Page 42 of Hex and the Kitty (Whispering Pines #9)

FORTY-TWO

T he Shaw family estate sat on the outskirts of Whispering Pines, a sprawling property surrounded by old-growth forest. The house itself blended understated elegance with mountain lodge comfort—stone and timber construction with large windows overlooking gardens and woods beyond.

As Warrick guided her up the walkway, his hand warm against her lower back, Molly fought a sudden attack of nerves. These people had lived for centuries, witnessed history firsthand, accumulated wealth and knowledge beyond her imagination. What could they possibly think of a small-town witch baker?

“They’ll love you,” Warrick murmured, accurately reading her tension. “Just be yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” she whispered back. “You’re not meeting your maybe-boyfriend’s ancient royal family for the first time.”

His step faltered. “Maybe-boyfriend?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I mean—I don’t know what we’re—after that kiss?—“

The door swung open before she could dig herself a deeper hole, revealing a striking woman with elegant silver-streaked dark hair and Warrick’s exact golden eyes.

“You must be Molly,” the woman said warmly, her accent a melodious blend of South African and British influences. “I’m Annalise Shaw. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you for having me,” Molly replied, extending the pastry box. “I brought dessert—tiger lily petit fours with orange blossom cream.”

Annalise accepted the box with genuine delight. “How thoughtful! And perfectly themed. Please, come in.”

The interior matched the exterior’s elegant comfort—high ceilings, rich woods, and artwork that likely belonged in museums interspersed with cozy seating areas and family photographs. Molly spotted a picture of a much younger Warrick—perhaps a century ago, judging by the clothing—standing stiffly beside two small girls in formal attire.

“Mother, where are—“ Warrick began, only to be interrupted by squeals from the adjoining room.

Two women who appeared to be in their mid-twenties rushed in, though Molly knew from Warrick’s background that they were actually around two hundred years old. Both shared Warrick’s brown hair and golden eyes, though their features were decidedly feminine versions of his strong bone structure.

“She’s here!” one exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. “I’m Zara, and this is Zella. We’re the much-more-interesting Shaw siblings.”

“Ignore them,” Warrick sighed, but his expression held unmistakable fondness.

“Impossible,” Zella laughed. “We’re literally impossible to ignore. Molly, we’ve heard so much about you!”

“All good things, I hope?” Molly ventured, charmed by their enthusiasm.

“Mostly how you’ve turned our serious brother into a lovesick—“ Zara began.

“Dinner’s ready,” Warrick interrupted firmly, guiding Molly toward what appeared to be a dining room.

A distinguished man rose from the head of the table—Lord Maxwell Shaw, unmistakably Warrick’s father. His hair had gone fully silver, but his posture remained commanding, his golden eyes shrewd yet welcoming.

“Miss Hues,” he greeted her with a slight bow. “An honor to meet the woman who’s captured my son’s attention so thoroughly.”

“The honor’s mine,” Molly replied, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Built it ourselves about eight years ago,” Maxwell said proudly. “Well, hired the builders, but the design is all Annalise. Please, sit.”

Dinner progressed with surprising ease. The formal dining table contrasted with the relaxed conversation and genuine laughter. Warrick remained close beside her, occasionally touching her hand or knee beneath the table, each contact sending tingles of awareness through her body.

“So,” Zella said, eyes twinkling mischievously over her wine glass, “did Warrick tell you about the time he accidentally shifted during a royal reception and knocked over an entire ice sculpture?”

“He did not,” Molly grinned, turning to Warrick. “Do tell.”

Warrick groaned. “I was eighty years old. Hardly fair to hold youthful mistakes against me.”

“Eighty is practically infancy for our kind,” Zara stage-whispered to Molly. “He was so embarrassed he refused to shift for a decade afterward.”

“Until our grandfather locked him in the transformation chamber and wouldn’t let him out until he embraced his tiger,” Annalise added with a fond smile. “He emerged three days later, having made peace with both sides of his nature.”

“You’ve always been too hard on yourself,” Maxwell observed, studying his son. “Even as a child, you set impossible standards. Too controlled. Too serious.” His gaze shifted to Molly. “That’s why your influence has been so refreshing, Miss Hues.”

“My influence?” Molly asked, puzzled.

“He smiles now,” Zella supplied cheerfully. “Actually smiles! With teeth showing and everything!”

“And laughs,” Zara added. “I called the fire station last week about a community event, and he laughed at something David said. The dispatcher nearly fell out of her chair.”

Heat crept up Molly’s neck as she glanced at Warrick, finding his eyes already on her, soft with an emotion that made her heart stumble.

“It’s true,” he admitted quietly. “You’ve changed things.”

“We haven’t seen him this happy in centuries,” Annalise said gently. “Not since before?—“

“Mother,” Warrick warned.

“Well, it’s true,” Annalise finished stubbornly. “And we’re grateful.”

“Speaking of grateful,” Maxwell changed the subject smoothly, “these petit fours are extraordinary, Miss Hues. I detect a hint of magic in them—joy enhancement?”

Impressed by his sensitivity to magical subtleties, Molly nodded. “Just a touch. To complement the natural pleasure of good company.”

“Skillful work,” he acknowledged. “Balanced and ethical. Warrick mentioned your magical talents extend beyond baking?”

“I have minor psychic abilities,” Molly explained. “Glimpses of potential futures, mostly. Useful for helping customers find pastries that might bring them insights or comfort.”

“She’s being modest,” Warrick interjected. “Her protection wards rival Luna’s, and she sensed a cursed object at the station that even I missed.”

The pride in his voice warmed her from within.

“Tell us about your childhood,” Annalise prompted. “Warrick mentioned you grew up in a witch-friendly township?”

Molly shared stories of her magical upbringing—her first accidental spell that turned all the kitchen utensils pink for a week; her mother’s patient guidance through the unpredictable manifestations of her psychic gift; how she and Mari competed to create the most outlandish magical baked goods as teenagers.

“My most spectacular failure was attempting enchanted soufflés that would tell diners their greatest strength,” she recounted with a laugh. “Instead, they whispered everyone’s most embarrassing moments at full volume before deflating spectacularly. Our neighbor Mr. Jenkins never looked at me the same way after his soufflé announced he once got his head stuck in a stair railing at age forty-five.”

The table erupted in laughter—even Maxwell’s dignified reserve cracked into genuine mirth. Warrick’s hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing gently, his thumb tracing patterns against her skin that sent delicious shivers up her arm.

As dinner concluded and they moved to the living room for coffee with her desserts, Molly found herself drawn into a conversation with Annalise about magical gardening techniques while the twins cornered Warrick nearby. Though she couldn’t hear their whispered conversation, the identical smug expressions on Zara and Zella’s faces suggested they were thoroughly teasing their brother about something—likely her.

“He watches you constantly,” Annalise observed quietly, following Molly’s gaze. “Even when engaged elsewhere, he’s aware of exactly where you are in the room.”

Molly blushed. “He’s protective.”

“It’s more than protection,” Annalise said with gentle certainty. “I’ve known my son for over three hundred years, Miss Hues. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

Before Molly could process this revelation, Maxwell approached with a small, leather-bound book. “Found it,” he announced triumphantly. “Warrick at age ten, attempting his first formal shift for the royal counsel.”

The evening continued with photo albums, embarrassing stories, and subtle threads of connection being woven between Molly and the Shaw family. By the time they prepared to leave, she felt less like a nervous guest and more like someone welcomed into their fold.

“You must come again soon,” Annalise insisted, embracing Molly warmly. “Perhaps you could teach me that protection spell Warrick’s been praising?”

“I’d like that,” Molly replied sincerely.

The twins hugged her simultaneously from both sides. “We’re keeping you,” Zara declared. “Warrick has excellent taste for once.”

“Don’t frighten her away,” Warrick grumbled, though his eyes sparkled with rare happiness.

Even Maxwell shook her hand with genuine warmth. “A pleasure, Miss Hues. I suspect we’ll be seeing much more of you.”

The meaningful look he exchanged with his son sent butterflies swarming through Molly’s stomach.