Page 22 of Curses & Cold Brew (Maple Hollow #2)

IRIS

I sat on the stoop of Ramona’s house, Jordyn and Harlow flanking me like guard dogs.

I rubbed my arms, wishing I had brought a thicker coat.

We’d hit the sudden temperature dip as late October approached.

If we hadn’t been waiting for over an hour, I might’ve still had feeling in my toes.

Though, we had confirmed that knocking on her door or ringing her doorbell wouldn’t summon her from thin air like we’d previously assumed.

When Ramona finally did return, she was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice us waiting until she was halfway up the path to her front door. She wore a steely expression and looked pristine as ever, apart from one bloodied hand that hung limply by her side.

I sucked in a little breath at the sight of the blood, unsure if it was hers or someone else’s. The sound made Ramona lift her head, her eyes landing directly upon mine, and when they did, her rigid posture visibly crumpled in relief.

“You going to be okay?” Jordyn murmured as Ramona strode up the walkway toward me.

“Yeah.” I hugged my friend as I stood, my ass numb from sitting on the cold stone for so long.

Harlow gave me a quick hug, too, before turning toward Ramona and making an “I’m watching you” gesture. Then Harlow slung an arm around Jordyn’s shoulders and my friends walked into the night.

I chuckled at the boldness of my chivalrous human friend. There was no way that she could take on a powerful demon, but with her loyalty and stubbornness, I knew she’d try.

Ramona gave a bemused look at Harlow as they crossed paths before coming to a stop at the stoop.

“You came back,” she finally stated, her expression unreadable.

“I did,” I replied, nervously sweeping a lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re hurt.” I reached for her hand, and she indulged me as I inspected her split knuckles.

“You should see the other guy,” she said with a groan as I pressed a finger to the wound. “What are you?—”

“Let me fix it,” I insisted, holding my fingers over her hand as magic swirled from my fingertips. “Hold still.”

For once, she listened.

I whispered a healing incantation, and her wounds closed over to fresh skin, still pink and a little swollen but nearly healed.

“I could’ve done that myself, you know,” she murmured.

“I know.” I realized I was still holding her hand. Her fingers slowly splayed to encircle my wrist, but I nervously pulled away from her touch. “I just, uh, wanted to help.”

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat, putting her hands in her pockets as if putting them in timeout.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to tap into my clairvoyance?” I put my hands on my hips for effect, but there was no bite. She didn’t owe me an explanation after I’d stormed off only to sheepishly return for her protection.

“You’re full of surprises.” She smiled down at me, but worry and sadness were in her eyes. “I had no idea you were clairvoyant.”

The blush on my cheeks gave me away in an instant. “Technically, I’m not, but I could make a few calls to the rumor mill and figure it out pretty quick.”

“Ah, so you’d use your witchy wiles for information, then?”

Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension in my own melted too.

“My wiles have to be good for something.”

She huffed a laugh, and we slipped into silence.

I looked all around me—the streetlights, the twinkling stars, the garden gate—but all I saw was that molten kiss that was burned into the back of my mind.

My gaze lingered on her stoop, which was decorated with fall flowers and an expertly carved jack-o’-lantern of a witch flying on a broomstick, a crescent moon behind her.

“Wow. Who did you get that from?” It was an awkwardly executed attempt to carry on the conversation. “Randy?”

“I made it, actually.”

“You made that ? The Mona Lisa of pumpkins?”

She just shrugged. “I told you I had hobbies.” She swirled her fingers and the locked door behind me opened. “Come on. I have something I want to show you.”

I warily followed her inside. “Please tell me it isn’t some poor soul strung up on a rack wearing its intestines as a necklace.”

Her chuckle was deep and rasping. “I mean, I do collect antique torture devices,” she teased. “But what I want to show you is in the kitchen.”

“Heads in jars?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me. “That’s more of a witch thing.” She winked and my stomach flipped.

Shit .

Maybe I should’ve made Jordyn and Harlow stay with me. If Ramona winked at me like that again, I thought my panties would combust of their own volition.

With a shaky breath, I followed her down a long, dark hallway without a single decoration on the walls, apart from a lone nail that I guessed once held artwork.

The first two rooms were austere and cold, with steel and black furnishings like some neo-modern city loft, but when we poured out into the kitchen, I caught little notes of personality—warmth, even: a scented candle, an embroidered tea towel, a ceramic bowl of crystals, and a floral painting reminiscent enough of Georgia O’Keefe to make clear that this was a sapphic home.

“I’ll be honest, I was expecting more damned souls and fewer vulva flowers.”

Ramona didn’t miss a beat. “The kitchen felt like the most appropriate place for the painting.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t that what people do in kitchens?” Her silver eyes met mine. “Surround themselves with their favorite things to eat?”

I choked on my own air, a furious blush burning across my cheeks as I thought about just how skilled Ramona would be with her mouth . . .

A wicked smile stretched across Ramona’s lips, as if she knew the exact image I was conjuring in my mind.

“Sit,” she commanded.

If only she meant on her face, but instead, she gestured to a black leather bar stool.

As she navigated to the other side of the kitchen island, the distance cooled my burning cheeks. I really needed to pull myself together, but this demon seemed to know exactly what she was doing to me.

She opened the cabinet below the sink, pulled out a stack of newspapers, and slapped two serrated knives on top.

“Oh great, you’re going to kill me,” I muttered. “Just when I thought we were getting along.”

Ramona let out an incredulous little huff as she bent down to the cabinet again and produced two basketball-sized pumpkins.

“I need a few more to decorate the stoop. They look better in groups of three. Agnes has won the best Halloween porch for the last four years, and it’s about time the old bat has her streak broken. ”

My nerves eased as I laughed. “Aspirations of brokering souls and winning the Maple Hollow best porch ribbons . . .”

“I’m a complicated demon.”

Ramona set up two workstations, then gave me a pencil to sketch out my carving before she turned toward the stove.

“Is this your way of keeping me distracted?” I asked.

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I needed something to keep me busy too. Wyatt messaged. He’s caught Esme’s scent on the outskirts of town, and Agnes has the vamps on the prowl.

Esme warded half the town against me, so I have to rely on the locals who also have a vested interest in her capture.

” I could tell she hated the fact that she had to depend on others and couldn’t just do it herself.

“But until they turn Esme to dust, we might as well do some crafting.”

Ramona set a small saucepan on the stove and started whisking some milk. I watched with curiosity, my attention oscillating between my pumpkin and whatever brew she was concocting.

“At least this is a more honest way of luring me in than a kiss,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.

With her back still to me as she stirred some dark powder into the mixture, Ramona said, “I didn’t kiss you to keep you here.”

“Oh?” Goddess curse you, Iris! You suck at nonchalance!

“Well, I did, but that wasn’t the only reason,” she added hastily, sprinkling other things into her mixture.

My mouth went drier than desert sand. “Oh.”

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” she said. “Simple as that. I kissed you because every time your lips leave mine, all I can think about is when we’ll be joined again.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Iris, say something more than “Oh!”

But I had no idea what to say. For once, I was completely tongue-tied. I was supposed to be good at this! But Ramona made me completely unhinged.

So, I swiveled my pumpkin around, half smiling, half cringing. “What do you think?”

What the fuck are you talking about! Stop it!

The demon peeked over her shoulder with a wicked smile at my flustered expression. “Classic jack-o’-lantern,” she said. “I approve.”

“Cool.”

Cool? Cool?!

I’m supposed to be good at this! How many women do I have to date before I stop acting like a giddy eighth grader with her first crush?

Goddess, why couldn’t I just like men? They’re so simple.

“You know,” I added, trying to quell my rising nerves. Yes, good. Words. Say something more intelligent now, please. “For a witch who lives in a Halloween-themed town, I think I’ve only carved pumpkins once as a kid.”

“I know what you mean.” Ramona’s head bobbed. “Sometimes, it feels like apple picking and pumpkin-carving are just touristy things around here. Not for the locals.”

“Exactly.”

“Here.” She slid a steaming mug across the countertop.

I looked down at what appeared to be hot chocolate with a dollop of freshly whipped cream on top and a dusting of chocolate flakes.

My mouth instantly started salivating.

“Holy cow,” was all I could say. “Thank you.”

I took a sip, rich flavors alighting on my tongue. It was the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, the chocolate rich and decadent, the milk thick and creamy . . .

Was it possible to orgasm just from taste alone?

I let out a moan, and Ramona cleared her throat, shifting her weight at the sound, and I hoped she was as turned on as I was because, fuck, this hot chocolate might’ve been the best foreplay ever.

Well played, demon.

“Where did you learn to make this?”

With a pleased smile, Ramona replied, “I got the recipe from an elf in that Christmas town north of here . . .” She searched the ceiling as if trying to think of the name.

“Sugarplum Valley?” I supplied.

She snapped her fingers. “That’s the one.” Her hunter’s eyes watched me as I took another sip.

“You’re not having one?”

“Hell is plenty hot enough, love,” she said with another panty-dropping wink. “I only drink cold drinks.”

She turned and fetched a cold brew coffee from the fridge, pouring some of the leftover hot chocolate into it along with a heaping serving of dark ice cubes that I suspected were more frozen coffee.

With her drink in hand, she rounded the kitchen island.

She perched on a bar stool beside me and assessed her untouched pumpkin.

“Trying to figure out how to create stained glass for a Notre-Dame design?” I teased.

“Oh please, Gothic churches was last year’s theme.”

I snickered into my mug, the hot steam tickling the tip of my nose. “I think I’ll keep the stoop on-theme and do some potion bottles.”

“Sounds like a winner.”

Leaning back in my stool, I sipped my hot chocolate and enjoyed the view of Ramona deep in concentration. She deftly prepped her canvas, and my stomach flipped once or twice at how her nimble fingers expertly carved and etched the pumpkin’s thick orange flesh.

Of all the things that would turn me on . . . this was probably the most bizarre. But when it came to Ramona, everything seemed to turn me on.

And I would never admit it to her, but my panties were as wet as the newspaper by the time she was finished.