Page 17 of Charmed, I’m Sure (Witches of Bellevue #1)

Damn cat

Magnolia

The rest of the week blurred by as I prepped for upcoming catering gigs and readied the shop for the impending hurricane.

Because, of course, Louisiana’s coastline couldn’t catch a break for even one season.

I hadn’t seen Taylor since he dropped me off at the manor on Wednesday night, but each morning brought a random question from him.

Today’s was, “What’s your favorite color?

” When I responded with “blue,” it was evidently too vague for his tastes.

When I joked about giving him the exact Hex code, I could practically hear his laughter through the flood of laughing emojis he sent back.

But other than a few texts exchanged, it felt as if Wednesday had never happened.

The sound of Lewis Capaldi’s Before You Go filled my earbuds, drowning out the whir of the drill as I drove another screw into the plywood, somehow managing to hold it in place while precariously balanced on a very unstable plastic milk crate.

Could I have asked for help? Sure. Should I have asked for help?

Absolutely. But I was a strong, independent woman—who apparently thought she could hold a four-foot-long piece of wood, nearly wider than my arm span, while drilling it into place.

So far, I was… managing. But I still had four more windows to go, and my muscles were already screaming at me.

When the screw was flush against the plywood, I dropped my arms, exhaling heavily as I took a moment to look around.

Everyone in town seemed to move about in a calm state of panic, finishing last-minute storm preparations.

Boards covered most windows on the street, and sandbags were stacked in front of storefronts—including mine.

Smaller windows were taped in an X pattern in hopes that, if they broke, shattered glass wouldn’t litter the store or street.

The local grocery was completely out of bread, non-perishables, and, of course, beer—because you can’t survive a hurricane without the essentials.

But aside from that, it was a typical Sunday afternoon; the sun still shone brightly, warming the chill that had settled in over the last few weeks.

“Need a hand?” The deep timbre of Taylor’s voice pierced through the music in my ears, startling me so much that I nearly toppled off my makeshift stool. “Easy there, sunshine,” he chuckled, his hand bracing my lower back to keep me steady.

“Make a damn noise, Taylor. Geezums!” My hand flew to my chest as I struggled to steady my racing heart. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if my pulse was racing from the near fall or from the warmth of his palm pressed against the small of my back, his thumb rubbing in little circles along my spine.

He laughed, “I did… many times. I think I called your name at least three times before I realized you had earbuds in.”

“So your solution was to sneak up on me while I’m holding a power tool?”

His head shook slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “What are you going to do, Mags? Drill me to death?”

“The idea might have merit.” I pulled the trigger, the drill whirring to life as I struggled to suppress a smile.

Fiery sapphire blues locked onto mine, and suddenly, the thought of me drilling him wasn’t what was on my mind. That thought needed to be squashed immediately.

“So,” he said, taking a step closer, hands shoved into his pockets, “do you need help?”

“Hmm?” My mind was still swirling along the gutter, eyes sweeping over the impressive expanse of his chest behind a button-down shirt that had no reason to be that fitted.

“Do you need help?” he asked, slowing his cadence as he dipped his head until his face filled my view.

“What? Oh! Help. Uh… sure? Yeah, help would be nice.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Taylor’s eyes locked onto mine again as he stretched out his hand, a smile curling one side of his mouth as I placed the drill into his palm. “Mind somewhere else today, cher?”

You have no idea.

The storm was slated to hit on Tuesday as a CAT two hurricane, but in true hurricane fashion, Melissa stalled just beyond the coast, soaking up the warm Gulf waters like a sponge before unleashing havoc along the coastline.

That prolonged time in the Gulf ramped her up to a CAT four, and she was now heading straight for Biloxi.

Which was good news for us, since it put us on the “good” side of the hurricane—as if such a thing existed—but her bands stretched clear into Alabama and Texas.

The wind outside had picked up, and the rain began to trickle down the window panes.

Other than that, it was a normal Friday evening.

Aunt Evie stood at the stove, her arm in constant motion to keep the roux for her gumbo from burning, filling the house with a mouthwatering aroma while the news broadcasters droned on in the background.

With a flick of her finger over her shoulder, she switched off the broadcast and turned on the kitchen speakers; “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes filled the space.

With a pep in my step that the song deserved, I sidled up beside her, grabbed a cutting board, and the andouille links.

Silence lingered—the only sounds coming from the music and the rhythmic chop of my knife against the board as I sliced the sausage into little rounds, ready to be browned.

We bobbed our heads along to the beat as we focused on our tasks, but when Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton infiltrated the speakers, we couldn’t help but belt out the lyrics.

It was hysterical, really.

Grown women singing into spoons and dancing around the kitchen while Mother Nature threatened to tear into our home. The scene grew even more comical when Maddie slid into the room on fuzzy sock-clad feet at the start of the chorus, pulling moves that Terry Crews would envy.

But as the song came to an end, thunder crashed overhead, causing the lights to flicker and the sky to darken.

“Here comes Melissa,” Maddie sing-songed as we all turned our attention to the bay windows.

Lightning crackled through the sky, illuminating the gray in bright whites tinged with blue, as the rain began to pour in heavy sheets.

Aunt Evie sucked in air through her nose, closing her eyes briefly as she let it out, then turned back to the stove.

Spoon moving in figure-eight motions with one hand, she clutched her crystal cage around her neck with the other.

She hated hurricanes—though I wasn't sure there was a single person along the coast who liked them. It didn’t matter how long you lived on the Gulf Coast; they never got any easier—you just got better at preparing.

Maddie padded over to the stove and silently picked up where I’d left off with the sausage, tossing the rounds into the skillet where we’d melted a pat of butter. That clap of thunder seemed to steal all the levity from the air, replacing it with anxiety over something we couldn’t control.

A strangled meow pulled my focus, along with the incessant pawing at my calf. Bending down, I scooped up my ginger familiar and stroked her long coat. “What is it, Hermeownie?”

Taylor

The power lines held strong as the first bands of Hurricane Melissa dumped rain over Bellevue.

“I can’t believe Michael decided to be on Team A at the hospital,” my mother grumbled, more to herself than to me, as she angrily flicked between fabric swatches.

“I offered, Ma.”

Blowing out a harsh breath, her hazel eyes locked onto mine. “I know, baby. Your father is just as stubborn as a mule.”

Where my father and I worked, hospital staff was split into three groups for natural disasters.

Team A stayed at the hospital during the storms. Team B—which I had been assigned to—came in when the all-clear was given so Team A could go home.

Then there was Team C, which included all non-essential personnel like the billing office, doctors’ office staff, etc.

Of the three, I preferred Team A. I was already used to working twelve-hour shifts; the only difference was that I had to sleep on a cot at the hospital when my shift ended instead of going home.

I hated waiting out the storm at home. My mother was a frantic mess, despite having grown up in this sleepy little town we called home.

And I could only play Battleship with Adelaide so many times before I wanted to flip the game and chuck it out the window.

It had only been a few hours since the first band hit, and I was already getting cabin fever.

Deciding to see if Magnolia was as stir-crazy as I was, I pulled my phone from my pocket, thankful I still miraculously had service.

We hadn’t talked much, which was more my fault than hers.

I’d been helping my mom prepare the house for the storm on top of working the graveyard shift at the hospital, making it nearly impossible to have a normal conversation outside of sporadic texting.

Taylor

Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?

I watched and waited for those three little dots to pop up, but when none appeared, I stuck my phone back in my pocket and padded into the living room. Addy was stretched out on the couch, her phone clutched in her hand as her fingers moved furiously over the screen.

“Hey!” she protested when I moved her feet out of the way and plopped down beside her.

“What are you so engrossed in right now?” I asked, draping my arm across the back of the couch. “Colin not agreeing with your entrée choices?”

“Oh, fuck off.” She huffed as she readjusted on the cushions. “For your information, sir, Clara just told me she saw Magnolia Bellevue walking around town, screaming some gibberish.”

What the hell?

“Is she sure?”

“Kind of hard to mistake her for someone else, don’t you think? How many people in town have pink and blue hair?”

“There’s a hurricane. There’s no way she’s out there in this.” I scoffed, turning my gaze toward the window, away from my sister’s probing stare.