Page 103 of Magical Moonbeam
Alex stood looking like a smug lighthouse in the middle of three midlife witches near the flower cart.
He stood with one hand in his coat pocket, the other brushing absently over the strap of a bag slung across his shoulder. He looked older. Not in a bad way. Just in the way time etched into people.
As much glee as I’d felt when I’d had some accidental magic and sent Alex the one-finger salute via text or turned him into a barking dog that one delicious, vindicating afternoon, I couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he didn’t come here for another sparring match or just to entertain his latest fling.
The witches’ arms were all crossed, and their gazes were skeptical. But that didn’t stop Alex from laying it on thick.
Was one lady tonight not enough?
I cleared my throat as I approached. “Are you lost or just pretending to be charming again?”
One of the witches snorted into her scarf. The others took that as their cue to drift away, whether out of boredom or pity, I wasn’t sure.
Alex turned to face me, brushing his hand through his too-styled hair. “You used to like my charm.”
“I used to like chewing gum, too. I’ve grown.”
He gave a crooked smile. “Still sharp.”
In typical Alex fashion, he changed the subject.
“So, hi,” I said.
It came out softer than I intended.
His eyes flicked up. Familiar. Pale blue, like the part of the sky that always looked like memory.
“Maeve.”
My name in his voice still carried weight, though it no longer hurt. Not the way it used to.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, not unkindly. Just… carefully.
He hesitated. “It’s a long story.”
I lifted a brow. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a long story.”
His mouth twitched. “I figured that much.”
A silence stretched between us, the kind built from too many things left unsaid for too many years. The cafe behind me buzzed with laughter, glass, and life. This street, however, was quiet. Just the two of us, and the low hum of a streetlamp, and the slight creak of Luna’s sign rocking gently in the breeze.
When I looked at him, I didn’t feel anger. I might tomorrow, but right now, I felt pity. He lost a damn good family.
“You look different,” he said, eyes sweeping over me. “Not just the hair.”
“I am different.” I didn’t mean it to sound like a line drawn in the dirt, but maybe it was.
He nodded slowly. “I can see that.”
I waited.
But he didn’t speak.
And maybe that was what irritated me most—his silence, like he was owed the space to exist here, in this town, in this moment, after everything he’d done.
Not to mention, he’d always hated this place.
“You’re not going to explain?” I asked sharply as the images of all the women he'd dabbled with slipped into my brain.
