Page 32 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“Elara!”

She set her wine glass on the table with a sigh. “I love my purple boots, Tripp. They’re the most comfortable pair I’ve ever owned, and they’re gorgeous. I’ve worn them for over four days, and I feel fine. Not a single desire to burn down a city or start a revolution.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“And you’re taking ittooseriously.” She slid from the booth. “I’ve got to go. Do you want me to cover half the bill?”

His face was the stuff of thunderstorms. Dark and stormy, ready to shoot lightning bolts in every direction.

She blinked.

Maybe he was related to Zeus, after all.

“No, I don’t want you to pay,” he replied in a clipped voice. “I’ve got it.”

“Thanks.” With anyone else, she might’ve leaned in to kiss their cheek or, if they were dating, their lips. But his fury was off-putting, and she scurried away like the flitter-mouse he called her.

Just as she opened the door, he gripped the edge above her head, holding it in place. “We aren’t done with this conversation, Elara Hawthorne. Those boots are dangerous, and I won’t stop until you recognize it.”

“Yeah, okay. Talk soon.” With a wave, she ducked under his arm and hurried away. But every time she glanced over her shoulder, he was there, keeping pace to the bookstore. Granted, Witchmere was the size of a postage stamp, but still, it was intimidating.

Probably what he intended.

Elara was made of sterner stuff, and his tactics wouldn’t work on her. Much.

When she arrived atNever Too Many,business was booming, and it seemed half the townspeople mingled among the tourists. As far as she was concerned, books were the perfect gifts, but tonight was the busiest the store had ever been.

“Get over here, Elara,” Florence ordered with a scowl. “Where did you run off to? Can’t you see we’re as busy as one-armed paper hangers?”

“You mean your network of spies didn’t tell you?” she countered, tying on the pine-green logoed apron that made her skin look sallow. If she were the owner, she’d change them to a bright, cheerful pink. “And not for nothing, but I told you I was taking a break. Those are required by law.”

“Sass is not appropriate in a business setting, gel.”

“And yet yours is constant,” Payton said with an eye roll and a slap of novels on the counter. “These are for Mrs. Everett, and you’re about to be late for your meeting, Flo.”

“Yes.” Eyeing the crowded room with concern, she glanced between Elara and Payton. “Can you gels handle the rush?”

“Go,” Payton urged in a less challenging tone. “We won’t let you down.”

For once, Flo didn’t respond with snark as she patted Payton’s hand. “Thank you.”

“What the hell is going on, Pay?” Elara asked after she’d left. “Why is everyone acting all shady and shit?”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Tripp, Flo, Archer Roche, and Bohdan Sanderson.” She paused and smiled at Mrs. Everett as the petite, gray-haired woman approached. “Would you like these gift-wrapped, ma’am?”

“No, dear. I have no one left to share the holiday with. Those are for me.”

Elara shared a sad look with her sister. Mrs. Everett’s comment represented their worst fear: dying alone with no one to care what happened to them. She wanted to gather the frail older woman close and promise to cook her the best holiday feast known to man. The only problem? She couldn’t boil water without scorching a pan.

“I recognize that look, dear, but don’t you worry about me,” Mrs. Everett told her. “I’ve had a wonderful life, full of love and laughter.”

Payton smiled and skirted the counter with the bag of books. “Let me take these to your car for you.”

“Thank you, sweet Payton, but I walked here. I’d like Elara to escort me home if you don’t mind. She lives close to me.”

Elara shot her sister a panicked glance. Errand Girl wasn’t high on the skills she wanted on her resumé, but how did shedeny the request when phrased so nicely? “If you can wait until the rush ends, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Everett,” she finally said with a resigned sigh.

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