Page 24 of The Witch & the Hound
Then traveled down.
Then back up.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You look..." He couldn't seem to finish the sentence.
I felt heat crawl up my neck. "Too much?"
"No." The word came out rough. He swallowed hard and tried again. "You look perfect."
My heart did something complicated and dangerous behind my ribs.
He held out the plant. "This is for you."
I took the pot, our fingers brushing. That spark again, electric and inevitable.
"Thank you," I managed, trying hard not to tear up over him thinking to bring me a plant instead of already dead flowers.
I turned back into the house, legs shaky, and found a place for the little plant among my herbs. When I came back to the door, he was still standing there, looking at me like I'd rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.
"Ready?" he asked.
I grabbed my borrowed purse, stepped onto the porch, and locked the door behind me.
"Ready," I said.
He offered his arm.
I took it.
And together, we walked toward his car and whatever came next.
Chapter 11
Bram
I parked two blocks from the restaurant because Main Street was chaos.
Tourist season had collided with Halloween weekend, and Seaview had transformed into something I barely recognized. Jack-o'-lanterns lined every storefront, their carved grins flickering with real candles. Strings of orange lights swooped between lamp posts, turning the street into something out of a storybook. Children ran past with sparklers, leaving trails of gold in the October dusk.
The air smelled like cinnamon, wood smoke, and the salt-sharp promise of the ocean.
Maggie sat beside me in the passenger seat, smoothing her dress for the third time since we’d left her house. The green fabric caught the light from the dashboard, and I had to force myself to focus on parking instead of the way it hugged her hips.
"Busy," she said, looking out at the crowds.
"Very." I cut the engine, my tail tucking reflexively against the seat. Crowds meant stares. Stares meant the weight of being other, of not belonging, of taking up space I hadn't earned.
But Maggie was here. And she'd chosen this. Chosen me. Chosen to be seen with me in the heart of her town, where everyone knew her name and would remember this night.
That mattered more than the stares.
I climbed out, circled the car, and opened her door before she could reach for the handle. She looked up at me, something soft in her expression.
"Thank you," she said, taking my offered hand.
Her fingers were warm. Small against my palm, but steady. I helped her out, and she stood close enough that I caught her scent: rosemary again and something new, something floral, jasmine maybe, layered over the warmth of her skin.
