Page 24 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)

How to Seduce a Fruit Bat

Willow

A fter the pumpkin contest debacle, something had shifted between us—a shared defeat somehow bringing us closer than any victory could have. We'd wandered the festival for another hour, stopping at booths, sampling treats, and falling into surprisingly easy conversation.

"So you're telling me the Kane Industries CEO has never tried a funnel cake?" I asked, watching him eye the powdered sugar monstrosity I'd insisted on buying.

"I've survived centuries without it," he replied, though his expression betrayed curiosity. "I see no reason to start now."

"Coward," I challenged, tearing off a piece and holding it up. The mate bond hummed, apparently as invested in this moment as I inexplicably was.

He arched one perfect eyebrow before leaning forward and taking the offered bite directly from my fingers. The brief contact of his lips against my skin sent a jolt through my entire body. His eyes, never leaving mine, darkened slightly.

"Verdict?" I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Sweet. Unexpected. Potentially addictive."

I wasn't entirely sure we were still discussing funnel cake.

As afternoon light began softening toward evening, Kane glanced toward the eastern end of the festival grounds. "The beer garden should be open by now. Care for something stronger than cider?"

The suggestion surprised me. Somehow, I'd imagined Kane Drake as too sophisticated for festival beer gardens—more five-hundred-dollar bottles of scotch in penthouse offices than craft brews under string lights.

"Sure," I found myself saying. "Why not?"

The beer garden was sectioned off with decorative white picket fencing, a security guard checking IDs at the entrance with a fluorescent wristband for those who passed inspection.

Inside, string lights crisscrossed overhead, and barrels served as standing tables while local breweries offered tastings in miniature souvenir glasses.

A small stage in the corner hosted a guitarist playing acoustic covers.

Kane guided me through with a light touch at the small of my back, his hand radiating warmth through my sweater. As a centuries-old vampire, I'd expected his touch to be cold, but Kane ran surprisingly warm—one of many assumptions I was revising.

"What's your preference?" he asked as we approached the tasting stations.

"Surprise me."

Minutes later, we settled at a barrel table in the corner, two flights of craft beer between us and the guitarist's soft music creating a bubble of unexpected intimacy.

"I wouldn't have expected a vampire to be knowledgeable about craft beer," I commented, sipping a surprisingly good pumpkin ale.

"Contrary to popular fiction, we can consume more than just blood. Especially of the fruit bat variety," he said, swirling his own glass. "The experience is different—more about aroma and memory than sustenance."

"Memory?"

Something softened in his expression. "Taste connects to memory more powerfully than any other sense. This—" he raised his glass, "reminds me of harvest celebrations centuries ago. Simpler brewing methods, but similar enthusiasm."

I studied him over the rim of my glass. "Sometimes I forget how old you really are."

"Does it bother you?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes watchful.

I considered the question seriously. "I don't know. It should, probably. But then again, so should the whole vampire thing, and the CEO thing, and definitely the mate bond thing."

"And yet, here we are."

"Here we are," I echoed, taking another sip. The alcohol was creating a pleasant warmth through my system, loosening the knots of tension I normally carried. "So tell me something from those centuries of memories. Something not in the Kane Industries official biography."

He went still for a moment, considering. Then: "I once spent three years as a blacksmith's apprentice in a village so small it no longer exists on any map."

"Really? Why?"

"I wanted to understand metalwork," he said simply. "How to bend something seemingly immutable into new forms."

"Seems like a lot of effort when you could have just hired someone."

His lips quirked. "This was the 1700s, Willow. 'Hiring someone' wasn't quite the same concept."

"Right." I felt my cheeks warm. "Sometimes I forget the timeline."

"Most do." He took another sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "What about you? Tell me something not in the Floramancy shop brochure."

I hesitated, considering what to share that wasn't too revealing or too mundane. "I talk to my plants every morning."

His eyebrows shot up. "That doesn't seem particularly surprising for a flower witch."

"Not the talking part," I laughed, warming to the confession.

"It's what I talk about. I have full-on therapy sessions with my monstera.

That philodendron by the window? Knows more about my dating history than Luna does.

My orchids have heard rants about the town council that would make them wilt if they understood English. "

"That's..." he searched for the word, "delightfully intimate."

"They're excellent listeners," I shrugged. "Plus, they literally can't repeat anything I say. Perfect confidants. I'm basically a walking contradiction."

"How so?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

The beer was definitely loosening my tongue. “I practice witch traditions but avoid coven politics like the plague. I believe in fate but fight it at every turn." I paused, then added softly, "I insist I want nothing to do with a certain vampire CEO, yet here I am, drinking beer with him."

Kane's eyes darkened, the bond between us pulsing with something warm and dangerous. "Indeed you are."

We held each other's gaze for a long, charged moment before I looked away, suddenly needing air that wasn't thick with possibility.

As evening fully settled, the beer garden grew more crowded.

Kane secured a second flight for each of us, and our conversation flowed from light banter to surprisingly personal revelations.

He told me about the early days of his business ventures, about the transition from feudal power structures to corporate ones.

I shared stories of my grandmother's teachings, of finding my specialization in floramancy when most witches were pursuing flashier magic.

"It suits you," he said after I described my first successful enchantment—making a bouquet of daisies dance for a child's birthday. "The subtle magic. The beauty in the ordinary."

"Are you calling me ordinary, Drake?" I teased, feeling pleasantly fuzzy from the beer.

"I'm calling you extraordinary in ways most people are too blind to see," he replied, and the simple sincerity in his voice stole my breath.

My phone buzzed, breaking the moment. A text from Luna, followed immediately by one from Bethany.

Luna: We're closing your booth - STAY ON YOUR DATE!

Bethany: Don't you DARE come back here to help, Willow Thorne. We've got everything packed up!

A photo followed: my empty display, everything neatly packed away.

Bethany: Also we're taking the flower van so you HAVE to ride with him or have him walk you home! YOU'RE WELCOME

I groaned, showing Kane the messages. "My friends seem to have decided they're in charge of my evening."

His lips curved into a smile. "I find I rather approve of their executive decision-making."

"You would," I muttered, trying to suppress my own smile. "They're as subtle as a brick through a window."

"Subtlety is overrated," he said, finishing his last tasting glass. "Particularly when we both know what we want."

My heart fluttered traitorously. "And what is it you think we both want, Kane Drake?"

Before he could answer, the first notes of a slower song drifted from the stage.

The musician had been joined by a female vocalist, their harmonies twining together in a cover of an old folk song about love and harvest moons.

Several couples moved to the small space before the stage, swaying together.

Kane stood, extending his hand to me. "I believe I was promised a dance."

"I don't recall promising anything," I said, though my hand was already reaching for his, seemingly of its own volition.

"Then consider it a request." His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure. "Dance with me, Willow."

The beer garden, the festival, the entire town of Haven's Cross seemed to recede as he led me to the makeshift dance floor. His hand settled at my waist, the other still holding mine, and with gentle pressure, he guided me into the rhythm of the music.

I'd expected Kane to be a technically perfect dancer—and he was, his movements precise and confident.

What I hadn't expected was the way his body felt against mine, solid and warm, or how perfectly I seemed to fit against him.

The bond thrummed contentedly, as if it had been waiting for precisely this moment.

"You're staring," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair near my temple.

"Just surprised," I admitted. "Somehow I imagined vampires would be colder."

His low chuckle vibrated through his chest. "Another misconception. We adapt to our surroundings. And right now—" his hand tightened slightly at my waist, "my surroundings are very warm indeed."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks that had nothing to do with beer or dancing.

Around us, other couples moved to the music, some glancing curiously at the unfamiliar man dancing with their local witch.

I recognized the McKinney couple who'd been married for sixty years, still gazing at each other as if they were newlyweds.

Near them, Carrie from the bookstore swayed with her wife, their foreheads touching.

So many versions of love surrounding us, while Kane and I moved in our own bubble of possibility.