impress me?” The idea seemed absurd—that centuries-old shifter royalty would care what a baker witch thought.

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