Page 5 of Summertime Hexy
“Liar.”
I don’t answer.
The ley lines are whispering. Just beneath the surface. Something is waking up.
And I don’t know if Hazel Blackmoore is a wildcard or the warning bell.
Either way, summer just got a hell of a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 3
HAZEL
Let me be clear—I am a witch, not a glorified raccoon wrangler.
It’s just after twilight and already I’ve tripped over three enchanted pinecones, narrowly avoided a flirty gnome who tried to barter me for gumdrops, and now I’m standing in the middle of the northern trail with one boot stuck in quick-moss and a pixie shrieking obscenities at me from a tree.
“This is beneath me,” I announce to the woods like they care.
“No,” Derek says dryly from behind me, “this is exactly your level.”
I whip around, nearly slipping in the moss. He’s leaning against a birch tree like he was born from brooding itself, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Probably thinking about the ethics of neck-snapping or how much blood is too much blood for tea.
“I don’t need your vampire sass,” I mutter, yanking my boot free with a damp squelch.
“You’re getting it anyway,” he says. “Pixies don’t respond to sarcasm, by the way.”
“They don’t respond to reason either,” I shoot back. “This one flipped me off.”
“She’s territorial. That’s her tree.”
“She told me it wasmyface that was a problem.”
Derek sighs, pushes off the tree, and steps toward the pixie, who is now humming an ominous tune while spinning in circles like a glitter-crazed top. He speaks softly in a dialect I don’t recognize. Probably Vampireese. The pixie blinks twice, throws a stick at him, then flutters away with a high-pitched cackle.
“I see your charm is universal,” I say.
“I didn’t bite her. That’s restraint.”
We head back toward the lake trail, and I try not to trip again. The moonlight filters through the trees like a blessing and a dare. This would be romantic if we weren’t actively being heckled by magical wildlife and mutual disdain.
“You really think I’m a disaster, huh?” I ask after a minute.
Derek doesn’t look at me. “I think you’re unpredictable. That’s dangerous.”
“Well, thank you, Captain Killjoy.”
We walk in silence for a while, but it’s not the awkward kind. It’s… charged. Like static right before a lightning strike.
Suddenly, a rustle from the bushes.
“Wait,” Derek mutters, throwing an arm in front of me like a magical seatbelt.
I stop, mostly because that arm is very solid and very close and smells faintly like old leather and something darker—stormroot and steel maybe?
“Raccoons,” he says, voice low.
“No way. Not the aggressive kind?”
