Page 13 of The Trouble With Spells
Pushing my glasses back up, I stared at him, unblinking. Though my heart did a little thumpy thump because he had remembered me. Sort of. After a minute or two. Or three. Whatevs. Still counted.
“You’re Daphne’s little brother? I remember you being shorter.”
Yeah, I had been until eleventh grade, when I had sprouted like a tree. But Michael had graduated by that time and had missed my growth spurt.
Michael snapped a finger, “What was your name? Calvin? No that’s not it. Caleb? Ugh, why can’t I remember? Something with a C or a K, I’m sure.”
“Callum,” I helpfully supplied, because ugh, he couldn’t even remember my name. But also, yay, he sort of had known my name, which was more than my high school heart had dreamed of. And I was going to focus on that positive, especially since I had pretty much lived my life thinking Michael Endicott hadn’t known I existed. But he had. In a vague, I-sort-of-remember-you-not-really kind of way. I was still callingit a win.
He nodded, smiling warmly, “Callum. Yes, I remember now. It was a different name, but I thought it was cool. Way better than boring Michael.”
I had no idea how we had taken a turn down whatever road we were on, but I wasn’t about to stop him from talking. The longer he talked, the longer he stayed in the shop, and maybe I’d be able to get my brain to start functioning and stop sounding like a jackass and blurting out things like how cute I found him. I guess with all my blood rushing down to my dick, my brain couldn’t be expected to be anything but a jumbled mess.
I wanted to say something flirty like, “There’s nothing boring about you, Michael.”
Instead, I just stared at him through my glasses, not blinking, not saying a fucking word.
I was the lamest of the lame. I had zero game. It was truly a miracle I had ever been on any dates and managed to get laid.
“So, is Daphne around, by chance?” He looked around again, like my sister was somehow going to appear out of thin air.
“No.”
“Oh,” he tapped his fingers on the glass counter. “Could you call her?”
“No,” I shook my head, “I can’t. Call her.” And I was back to two-word sentences. Great.
Michael frowned at me, the skin between his eyes scrunching in the most adorable way. “Can I ask why not? Look, Callum, I really need her help. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Hearing my name on his lips had my brain back to the non-functioning level. How did the man make my name sound so sexy?
Wait. Hold up. Go back.
Life and death?
A bit dramatic much? No one was dying here.
Before I could tell him just that–if I could manage to get the words out–the bell above the door tinkled and a group of four women came in from the storm, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Tourists, by the look of them.
“Welcome to The Witch’s Brew,” I called in greeting, and Hex took this as his cue to sit up and look like the regal being he was, slow blinking his green eyes at the newcomers. Who would hopefully ooh and ahh over him, give him pets, and tell him what a handsome boy he was. Probably make some reference to the movieHocus Pocuswhile they were at it. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you find.”
“Oh, we saw your store online, and came in to look at the candles,” one of the ladies called from the candle aisle. They seemed to be on a mission, and I was happy I didn’t need to pay too much attention to them.
“And then last night the lovely young lady who led our walking tour on the witch trials recommended we stop in,” another one added.
I knew they were talking about my friend, Macy, who led a nightly walking tour and regaled the tourists with sights and knowledge about Salem’s famous witch trials. On nights when her sister, Tracy–yeah, their parents had no imagination–couldn’t help her, I would fill in. I was scheduled to help her tonight, in fact.
Their presence silenced Michael, and we once again found ourselves staring silently across the counter at each other. He had the prettiest eyes, a gorgeous cornflower blue. The tiredness shining in them, along with the dark circles beneath them, didn’t diminish how pretty his eyes were. I found myself wanting to caress the crease between them, to somehow ease whatever was troubling him.
He moved out of the way when the ladies brought their purchases to the counter, watching as I rang up their sales. They chatted amongst themselves and to me, and I answered a couple of questions they had about some places I thought they might enjoy seeing. They all gave Hex the praise he deserved, which he and I were both happy about. Anyone who didn’t like cats wasn’t welcome in my shop, a philosophy my mom didn’t adhere to, unfortunately. She thought everyone was welcome, even the cat haters of the world. They were not, and while she was gone, it was my rules.
But the ladies petted Hex dutifully, remarking over his silky fur and pretty eyes. Hex ate up the praise, purring and stretching so they were sure to scratch in all the best spots.
Finally, they took their leave, and the shop fell silent. Michael had spent the last three minutes running frantic fingers through his thick hair, until the now dry brown locks were a mess on his head.
Leaning over the counter at me, there was a bit of frantic energy rolling off him, his eyes wide. Looking down into the case, he went stock still, and slowly asked, “Is that a skull?”
Following his gaze, I nodded. “Yep.” It wasn’t real, just a resin replica to add to the spooky, witchy vibe of the store.
