Page 3 of A Witch’s Guide to Surviving Halloween

Chapter Two

Stepping back, I scrutinize the display table I’ve been arranging, tilting my head this way and that. Something about the display still seems . . . off. Halloween is all about fun and mystery, and everything here is too polished and put together.

I twist one of the apple cinnamon candles slightly to the left so the label is off-center, and then step back again.

Pyramids of candles are nestled among autumn-colored silk leaves and flowers.

Strands of cotton cobwebs are strung between branches I plucked off the sidewalk on my way to work yesterday, hung above plush black cats with purple pointed hats and a variety of crocheted ghosts.

The whole thing is accented by the glow of orange and purple string lights hidden among the foliage, and I eye the ghosts again.

The little one with a purple and orange hat has been calling my name since the day Lila dropped them off to sell on commission. I make a mental note to buy it tonight if no one takes it today. It would be perfect on my bookshelf at home, its little smile making my heart melt.

Satisfied with the display, I turn to head back to the counter and run face-first into a broad chest.

“Oh!” I squeal, stumbling back.

A large hand catches my elbow before I run right into the table I’ve spent all morning working on and ruin my perfectly disorganized setup.

A deep voice wraps around me, instantly reminding me of a warm, steaming cup of coffee on a cold winter morning. “Careful.”

“I’m so sorry,” I mumble and do my best to regain my balance, inadvertently reaching out to steady myself against him before pulling my hand back just as quickly.

“No, I’m sorry. I should have said something before I startled you.

I would have, but I thought you heard me come through the door.

” He jerks a thumb toward the front door with a still-swinging wreath.

The movement emphasizes how his shoulders tug at the seams of his dark gray button-down.

He’s brawny in the way guys are when their muscles come from a need for actual strength, as opposed to those who work out for the aesthetic of it.

I let out a strained laugh, trying and failing to brush off the embarrassment warming my cheeks.

As I do, I step away, putting space between us to ward off a shiver that skitters across my skin at his proximity.

The feeling makes me twitchy, something familiar in the goose bumps that I can’t put my finger on.

“I must have been lost in my own little world. Can I help you find something?”

A crooked smile lifts his cheek, a dimple revealing itself in a way that makes my heart stutter. Before I can stop myself, I press a hand to my chest, as if that will stop the strange feeling.

“Yeah, actually. A person. Don told me to come introduce myself to Miss Amelia, the owner.”

Again, my heart squeezes, this time at the sound of my name on his lips.

It’s so unsettling, I try to remember all the signs of a heart attack the doctor told me to look out for when Grandma had her first medical scare.

Does my left arm hurt? I’ve felt nauseous all morning, but I chalked that up to pre-speech nerves.

He eyes the way I’m pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you okay?”

I swallow hard and force a pleasant mask onto my face between one breath and the next, letting my hand drop to my side to try and hide my sudden discomfort.

“Yes, I’m fine.” The words come out more exasperated than I intend, though I know it’s not his fault, whoever he is.

I’ve just repeated the words so many times I’m starting to think they’ll be written on my gravestone when I finally die of exhaustion from saying them.

So, instead, I add a cheery note to my words, in hopes he knows it’s not him I’m irked by.

“You’ve found her. Amelia Nova, at your service.” I give him my best customer service smile and run a palm over my skirt to smooth a non-existent wrinkle to distract myself from his steel blue-gray eyes.

Bemused, his head tips to the side, showing off a strong jaw and thick neck. “You’re . . . Sorry, when Don said Miss Amelia ran the bookstore, I assumed you’d be . . .”

“Old?” I finish for him.

His gaze drops to the floor as he bites his lips, and I swear a hint of blush starts to color his cheek as he runs a hand through his golden-brown hair. “Yes.”

I let out a lighthearted laugh, this time genuine, because I completely understand the confusion. “That’s okay. Don calls everyone miss or mister; you’ll get used to it.”

We stand there for a moment, those blue eyes studying me with an intensity that has me squirming.

“So,” I start, clearing my throat and straightening one of the candles a millimeter. He jumps as if he forgot we were in the middle of a conversation. “If Don sent you over, that must make you the guy who bought Miss Laura’s bakery.”

“Yes, sorry. I’m supposed to be introducing myself. I’m Oliver. I . . . bought the bakery, like you said.” He presses his lips into a tight line, shifting from one foot to another. “I’m not doing a very good job of this.”

I soften, ignoring the weird energy between us as sympathy warms my chest. Having never really left Ashwood Haven for longer than a vacation, I have no idea what it’s like to be the new person in town. I imagine it isn’t easy, no matter who you are.

“You’re doing great.” I stick out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.”

Thick fingers curl around my hand as our palms meet. Heat from his touch crawls up my wrist as he gently shakes my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Amelia.”

For a moment, our connected hands hang in the open air between us.

I meet those wintery eyes and lose myself in their glittering embrace.

Their depthlessness could be pulled straight from the winter landscape of a Viking fantasy series, the one he seems to have materialized from, the precise color of an icy shadow.

Something in the air shifts. A static charge erupts around us, making the hair on my arms stand on end. The odd energy leaves an achingly familiar taste in the back of my throat; something I’ve experienced before, but never to this extent.

Suddenly, a quiet rattling from one of the nearby shelves catches my attention. It’s subtle at first, like someone trying to loosen a sticky doorknob, but it escalates into a full-on quaking within seconds.

I drop his hand and dart around the end of a nearby shelf, Oliver on my heel, searching for the source of the shaking.

In the middle of the romance section, a paperback is inching its way off its shelf. I lunge for it, snatching it before Oliver notices it moving on its own.

The bookshop’s magical tendencies and the depth of Ashwood Haven’s witchy heritage aren’t exactly a secret, but they also aren’t advertised either. It’s a history accepted by locals but brushed away from the prying eyes of tourists and newcomers.

Grandma wasn’t subtle about charming her way into an easier life as the only still-practicing witch in town, with shelves that never collected dust and brooms that occasionally swept on their own after hours.

She started teaching me the ways of my ancestors at a young age, with little opposition from Dad, who neither embraced nor denied our heritage.

When Grandma learned that Lucy came from a long-forgotten line of witches, she started including her in our lessons as well. Her number one lesson? Never be ashamed of our lineage, but always be thoughtful about who we share it with.

I cradle the paperback in the crook of my elbow, clutching it tight. It’s still shaking, jerking in my grip with a concerning intensity. I scowl down at it and hiss at it to stop before turning to beam at Oliver, my forced smile returning.

“What was that?” His wintery gaze searches the empty space on the shelf for answers and runs thick fingers through his golden locks again. A line forms between his brows when he finds nothing but a blank wall behind the books instead of a person pulling a prank.

A nervous giggle bubbles out of me, and I can only hope it doesn’t sound as jittery as I feel. “Just a precarious book. You know how customers are. They’ll leave things anywhere, even on the edge of a shelf.”

He side-eyes me warily, not fully convinced by my explanation. “That thing sounded violent, not loose.”

I shrug, a wooden grin still stiff against my cheeks, when I spot another book starting to slide forward out of the corner of my eye. This time, it’s right above his head.

Without thinking, I lunge forward and throw up a hand to hold the book in place, only to end up stepping right back into his personal bubble.

Chest to chest, we’re far closer than two strangers have any right to be, and an odd mixture of confusion and delight has him arching an eyebrow at me.

His gaze bounces between the book I’m barely holding back and the minuscule space between us, but he doesn’t step back.

The longer we stand like this, the more insistent the book becomes, lurching against my fingertips.

“Do you need some help?” An amused chuckle shadows his question, and I wonder if he notices the way the air around us is once again prickling.

He starts to reach up in an attempt to help and a wordless squeak escapes me.

Oliver pauses, perplexed, and then slowly lowers his hand once again. “Or not?”

I giggle nervously again, trying not to show how much I’m struggling to fight the adamant book. It’s so high that I struggle to hold it in place with my fingertips, and my wrist is starting to ache.

“I don’t know if Don mentioned it, but we also have a coffee bar.” The words come out in a rush of breath that does little to hide the goose bumps that start to pepper my skin.

“Oh?” He smirks as if I’ve invited him on a date.

I’d be pleased by his apparent interest if I weren’t so preoccupied with the murderous romance novel I’m fighting.

I’ve spent the last few years so focused on Grandma and Moonlit Pages that a love life hasn’t even been on the table.

Not that it was going that great before.

Right now, though, I have bigger problems at hand.

“Uh-huh, it’s run by my friend. Lucy!” I yell her name, my voice cracking around the letters in a desperate plea, trying to sound casual and failing.

Lucy’s head pops out from around the end of the aisle, and her keen eyes are quick to assess the situation.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Oliver, Lucy. Lucy, this is the new bakery owner, Oliver.” I race through introductions, gritting my teeth into a pained smile.

My shoulders and triceps are burning, and along with everything else running through my head, I make a mental note to spend more time at the gym.

I would totally be the first to die in whatever fantasy world Oliver stepped out of if I can’t even fight back a 300-page paperback.

“Could you treat him to one of your signature drinks? Please?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lucy jumps into action, taking the hint.

“Of course!” She coos, threading an arm through the elbow Oliver didn’t offer and guiding him away. “So nice to meet you. Quick question: will you be selling apple fritters?”

“Uh . . .” Oliver glances back at me one last time as if he’s still trying to figure out what just happened.

For a brief moment, I’m swept away in his steely gaze, almost forgetting to fight the insistent book at my fingertips.

But in the next heartbeat, he’s turning his attention to the whirlwind on his arm.

“Of course. It would be a pretty depressing bakery without them.”

Lucy gives him an approving nod. “Oh, good, we can be friends.”

I sigh with relief when the two turn the corner and let the book launch itself off the shelf. I manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor, and I fall back against the shelving unit, shaking the ache out of my arm. At least my hand-eye coordination isn’t too bad.

I give myself one heavy breath to collect myself before turning to reshelve the naughty books in my arms.

“Of all days, you two choose today to be difficult,” I scold them under my breath.

“You.” I study the pink cover of the first, with illustrated flowers surrounding the title, Meet Cutes and Mischief. “Calm down and stay in your place.” I slide it back into its spot.

I eye the cover of the second one. Where the first one looked like it could have been a cozy romantic comedy, this one screams dark romance.

Hands wrap around a throat dripping with bloodred jewels, set against a dark background.

The title, Beyond a Shadowed Heart, is written in curling white letters that end in razor-sharp points.

“And you . . . I think I’ll take you to the back.”