Page 8 of A Witch’s Guide to Surviving Halloween
Pausing before the glass bakery door, I search for Oliver in the shadows.
Instinctively, my fingers find the cuff of my sweater, worrying at the strands with every passing second.
When I don’t find him, I lift my hand to knock on the wooden frame, and pause, rethinking everything in my life that’s led to this moment.
Since when did I become this girl? The one who boldly invites the new man in town out on a date when we’re barely on a first-name basis.
Something urges me on, like a rope tied around my waist pulling me in, and I remind myself that this is for the good of the town.
Our festivals and holiday celebrations are what bring people to our little corner of the world, and if our biggest event of the year goes south, it could risk more than just my pride.
So, I suck it up and knock my knuckles against the door, rattling the seasonal wreath hanging on it.
A burly form pops out from the backroom, and Oliver smiles at me from behind the counter, making my heart flutter.
I motion for him to unlock the door, trying to ignore how his T-shirt strains against his broad shoulders or how large his hands are as he wipes them off with a towel.
He smirks at me through the crack in the door, leaning against the frame with his forearm. “I don’t have any apple fritters yet.”
I chuckle. “No, it’s not that, though Lucy told me to ask about those. Actually”—I shiver, hugging myself against the cold—“do you mind if I come in? It’s a little brisk out.”
“Oh, of course.” He stands back, waving me inside before closing the door with a clatter.
The bakery is exactly as I remember. The floor shines with polished black and white tiles beneath an array of tables, their white paint chipped with age and wear.
The bench seat against the far wall is still piled high with cushions and pillows, the same deep green they’ve always been.
For some reason, the familiarity shocks me.
I realize that part of me expected it to be completely different now that it’s under new ownership for the first time in my life, even though I was here weeks ago.
Miss Laura owned this bakery for nearly her entire life, having purchased it from the family that originally opened it.
Looking around, I’m flooded with a warm wave of nostalgia as sweet as the sugar cookies she used to sell.
I can clearly picture Lucy and me huddled in the corner every Wednesday afternoon after school, claiming to do homework while we devoured croissants.
The phantom taste of cocoa and sugar coats my tongue at the memory of all the times Grandma brought me here after a breakup, telling me that brownies were the best way to heal a broken heart.
“Are you okay?” Oliver asks gently, a soft hand on my elbow.
I swallow hard, willing away the fresh line of tears that’s appeared on my lashes at the thought of Grandma, and turn to him, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lip. “Yes, of course. I’m fine.”
He studies me for a moment before giving me a slow nod, as if he’s seeing right past my hostess mask. “Right. So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, with you being new to town and me being this year’s host of the legendary Ashwood Haven Halloween festival, I wanted to offer you the exclusive chance to be my personal guest at the Witch’s Market tonight.
” I bounce as I talk, giving everything an extra layer of exaggeration and jazz hands in the hopes that I come off more good-natured and less nervous.
He chuckles. “Exclusive, you say?”
“Oh yes, playing host has many perks I’d happily share.”
“Such as?”
I tap my chin with a single finger and purse my lips in thought. “Well, unlimited hot chocolate and first dibs on all the good booths for starters.”
“I didn’t know witches had hot chocolate,” he teases, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
Golden-brown waves bounce, and his shoulders shake, the sound of his soft chuckles making my breath catch. His laugh is warm and inviting, causing my stomach to flip in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
The corner of my mouth lifts, genuine this time, as I meet his lively gaze.
Something about the moment reminds me of a scene from the romantic fantasy I read yesterday between customers.
The bold and flirty main character was always ready to say and do whatever it took to get her way.
Of course, if flirting didn’t work, she happily turned to a more .
. . vicious form of persuasion, usually involving some form of sharp blade.
I channel her nonetheless (the less violent side of her, anyway).
“I bet I could teach you a lot of things about witches.”
Embarrassment immediately wraps itself around my stomach, and I clamp my lips together to keep from taking the words back.
But Oliver takes a small step closer, the dimple in his cheek deepening. “Well, I’m nothing if not eager to learn.”
He’s so close I could easily reach out and run a hand over the veins in his arms, heat rolling off him. It makes me want to step into his arms and fold his presence around me like a blanket. Those wintery eyes pin me in place, and I have to stop myself from squirming.
It’s an odd sensation that makes me take a step back instead.
“Then I’ll see you tonight?” The question comes out breathier than I intended, my bravado melting away.
“It’s a date,” he agrees.