Page 27 of Hex and the Kitty (Whispering Pines #9)

TWENTY-SEVEN

M olly traced her fingers over the embroidered runes on her jacket sleeve—protection, perception, clarity—tiny stitches pulsing with magic as she slipped it on. The bakery stood silent around her, moonlight painting silver stripes across the freshly mopped floor.

Her hair refused to cooperate tonight. Molly tucked a rebellious curl behind her ear for the third time, then stopped, hand frozen mid-motion.

“Why do you care how you look? This isn’t a real date,” she muttered to her reflection in the bakery window.

But the fluttering in her stomach told a different story. The potted plant on her counter burst into sudden bloom, white flowers unfurling in the darkness.

“Traitor,” she whispered, brushing her fingertip across a petal. Her magic had always betrayed her emotions, especially around Warrick. Something about the tiger shifter’s presence made her powers spark and flare like a teenager’s first crush.

Except she wasn’t a teenager. At forty-two, she’d built a successful business, established herself in the community, and learned to appreciate her independence. She had no business getting butterflies over golden eyes and broad shoulders.

Yet here she stood, fussing with her hair before meeting a man who’d lived through centuries of human history. The absurdity made her smile.

Outside, Whispering Pines slumbered beneath a near-full moon, cobblestones gleaming like river stones. Magic hummed beneath her feet—ley lines crossing under the square, a constant presence she only noticed when she bothered to pay attention.

The walk to the fire station took barely eight minutes, each step quickening as she rounded the final corner. Her breath caught.

Warrick stood waiting by the station’s entrance, moonlight silvering his profile. His tall figure commanded the space without effort, shoulders broad beneath a simple gray Henley that hugged his torso. Despite his casual clothes, alertness radiated from him—a predator at rest but never unaware.

His head turned toward her before she made a sound, his keen senses detecting her approach. As their eyes met across the distance, something electric zipped up her spine.

“Right on time,” he called, voice deep in the quiet street.

Molly crossed the remaining distance, acutely conscious of how he tracked her movement. “Punctuality comes with the baking territory.” She stopped before him, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “Bread waits for no one.”

“Neither does sabotage, apparently.” The corner of his mouth quirked up, softening his serious expression. His eyes swept over her, unhurried and appreciative. “That color suits you.”

Heat bloomed across her cheeks. The forest green jacket wasn’t fancy, but his golden gaze made her feel like she wore evening silk.

“Thanks.” She gestured toward the building. “Where do we start? I’m no security expert.”

“The wards are at cardinal points around the perimeter.” Warrick placed a hand at the small of her back as they rounded the side of the building. The casual touch radiated warmth through her jacket. “Reed helped install them after the first pranks.”

“Mass-produced crystals from Magical Solutions, Inc.?” Molly kept her voice low despite the empty station yard. “They’re fine for basic security, but any witch with decent skills can work around them.”

“Speaking from experience?” His eyebrow arched, voice edged with amusement.

“My cousin’s sixteenth birthday party.” A mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Her parents used store-bought wards to keep us confined to the yard. It took fifteen minutes to short-circuit them for our midnight lake adventure.”

“A teenage delinquent hiding beneath the respectable baker facade. Fascinating.” His gaze lingered on her mouth for a heartbeat too long.

“Says the man who lived through the 1700s. I’m sure your youth contained nothing but proper behavior and upstanding citizenship.”

“The standards for ‘proper behavior’ were quite different back then.” His eyes sparked with humor. “What qualified as scandalous would hardly raise eyebrows now.”

“Scandalous?” Molly turned toward him, curiosity piqued. “Oh no, you can’t drop that hint without elaborating.”

“Perhaps another time.” His voice dropped lower. “When we’re not hunting saboteurs.”

The promise in his tone sent another flutter through her stomach. They reached the first ward—a rectangular crystal embedded in the station’s brick exterior. Molly focused, tracing her fingertips around its perimeter.

“These aren’t terrible quality, but...” She frowned, detecting an irregular pulse in the magic. “There’s interference. Like static.”

Warrick moved closer, his chest nearly touching her back as he leaned in to examine the crystal. His proximity scattered her concentration, his scent—cedar and something wild—filling her lungs.

“Can you determine the cause?” His breath stirred the hair at her temple.

Molly drew a steadying breath. “Not without more analysis.” She traced a pattern over the crystal, whispering an incantation. The stone glowed briefly, then dimmed. “Someone’s been tampering, though. Leaving residue.”

They moved to the next ward. Molly tried to focus on the magic rather than Warrick’s presence behind her.

“Your knowledge is impressive,” he said, watching her work. “Self-taught?”

“My mother began my training, but I’ve spent years refining it.” She glanced over her shoulder, finding him closer than expected. “Flora magic comes naturally, and protective magic grows from the same root—like how plants develop thorns or bitter compounds.”

His head tilted, eyes studying her with unexpected intensity. “You see everything through a botanical lens.”

“Hazard of the profession.” Molly smiled, tapping the crystal gently. “People, places, emotions—all connected to growth and nurturing.”

“And what plant would I be in your worldview?” The question held genuine curiosity.

Her eyes traced his features—the strong jaw, the hint of silver at his temples, the watchful eyes that had witnessed centuries of human history.

“Something ancient and enduring. A sequoia, maybe.” The words emerged softer than intended. “Deeply rooted, weathered countless seasons, standing sentinel while the forest changes around you.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, followed by a warmth that transformed his expression.

“And yourself?” he asked, voice dropping to an intimate register.

“Oh, something practical but persistent. Rosemary or sage—useful in kitchens, difficult to kill?—“

“No.” He shook his head, stepping closer. “You’re something rarer. Those moonshade flowers you mentioned perhaps—luminous in darkness, blooming when others sleep, possessing quiet power most overlook.”