Page 5

LINCOLN

I spread the checkered blanket across the small clearing in Chloe's favorite spot near the creek.

The gentle burble of water over stones provided a perfect soundtrack as I unpacked the picnic basket I'd prepared.

Well, technically my chef had prepared it, but I'd personally selected each item with Chloe's preferences in mind.

"Is that actual honest-to-goddess prosciutto?" Chloe's eyes widened as I unwrapped the delicate meat. "In Assjacket? Did you teleport to Italy this morning?"

"Not quite. Though the look on your face might be worth learning that particular spell." I handed her a plate with the charcuterie selection. "I may have had some supplies flown in."

"You chartered a plane for lunch meat." She shook her head but couldn't hide her smile. "Your ridiculous extravagance is both alarming and strangely endearing."

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above us, dappling her face with golden light. Even with her sardonic expression, she looked beautiful. A familiar warmth spread through my chest—that peculiar mixture of contentment and nervous energy I only felt around her.

"I've been meaning to ask you something." I cleared my throat, suddenly finding the perfectly aged gouda fascinating. "My grandfather has been asking about you."

"Your grandfather?" Chloe paused mid-bite. "The one who left you the estate? I thought he was?—"

"Dead? No, just exceedingly old and stubbornly alive." I poured us both some wine. "He's quite interested in meeting the woman who's apparently made me 'less insufferable' according to his sources."

"His sources?"

"He has his ways. Ninety-seven years of magical connections builds quite the intelligence network." I tried for casual, but Chloe's face had already drained of color. "It would just be dinner at the estate. Nothing formal."

Her hand trembled slightly as she set down her glass. The shift was subtle—most wouldn't notice—but I'd learned to read the microscopic changes in her expressions. Her breathing had become shallow, her eyes slightly unfocused.

"The last family dinner I attended ended with my sister Jenny trying to poison my sweet potato casserole." Her voice came out flat. "My mother commented on my weight throughout appetizers, and my father spent the entire meal talking about Jenny's superior magical abilities."

She stared into the distance, and I knew she wasn't seeing the creek anymore.

"My mother asked why I couldn't be more like Jenny. This was three days before Jenny created a voodoo doll of me and nearly succeeded in—" She stopped abruptly, her fingers twisting in her lap.

I reached across the blanket and gently took her hand. "Chloe, there's absolutely no pressure. I just wanted to extend the invitation."

I couldn't focus on the quarterly reports.

The words blurred together as my thoughts drifted back to Chloe.

Her face when I mentioned my grandfather had haunted me all night.

That flash of panic in her eyes—I knew that look.

It was the same expression she wore whenever her walls threatened to crumble.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marigold: "Operation Outfit Rescue underway. Your witch is in DEFCON 1 panic mode."

I smiled despite my concern. Marigold had appointed herself our relationship coordinator from day one. While her enthusiasm sometimes bordered on intrusive, her heart was in the right place.

Another text arrived: "Joanna bringing reinforcements. Frosty demanding veto power."

I could picture the scene—Chloe's cottage transformed into a war room of fashion decisions, Frosty strutting around offering unsolicited opinions. The mental image made me chuckle, but the underlying anxiety radiating through those texts was unmistakable.

I set aside the reports and dialed Chloe's number. After several rings, I heard a breathless, "Lincoln? Can I call you back? I'm currently being held hostage by the fashion police."

In the background, Marigold's voice carried clearly: "The emerald dress brings out your eyes, but the navy says 'I'm sophisticated but not trying too hard.'"

"Is that Lincoln?" Joanna called out. "Ask him what his grandfather prefers—traditional or modern?"

"Tell him I've declared myself your emotional support poultry and require formal accommodation!" Frosty's indignant squawk was unmistakable.

"Lincoln?" Chloe's voice returned, lower now. "I'm having a minor meltdown. I hate dresses. Define 'nothing formal' on the Sands family scale. Are we talking casual billionaire or merely everyday millionaire?"

The vulnerability beneath her sarcasm tugged at my heart.

"Chloe, listen to me." I softened my voice. "My grandfather wears mismatched socks because he claims it confuses malevolent spirits. Last time I visited, he was wearing pajama pants with his dinner jacket."

A small laugh escaped her.

"He's going to adore you exactly as you are—brilliant, sarcastic, and completely authentic. That's who I..." I paused, the word hovering unspoken between us. "That's who I care about. Not what you wear."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"Even if I show up in my ratty Sunnydale High t-shirt?" Her voice had lost its edge of panic.

"Especially then. Though I can't promise Frosty would ever forgive you."

I pulled up to Chloe's cottage in my 1965 Aston Martin DB5 convertible, the engine purring like a satisfied cat.

Grandfather had gifted it to me on my hundredth birthday (or thirtieth, according to my driver's license).

The silver finish gleamed in the morning sunlight, almost as if the car knew it was making an impression.

As I stepped out, Chloe appeared in the doorway wearing dark jeans and a simple emerald blouse that made her lavender eyes pop.

She'd clearly compromised with Marigold on the color while sticking to her comfort zone on style.

Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she'd applied the barest hint of makeup.

She looked beautiful, but her face was a mask of contained panic.

"Your chariot awaits, my—" The rest of my greeting died as Frosty strutted out behind her, followed by what appeared to be his entire worldly possessions.

"Lincoln! Excellent timing. I've packed the essentials." Frosty gestured dramatically to three suitcases, a garment bag, and what appeared to be a small cooler. "One must be prepared for all social contingencies when meeting aristocracy."

I blinked. "It's one night, Frosty."

"One night, four outfit changes, seventeen potential social scenarios, and breakfast preparations." He adjusted the tiny bow tie he'd somehow affixed to his feathers. "I refuse to eat subpar biscuits, even in a mansion."

Chloe shot me an apologetic look. "I tried to reason with him. But apparently emotional support poultry requires emotional support luggage."

I laughed despite myself and popped the trunk. "Let's see what magic we can work with the storage space."

The next ten minutes involved a complicated game of luggage Tetris, with Frosty directing operations like a general commanding troops.

"The garment bag must remain horizontal! My formal feathers cannot be creased!"

When we finally managed to close the trunk, Frosty insisted on riding in the back with a special cushion he'd brought specifically for the occasion.

Chloe slid into the passenger seat, her fingers fidgeting with her seatbelt. She hadn't spoken much during the loading process, and her silence continued as I started the engine.

As we pulled away from the cottage, I reached across the console and gently took her hand. A familiar spark of magic passed between us—warm, electric, and comforting all at once. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she turned her hand to intertwine her fingers with mine.

I navigated the winding roads out of Assjacket with one hand on the wheel, the other still intertwined with Chloe's. The warm connection between us seemed to calm her, though I could practically hear her thoughts racing.

"Remind me again why your grandfather wants to meet me?" Chloe's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the underlying anxiety.

"Because I haven't stopped talking about you for weeks, and he's curious about the witch who's managed to distract me from quarterly projections."

From the backseat, Frosty cleared his throat. "I assume my invitation was a given, considering my status as Chloe's executive advisor and security detail."

I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, perched regally on his cushion. "Grandfather specifically mentioned wanting to meet Chloe's extraordinary familiar."

"Extraordinary." Frosty preened. "A rooster of discernment knows when he's being properly acknowledged."

The gas gauge dipped toward empty as we approached a small roadside station. I pulled in beside the only pump.

"Pit stop," I announced, releasing Chloe's hand reluctantly. "Need anything while I fill up?"

"Maybe some water," Chloe said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

The attendant—a weathered man with a name tag reading "Earl"—ambled over. "Fill 'er up?"

"Premium, please."

Earl whistled, admiring the car. "Don't see many classics like this." His gaze drifted to the backseat where Frosty sat motionless, having instantly adopted his "mortal-present" stillness. "That's some fancy taxidermy you got there."

"It's a... family heirloom," I improvised.

Earl leaned closer to the window. "Dang realistic. Almost looks like it could start crowin'."

Frosty's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

"My grandfather is an enthusiast," I said, watching Chloe bite her lip to suppress a laugh.

"Must be worth a fortune. My cousin Leroy tried taxidermy once. Ended up with what looked like a rabid squirrel crossed with a mop."

As Earl filled the tank, Chloe whispered, "Frosty's going to explode if he has to maintain that pose much longer."

She was right. The moment Earl turned his back, Frosty's feathers ruffled in indignation.