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“I’m here,” I say. “You’re in my closet. Give me a sec. I need to unblock the door.”

“Why is the door blocked?” he asks, and the question makes me grin.

Because he’s not asking other questions likeWhy am I in your closet?OrHow I did get here?

Sophie grabs the other side of the dresser, and together, we make easy work of dragging it back to its rightful spot. Then I stop and stare at the closet door, my hands still trembling.

“I’m going to go,” Sophie whispers, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “But you’d better find me later and fill me in. And make him grovel.”

I nod but don’t watch her go. Because slowly, the knob turns and the closet door pushes open, revealing a disheveled Archer. His eyes are wide and panicked, though they settle a little when they land on me. He has an angry red bump on his forehead where it looks like he hit his head.

I reach out to touch it, then remember the last time we talked and take a small step back instead. His expression shifts, first falling and then gathering into something a little fierce, mouth a firm line and gray-blue eyes sparking with electric intensity.

I’m not sure how I know, but this is Archer in a boardroom, in the middle of a hostile takeover or dropping some big business bomb. Or … whatever one does in a boardroom. Basically, this is Archer elite, and it’s aimed directly my way.

I already feel myself crumbling.

Make him grovel, Sophie said. And though I’m much more a person who forgives easily, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. Archer did hurt my feelings. He didn’t believe me—even if I was telling him a story that was admittedly wild.

Now, he’s experienced the truth of the magic himself, and I feel vindicated. So, yeah. I can let him grovel a bit.

“I thought you were going to New York,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest for a little extra bolstering.

But this reminds me of my sticky hands and maraschino cherry skin. Oh, how I wish I was freshly showered instead of wearing yoga pants and remnants of ice cream. Because thisversion of Archer—intensely focused, serious, and, as always, in an impeccable suit, feels way out of my league.

“I did go,” Archer says.

Frowning, I glance at the open closet behind him. “But … you’re in my closet. You didn’t come from your closet?”

“I came from New York,” Archer says, and my mouth drops open.

“How is that possible?” I whisper. Moving inside the building is one thing but Archer somehow got sucked here from New York? Now, I’m the one struggling to believe.

“How isanyof it possible?” he says. Then shakes his head. “Willa, I’m so sorry I doubted you. That I didn’t trust you.”

“So … you’re sorry now that you know I wasn’t lying?”

Archer takes a step forward. When I don’t back away, he takes another until we’re inches apart and I have to tilt my head a little to hold eye contact.

“No,” he says.

“Nowhat?”

“I had already decided I was wrong for not believing you. Even if I didn’t quite buy into the idea of magic or understand how this closet thing could be true, I knowyou. That is all that matters, and I was wrong for not seeing that before.”

Archer reaches out, one big hand cupping my cheek with such gentleness that a whole-body sigh moves through me.

“I was making plans to come back when I stepped into my closet,” he continues. “And now, I’m here. It makes no sense. It defies logic. Honestly, it’s a little terrifying. But I’m so glad. Because even a private plane wouldn’t have been fast enough.”

“You were going to take a private plane?”

“I needed to be here now.” Archer’s thumb brushes over my cheek, I realize he’s brushing away a tear. “Don’t cry, Willa the Person,” he says. “I’m so sorry for leaving the way I did. And for not trusting you. Will you forgive me?”

This certainly seems like enough groveling to me. Throwing my arms around him, I press myself into Archer. One of his hands cups the back of my head and the other spans my lower back, tugging me closer. His warmth, his scent, even the softness of his expensive suit all feel like home. Sliding my hands underneath his jacket, I bunch his shirt in my fists.

“I tried to come to New York,” I confess. “Even though I was hurt. I wanted to be there for you.”

His arms squeeze me tighter. “Willa. You didn’t need to do that. The last thing I wanted to do was put you in that position.”