Page 71 of Hex and the Kitty (Whispering Pines #9)
SEVENTY-ONE
T he Whispering Pines Autumn Festival transformed the town square into a riot of color and activity. Vendors lined the cobblestone streets with booths selling everything from enchanted trinkets to shifter-friendly clothing designed to withstand unexpected transformations. Delicious aromas wafted through the crisp air—caramel apples, cinnamon pastries, roasting nuts.
Molly breathed deeply, savoring the sensory feast. Beside her, Warrick walked with casual confidence, his hand entwined with hers. Occasionally he nodded to townsfolk who called greetings, but his attention remained primarily fixed on her—as if, even surrounded by an entire festival, she remained the most fascinating sight.
“Your Fire a water nymph creating glass sculptures filled with miniature perpetual rainstorms; an elderly witch weaving protection charms into colorful bracelets. At each booth, Warrick maintained some form of contact—her hand clasped in his, an arm around her waist, fingers absently playing with a curl that escaped her ponytail.
“You can’t seem to stop touching me,” Molly observed as they paused to watch a shifter child demonstrate partial transformations for an impressed audience.
Warrick’s golden eyes flickered to her face, unabashed. “Does it bother you?”
“Not at all.” She leaned into him, savoring the solid warmth of his body. “Just noticing the change. Three weeks ago, you probably would have maintained a proper two feet of distance in public.”
His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her more firmly against his side. “A month ago, I hadn’t almost lost you.”
The quiet admission stilled her teasing. She remembered little of the beam collapse at the Fireman’s Ball—only fragments of chaos and pain. But Warrick remembered everything: finding her crumpled on the ground, blood staining her emerald dress; carrying her lifeless form through panicked crowds; the eternal minutes waiting to know if her injuries would prove fatal.
“Hey,” she murmured, turning within the circle of his arm to face him. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
His expression softened as he brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead, fingers lingering against her skin. “I know. But my tiger remembers. He needs the constant reassurance of touch.”
“Then touch all you want, tiger. I’m not complaining.”
A full smile transformed his features—one of those unguarded moments that still took her breath away. Before he could respond, excited shrieks erupted from the central fountain where a crowd of children had gathered.
Molly turned toward the commotion in time to see a brightly colored balloon twist free from a gnome balloon artist’s grasp. The balloon—shaped like a dragon—floated upward, pursued by the determined gaze of a small boy with pointed ears marking his fae heritage.
“I can catch it!” the child called, scrambling onto the fountain’s edge, arm outstretched toward the escaping prize.
“Oliver, no!” A woman’s panicked voice rose above the crowd noise.
What happened next unfolded with such seamless coordination that onlookers later described it as choreographed.
Warrick moved first, his body a blur as he covered half the distance toward the fountain. Simultaneously, Molly’s fingers traced a swift sigil in the air, an incantation flowing from her lips without conscious thought.
A cushion of air materialized beneath the falling child while Warrick’s arms extended upward. The boy landed safely within the protective bubble, then found himself gently lowered into Warrick’s secure grip.
“Whoa!” The child’s eyes widened with delight rather than fear. “That was amazing! Can we do it again?”
“I think once is plenty,” Warrick replied, setting him carefully on solid ground as a frantic woman with pointed ears pushed through the gathering crowd.
“Oliver! What did I tell you about climbing?” Relief and exasperation battled in her voice as she knelt to examine her son.
“But, Mom, I almost flew! The nice lady made air magic, and the big man caught me!” The boy bounced with excitement, apparently unfazed by his near accident.
The mother turned grateful eyes toward them. “Thank you both. He’s fearless to a fault.”
“No harm done,” Molly assured her, though her heart still pounded from the adrenaline rush.
As the crowd dispersed, several townspeople approached with appreciative comments.
“Quick thinking, Chief!” “Nice spellwork, Ms. Hues!”
“You know,” she gestured vaguely toward the fountain, “your speed plus my magic—that kid never stood a chance of getting hurt.”
His arm settled around her shoulders, warm and secure. “We complement each other perfectly.”
“Who would have thought?” Molly marveled, leaning into his embrace. “The extroverted baker witch and the stoic tiger shifter...”
“Fate works in mysterious ways,” he replied, bending to brush his lips against her temple. “And I, for one, am profoundly grateful.”
She turned within the circle of his arms, rising on tiptoes to press her lips to his. The kiss deepened naturally, his hands splaying across her back as her fingers tangled in the soft hair at his nape. They stood wrapped in each other in the middle of the busy festival, oblivious to passing townsfolk and knowing glances.
When they finally parted, Warrick’s golden eyes had darkened to amber, the tiger’s presence closer to the surface. “Perhaps we should continue this somewhere more private,” he suggested, his voice a low rumble.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Molly agreed, her own voice husky with desire. “Your place or mine?”
His mouth curved into a rare, mischievous smile. “Ours.”
Ours. One simple word that contained multitudes—a shared home, a shared future, the merging of separate lives into something stronger and more beautiful than either could achieve alone.
“Ours,” she repeated, savoring the sound. “I like that.”