Page 67 of Charmed, I'm Sure
17
Swords, and lightsabers, or whatever
Magnolia
Sophie-mother-fuckingLarson.
All I wanted was one Mother-damned day where everything went my way. But no, the universe evidently took some perverse pleasure in popping my proverbial bubble. Saythatthree times fast.
I’d felt eyes on me the moment my lips touched Taylor’s. That sixth sense, the one no one could quite pinpoint—the one that flashed a giant red sign in your mind screamingWARNING—blared to life as I pushed up on my toes to kiss the man I was falling for. I should have listened. Ialwayslistened to that intuition. So, of course, the one day I didn’t was when it bit me in the ass.
Sophie’s eyes locked onto mine, her lips pursing as she slowly dragged her gaze down my frame before flicking it toward Taylor. The only saving grace at that moment was that all she could see was his back… at least until he turned around. It felt like a scene from a movie, where the hero and the villain stand across a battlefield, and everything else blurs around them—just without swords, or lightsabers, or whatever.
Taylor stiffened as Sophie’s gaze returned to me. Her lips curved into a menacing smile as she pulled her phone from her purse.Shit.
“We need to leave.” I meant for my voice to come out stronger than a mutter, but dread settled in my stomach, making my throat feel swollen. If there were a yearly trophy for the biggest gossip in Bellevue, Sophie would need an entire room to display her collection. If she knew, it wouldn’t be long before everyone in town did, and that made my brunch threaten to make an unwanted reappearance. We were well and trulyfucked.
When Taylor still hadn’t averted his gaze from across the street, I wrapped my hand around his wrist as he shifted in that direction. “Taylor, please. Let’s just go.”
His muscles relaxed slightly when I threaded my fingers with his, but when his eyes met mine, there was a fire in them that screamed retribution—though for what, I wasn’t entirely sure. Yes, I’d just spilled the cliff notes version of my family’s history, and he had firsthand knowledge of how I was treated in high school. Yes, I’d dealt with this my entire life, and this was his first time facing that vicious glare beneath the perfect Southern Belle facade. But now was not the time to go all‘Hulk smash’on Sophie.
I held his gaze, my hand tightening around his as I began to step away from where we’d frozen on the sidewalk. He followed for a moment before his strides became purposeful, overtaking me and pulling me behind him through the crowd until we turned a corner.
I followed blindly, weaving through throngs of fans while avoiding bumping into those carrying drinks, all the while keeping my eyes locked on his back. His shoulders were taut, his back rigid, and his grip on my hand unwavering as we made our way around campus. When the crowd finally thinned, he turned down a quiet street and released my hand before running both through his hair.
“Taylor?” I hedged, slowly approaching where he perched on some steps, his head bowed into his palms, elbows resting on his knees.When a moment passed and he still hadn’t answered, I knelt in front of him and pulled his hands away. “Talk to me, cowboy.”
Blowing out a breath, Taylor wrapped his hands around mine. “I’m sorry, Mags. I… I never thought we’d run into someone from town here. And the way she looked at you? Fuck—” His gaze fell to where our fingers intertwined, his thumb running soothing circles around my knuckles.
“Hey,” I cooed, lifting his gaze back to mine. “First and foremost, you are not responsible for knowing where everyone in town is at all times. Secondly, don’t let little Miss Priss get to you. I’ve been on the receiving end of those cold, calculating eyes more times than I can count, and I always come out unscathed.”
At least I do now, anyway.
There was a time when Sophie’s glares and menacing smiles would send me cowering, or running with my tail between my legs. But that time had long since passed, and I wasn’t about to revert now.
Taylor’s sapphire blues searched mine, sadness and guilt swirling in their depths. “I don’t know how you do it, Magnolia. I truly don’t. The moment I saw the way she was looking at you, I just—” Something akin to a growl emanated from his throat, and that sound, coupled with the protective edge in his voice, ignited a fire in my veins. I’d never had a man want to go to bat for me, and seeing someone as kind and sweet as Taylor channeling his inner macho man over someone as insignificant as Sophie lit me up like fireworks.
I could feel the warmth flooding my cheeks, and the intensity of his gaze fanned that flame. Seconds, minutes—I don’t know—passed before I could form words again, and when they finally came, they escaped as a breathy whisper. “Welcome to this side of the fence, cowboy. And as for how I ‘do it’? I have to. I don’t really have a choice. I ran after highschool—”
“But you came back.”
“I did,” I said, nodding solemnly. “I came back because despite everything that town has put me and my family through, I love it there. That town is as much my home as anyone else’s, and I’ll be damned if I let them take it away from me.”
Taylor slid his hand to the back of my neck, pulling me toward him, his brow resting against mine. Sandalwood and vanilla filled my nose and saturated my senses. “I am in awe of you, Magnolia Bellevue.”
I chuckled and shook my head against his. “Hold on to that thought, because life’s about to get really real around here.”
The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving blurred by. I had two more catering gigs that, thankfully, went off without a hitch. The Meat-Cute was just as successful as before, and the shop overflowed with orders for seasonal treats. It was wonderful—amazing, even—but I couldn’t focus on the success when every time I stepped outside my door, it felt like every pair of eyes in town was drilling holes into my back.
There hadn’t been any more whispers than usual, no harsher glares than I was accustomed to. But there was a distinct shift in the air, making me look over my shoulder, just waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. That shoe felt more like the anvil from the old Wile E. Coyote cartoons, and I was nowhere near as fast as the Road Runner.
“How’s the chopping coming?” Aunt Evie asked from across the kitchen island, measuring out ingredients.
“What? Oh, it’s fine. The onions and bell peppers are finished and split into bowls for each recipe.”
“Good. Good. So what’s next?” Her eyes flicked to my cutting board… myemptycutting board.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Aunt Evie. I don’t know where my head is at.”
