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CHLOE

I was sitting in my hiding spot, okay, my library. I had a book open but couldn’t concentrate on the words.

“Chloe?”

I glanced up to see Frosty holding my cell phone.

“I answered it.”

That was new. My bodyguard dude was nosey, but there were lines we didn’t cross for each other.

“It’s Zelda, so I didn’t want it to go to voicemail.”

My heart started to instantly constrict. There was just something about talking to the most powerful witch in the realm that still caught boring me off guard.

“Hey there.” She sounded cheerful so that was something. “So news travels fast in a small town ya know.”

If there weren’t a hundred songs and even more books with that premise. “Yeah?” I drew out my answer, not sure where she was going.

“We need to talk about you and Lincoln. Are you free tomorrow?”

Am I free? She knew I would be. What else would I be doing? Except trying to hide.

“Um, yeah.”

“Let me get the kids to preschool and we can meet for coffee. See you at the Diner about 9:30 tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.”

“Fantastic, see you then.”

My thoughts immediately went from love to fear. And I had another twelve hours to sweat out the rolling anxiety that had taken ahold of my entire body.

I paced the length of my cottage living room, the worn path in the braided rug testament to my anxiety rituals. Ten steps to the window. Pivot. Ten steps back. Repeat until sanity returns or feet bleed, whichever comes first.

"You're going to wear a trench through that floor," Frosty clucked from his perch on the kitchen counter. "And you know who'll have to fill it? Not the one with opposable thumbs, that's for sure."

"I'm fine," I muttered, checking my phone for the seventeenth time in twenty minutes. The screen remained stubbornly notification-free.

"Sure. And I'm just a regular barnyard animal who can't recite Shakespeare." Frosty hopped down and waddled to the refrigerator. "Since you're determined to pace yourself into oblivion, I'm making nachos."

Last Friday flashed through my mind—Lincoln's fingers laced through mine as we walked along the creek behind my cottage. The way he'd stopped, turned to me with those golden-brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"I don't want to see anyone else," he'd said, his voice low. "Just you."

My heart had nearly burst. After decades of solitude, I'd agreed to be someone's girlfriend. Like a teenager. A 112-year-old teenager.

I checked my phone again.

"For the love of corn feed, woman!" Frosty slammed the oven door with his wing. "The man is in meetings. He told you he'd be busy tonight."

"His last text was just 'K'," I said, dropping onto the couch. "Who says 'K' unless they're annoyed or losing interest?"

"People with thumbs who are in business meetings? Crazy thought."

I pulled up our text exchange.

Me: Hope your meeting's going well. Miss you.

Lincoln: Miss you too. Swamped here.

Me: Can't wait to see you Friday. I found a new hiking trail.

Lincoln: K

"See?" I thrust the phone at Frosty. "That's it. He's realized I'm a socially awkward hermit with trust issues and a talking rooster."

Frosty adjusted his tiny reading glasses. "Or he's in a room full of mortal publishing executives and can't exactly text 'Can't wait to see you, my magical goddess of delight.'"

The microwave dinged. Frosty extracted a plate of nachos with surprising dexterity for someone with wings and placed them beside me, along with the remote.

"Here. Bad TV and cheese. Universal remedies."

I flipped channels until landing on "Paranormal House Hunters."

"Perfect," Frosty said, settling beside me. "Nothing like watching mortals get excited about fake ghosts when we know Mrs. Zambuzzlebutt in town is actually haunting three different properties for the senior ghost discount."

I checked my phone again. Nothing.

"He's going to realize I'm not worth the trouble," I whispered.

"If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen banging my head against the refrigerator door."

I slept terribly and woke up in a tangle of blankets on the couch, surrounded by romance novels I'd deny owning if questioned under oath. The clock read 8:15, which gave me just enough time to panic properly before meeting Zelda.

"Coffee's ready," Frosty announced, pushing a steaming mug across the counter with his wing. "And I ironed your least terrifying outfit."

I grunted my thanks and shuffled to the bathroom, where my reflection confirmed my worst fears. I looked like I'd been dragged backward through a hedge while arguing with a lightning bolt.

"It's just coffee with Zelda," I muttered to myself, applying concealer to the dark circles under my eyes. "Not an interrogation."

Forty-five minutes later, I slid into my usual booth at the Assjacket Diner, fifteen minutes early because punctuality is the anxious person's superpower. DeeDee, the owner, waved from behind the counter.

"Morning, sugar! Your usual?"

I nodded, fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. The diner hummed with morning activity, but I felt eyes on me. At the counter, Mrs. Ravenwood and her sister leaned toward each other, whispering behind menus while glancing my way.

Great. Town gossip was spreading faster than Frosty's feathers during molting season.

I arranged and rearranged my silverware into perfect parallel lines. Then perpendicular. Then at precise 45-degree angles.

"If you keep that up, we'll have to hire you to set tables."

I jumped. Zelda stood beside my booth, looking effortlessly put-together in a green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn curls bouncing as she slid into the seat across from me.

"DeeDee! Two coffees and whatever pastry just came out of the oven!" she called out before turning her attention back to me. "You look like you've been wrestling night terrors."

"Just regular insomnia. Nothing a gallon of caffeine won't fix."

DeeDee appeared with our coffees and two massive cinnamon rolls. "On the house, girls. Fresh batch."

As soon as DeeDee left, Zelda leaned forward. "So, the town council had an emergency meeting last night."

My stomach dropped. "About?"

"Lincoln Sands buying up half the commercial district."

I nearly choked on my coffee. "He's what?"

"The old Nightstalker building, the vacant lot next to the bookstore, and apparently he's in talks about the Iddlebottums property." She stirred cream into her coffee. "The council wants to know his intentions."

"His intentions with... buildings?"

"His intentions with Assjacket. And with you." Zelda's eyes met mine. "Word is he's looking to relocate part of his publishing business here."

I set my mug down carefully. "That's the first I'm hearing of it."

"There's also talk about him renovating the old Blackwood mansion on Crescent Hill." She paused. "That's a lot of commitment to a town he doesn't live in."

The implications hung between us like smoke. I suddenly realized how little I actually knew about Lincoln's plans.

"Chloe," Zelda said gently, "are you ready for what it means if he's serious about putting down roots here? About being serious with you?"

I stared at Zelda, feeling like I'd been dropped into someone else's life. Lincoln relocating? Buying property? The Blackwood mansion?

"I don't—" My voice cracked. "We haven't discussed any of this."

Zelda's expression softened. "I'm not trying to upset you. The council just needs to know if there's a new permanent warlock moving to town. It affects magical zoning, protection spells, familiar accommodations."

"Right. Magical bureaucracy." I picked at my cinnamon roll, appetite gone. "I'll talk to him."

"Gently," Zelda cautioned. "Men spook easily when cornered about their intentions."

I left the diner with my thoughts spinning like a tornado in a trailer park. The walk home felt twice as long, each step weighted with questions I wasn't sure I wanted answers to.

Frosty was practicing tai chi in the front yard when I arrived, his three-foot frame perfectly balanced on one scaly leg.

"How'd it go? You look like someone replaced your grimoire with a cookbook."

"Lincoln's apparently buying half the town without mentioning it to me."

Frosty dropped his wing position. "Ah. The old 'I'm secretly planning our future without consulting you' routine. Classic warlock move."

I collapsed onto the porch swing. "What if he's just investing? It doesn't have to mean?—"

My phone buzzed. Lincoln's name flashed on the screen with a video call request. I took a deep breath and answered.

Lincoln's handsome face appeared, his office a hurricane of activity behind him. Papers floated through the air, assistants darted in and out of frame, and someone was definitely crying in the background.

"Chloe! Sorry about the chaos. Manuscript crisis." His smile made my stomach flip despite my confusion. "How are you, beautiful?"

"I'm..." Fine? Confused? Wondering if you're secretly planning to move to my town? "...okay."

He turned the phone toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Look at this view. Thirty-eight floors up and you can see half of Manhattan. Though I'd trade it for your porch swing any day."

My chest tightened. "About this weekend?—"

"That's why I'm calling." His face fell. "The board called an emergency meeting. Some corporate takeover nonsense. I can't make it."

A young woman in a crisp suit appeared at his shoulder. "Mr. Sands, the board is waiting in conference room A. They've moved the meeting up."

Lincoln's eyes met mine through the screen, torn and apologetic. "Chloe, I have to?—"

"Go," I finished for him. "It's fine."

"We need to talk soon. About... everything." His gaze was intense, meaningful.

Did he know I knew? Should I ask about the properties now? The questions died on my lips as I watched him juggle three crises at once.

"Soon," I agreed. "Go save your publishing empire."

The call ended, and I stared at my dark screen, the weight of unasked questions hanging in the air.