Page 59 of Divine Temptations

I laughed and returned to arranging the logs in the shape of a starburst, just the way my mentor taught me years ago. A fire built with care burns cleaner. Stronger. Gentler.

Zephyr hummed behind me, stepping in a slow circle, tossing salt and murmuring something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a Stevie Nicks song. She believed deeply in the woo. The genuine kind. No performance. Just intuition, vibes, and faith. I didn’t always agree with her methods, but her heart? Pure gold. And besides, there was something comforting about her rituals. They grounded the space. Gave it rhythm.

Still crouched by the fire, I let my eyes drift to the edge of the woods. The wind carried the scent of honeysuckle, and I inhaled deeply, trying to settle the anxious knot that had taken up residence somewhere between my lungs and my stomach.

I’d Googled him as soon as I left the bar. Julian Reed. Podcaster. Skeptic. Cynic in very well-fitted jeans.

I wasn’t psychic, but you didn’t have to be to see it in his eyes—the way he looked at me like I was a magician mid-swindle. Like he was just waiting for me to pull a rabbit from my hat and demand a donation. And maybe that would’ve hurt, once upon a time. But these days? I understood. People like Julian didn’t come to Riverbend unless they were searching for something—or running from it.

What he didn’t understand was that I wasn’t here to sell anything. I didn’t promise miracles. I was here to hold space for people who needed it. To help them feel seen. To remind them that they were already whole, even if they were a little cracked. We all are.

“Anyway,” Zephyr said, shattering my spiral of thoughts as she bent to fluff a blanket on one of the lawn chairs. “A handsome stranger checked into the inn this afternoon.”

My hands paused on the firewood. I turned my head slightly, but kept my tone light. “Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” She threw a stick of palo santo into the pit like she was seasoning a pot of soup. “Gave his name as Julian. Does that ring any bells?”

I turned to face her, eyebrows raised. “Julian Reed?”

Zephyr blinked at me. “How do you know his name’s Julian?!”

We both stared at each other, then burst into laughter. She probably thought I was psychic now.

“I met him at the Chalice & Cherry,” I admitted, scratching the back of my neck, suddenly feeling sixteen. “It wasn’t a vision. Just a bar. I was drinking a cocktail, and he walked in and sat next to me. Just a coincidence.”

“Mmhmm.” Zephyr twirled her fingers like she was spinning invisible thread. “Well, you may call it a coincidence. But I call it a miracle in casual wear. Sometimes miracles don’t look like holy lights or burning bushes. Sometimes they look like skeptical men with very judgmental eyebrows.”

I laughed again, but something about her words stayed with me. She was watching me now, all soft edges and quiet knowing.

“I’ve got a gut feeling,” she said gently, “that man didn’t come here by accident. He was brought here. For a reason he might not even know yet.”

I said nothing. Just nodded and went back to brushing a pine needle off the firewood.

Julian’s face flashed in my mind—his sharp stare, the curve of his mouth when he smirked, the brief flicker of vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. Could Zephyr be right? Had the universepointed him toward Riverbend for something more than just an exposé of me?

The first few participants were already drifting in from the gravel path, voices low and reverent. Some carried blankets. Others brought offerings—crystals, tea lights, scraps of poetry written on torn notebook paper.

I lit the fire.

The scent of cedar and lavender bloomed into the night.

And I found myself wondering, what exactly would Julian see when he looked into the flames?

The first arrivals came bearing vibes and fermentation.

“Jude, my love!” cried Honeybelle, wrapping me in a hug so tight I could feel my spine realign. She was barefoot, as usual, and wearing a flowing wrap dress covered in embroidered mushrooms and moons. The crown of dandelions in her frizzy gray hair bobbed with each step she took.

“I brought mead,” she added, producing three bottles from a macrame tote. “One’s lavender-rose, one’s chai-honey, and the other’s infused with mushroom essence for clarity.”

Zephyr clapped like she’d just been gifted Beyoncé’s personal juicer. “Yes! Clarity mead! Last time I drank that, I communed with my past lives and found out I used to be a goat herder in ancient Greece.”

“You’ve told me,” I said with a laugh, accepting a bottle. I uncorked it, poured a little into a recycled mason jar, and took a sip.

It tasted like fermented regret. Mead is disgusting, but it was given as a gift, so I’d force myself to enjoy it.

Still, I nodded solemnly. “Powerful clarity,” I said. “Tastes like… insight.”

Zephyr, who was burning another herb bundle that smelled like someone lit an artisanal soap shop on fire, leaned over and whispered, “That guy Julian is going to die when he sees all this.”