Page 5 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona…

One look at the players standing around the dark green felt table in the Reservoir Room told me everything I needed to know about the level of play there will be tonight.

In about five minutes, every chair will be occupied by a heavy hitter—with two notable exceptions, the first of which is me.

I’m good, but I’m not at their level of good.

Who’s not the exception? The three titans of Witchingdom’s poker world.

Razor McGee is pacing in front of the large window overlooking the neon strip. A tall slip of a witch, she’s known for her sterling-silver fingernails, which are down to sharp points, and has a whole WitchyGram following for her ASMR account, where all she does is shuffle decks of cards.

Over at the bar sucking on a plastic drink sword lined with five green olives is Hal Onions.

As short and square as Razor is tall and slim, the gnome is known for his quick quips on fan-paid-for Fairy Twinkle personal video messages.

The man also has more wins under his pink elephant belt than any other poker player on the circuit this year.

Huddling in the corner, looking as guilty as three finance bros who’d just scored some fairy dust, are the Quarter triplets.

No casino will let all three of the groundhog shifters play in the same game.

They swore they don’t have telepathy, but the way they bet, called, and folded said differently to the oddsmakers.

If I had to guess, I figure it’s the youngest, Alfonse, playing tonight, since he’s wearing the family signet ring.

Besides me, there’s only one other exception to the murders’ row of poker players.

That one?

Erik from the pool bar. He’s sitting with the Elini Horsn?s biography in front of him at the poker table.

The book is opened to at least a hundred pages farther than it was this afternoon.

His long finger skims down the middle of the page in an old speed-reading technique I tried one summer but stopped when my recollection of a spell to summon a kangaroo resulted in a French bulldog in a kangaroo costume poofing out of thin air.

He doesn’t look up from his reading despite the loud laughter coming from the Quarter triplets or the loud clink of ice in Hal Onion’s glass as he takes the seat next to Erik.

The man is sucked into his book. I can appreciate it.

But that’s not what has my magic swirling in my belly without me even calling it.

That happens sometimes when you run a long-term camouflage spell, but it hasn’t even been a full day for me.

Add to that the fact that I keep smelling fresh-brewed coffee when my magic smells like warm donuts, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Someone must be working an intimidation hex in the room.

Razor and Hal both look completely at ease, so it can’t be them.

My gaze lingers on Erik, and there’s something on the edge of my brain, an itch or a tick or a whisper of something that I just can’t place, but it’s not a working intimidation hex.

That leaves one of the Quarter triplets, which really is something they would try to pull off. Assholes.

Ignoring their curious gazes as I cross the room, I take the seat across from Erik.

He looks up, his focus fuzzy behind the round glasses he’s wearing.

As soon as he zones in on me, though, he whips the glasses off and stuffs them in the inside pocket of his navy blue sports coat before shooting me an awkward, shy smile.

“It’s a good read?” I ask, nodding toward the biography.

Before he can answer, though, the dealer calls the other players to the table and the game begins.

An hour later, I can definitively say that Erik couldn’t bluff his way out of a toddler’s birthday party.

So why aren’t you calling him out and taking all his chips, then, LeLe?

Yeah, the inner bitch in my head added some snide emphasis on my fake name along with the question I have no answer for.

The fact is that I’m having a blast watching Erik flail at poker.

I can’t keep the smile off my face—not because he’s fumbling so badly, but because he’s having so much fun playing anyway.

That is something I am definitely not familiar with. Losing is not an option when you’re a Sherwood, let alone when you’re the Sherwood heir.

For the past three rounds, I’ve been three cards away from an even straight.

Usually I’d be hunched down in my seat, running the numbers (yes, counting cards is technically illegal, but that doesn’t mean no one does it), and chomping a stick of gum to give the competitive anxiety a release.

Not tonight though. Instead, I’m loose limbed, clearheaded, and enjoying the butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling every time Erik looks my way with a self-deprecating oops-I-did-it-again grin when he misplays a card.

The fact that there is a huge mountain of plastic betting chips in the middle of the table (some of which are worth as much as five hundred dollars) doesn’t seem to factor into his enjoyment level at all.

He’s not playing the odds or stressing over the amount of money on the line.

He’s just having fun being absolutely awful at something.

Seriously, the man cannot play. It’s kind of like watching a troll use its huge hands trying to unwind a knot tied by tiny little fairy fingers.

The will is there. The actual ability? Not so much.

“You’re full of shit, Phillips,” Hal says as he tosses a handful of red plastic chips on the table. “I call.”

“You think so?” Erik asks before his gaze cuts over to me. “What do you think?”

I shake my head. “There’s no way you’ve got it.”

He doesn’t say anything; he just shoots me a sly smile that makes my breath catch and lays down his cards.

Everyone freezes in surprise. It is so silent, you could have heard the paper wrapper of an eye of newt muffin being pulled off, and everyone is so entranced a leprechaun could have come through and picked every pocket in the place (including the sixteen running up the goblin’s sleeve).

There, lying on the dark green felt-covered table, is a straight flush.

The first to recover is Razor.

She tosses her cards on the table face down and says with a chuckle, “You lucky bastard.”

“Every witch has their day, I guess,” Erik says as he scoops up all the chips and puts them into a velvet bag with the resort’s logo embroidered on it.

Alfonse’s pointy nose twitches and his teeth get a little pointier as he glares at Erik. “Yeah, let’s see if it’s still your day after the next hand.”

“No can do,” Erik says as he pushes his chair back and locks his eyes with mine.

The shy bookish guy vibe from earlier is gone, replaced by a confident bordering on cocky one that I really shouldn’t find attractive, but I do. There’s something about Erik that makes my magic take notice, a subtle edge of something I can’t help but want to run my fingertip across.

He rounds the poker table, stopping next to where I sit with my winnings, which rival his. “I have a date with the lovely lady.”

“You do?” I ask, even as I start to tidy my pile into even stacks of chips I can magic over to the cash-in booth.

“If my luck holds.” Hand resting on the back of my chair, he leans down and whispers into my ear, “Wanna help me spend these chips on a ridiculously overpriced gourmet picnic?”

A delicious shiver of attraction works its way across my skin. “Will there be cherry bark pie?”

“Whatever you want,” he says, “I’ll make it happen.”

All of a sudden, I want a lot of things, absolutely none of which are cherry bark pie.