Page 6 of Hopelessly Teavoted

Azrael Hart had returned weak and weary from his flight and the taxi back to Hart Manor.

He was broke, his screenwriting career had stalled, and his parents were dead.

He had left behind California and the damp basement apartment in a house full of more cats than were ideal for an allergic person, especially because cats flocked to witches.

Even the mundane ones had a sense for magic.

Which is precisely how he’d ended up bringing Emily Lickinson home with him.

His former landlady had insisted that Emily could not be parted from him, and Az found himself flying home with a yowling cat, impervious to his snapping magic as cats so often were, who only curled into a corner of her carrier and settled once he had snuck his hand in to pet her.

Azrael found himself staying back in his old bedroom, at the mercy once more of both the house and his younger sister, who lived down the hall from him, just as she had in their childhood.

He needed to pick up cat food, and he needed to talk to Priscilla when she got home from the Council meeting.

But most of all, he needed time to clear his head.

It had been years since he had seen the looming spires of Hart Manor, and he was surprised at how much he loved them again, even returning in grief.

The other things were too complicated, so he grabbed the key and set out into the August night for the task that he could manage.

The part of his heart that he had tried to carve out and throw away lingered here in Hallowcross, and his body felt physical relief at returning to it.

Being here now, he was closer to feeling whole, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Victoria Starnberger, who he hadn’t seen in years, unless you counted that spectacular and then horrible time in her college dorm.

Which he most certainly did not.

Azrael had tried for years not to wish that a specific someone loved him.

He had been so alone that it could have been anyone, as long as it was someone .

But if he was honest, when he shut his eyes at night, a familiar constellation of freckles haunted him, and specified quite a bit more than just anyone.

Fortunately, there was a good chance Vickie wasn’t even in town. He stopped himself from looking her up when he could, and in the hectic haze of losing his parents and moving, it had been a while since he’d scried to make sure she was alive.

And when he did check in, it was out of friendship alone, of course.

He didn’t even deserve to search for her on the internet, let alone with magic, and he knew he should have worked harder to repair the friendship after that one time. But it had been too painful, and he had been too young. And too hurt to reach out.

Even the feel of her name across his brain made his chest ache and his wrists throb.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed a hand over his heart.

He looked up and saw that his feet had taken him back to the place his mother had loved so much instead of to the grocer he’d meant to visit first for the Friskies shredded chicken in gravy that Emily liked best.

Tea shop first, then. Priscilla had said he would love the new owner.

When he opened the door, the small skull bells tinkled in a way that reminded him of his mother enough to make him want to cry.

Thank goddess the new owner had kept them.

The windows were polished to a high shine, and the cozy assortment of mismatched coffee tables of different heights and high-tops scattered among high-back chairs and couches were the same.

The scent of coffee and the tea of the day—it must have been mint—hit his senses with a flood of memories laced with a third scent—one that made him think of warm summers and soft grass.

Strawberries.

His head snapped up as his heart recognized, before he saw her, what he would behold.

Azrael was not a witch for nothing. He could sense the smell of her and the feeling of being close that he had forced himself to forget even after six years.

The way his magic whispered in his ears and wound around his fingertips in response.

Home. Her back was to him, her messy brown hair streaked with blond piled on top of her head, which she shook at the sound of his footsteps.

Priscilla would pay for this. He would have to prank her mercilessly for neglecting to mention that Vickie worked here now.

Yes, he’d at the very least hex her favorite thriller novels so that knives shot out when she opened them.

He’d spell them not to hit anything vital, but he might even enlist the help of the under-stairs haunt to serve her retribution for this omission.

Vickie hadn’t turned yet.

“Go away. I told you I’d do it, but it’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to come gloat. I’ll help you collect when it’s time.”

“I— What?” Az didn’t know what to make of her reaction. Vickie froze, and spun around, her face going white as a sheet under her freckles.

Fuck me. He’d thought he’d gotten her out of his system, but all he could focus on now was how he wanted to kiss every one of those freckles, especially the smattering under her lip in that place he remembered so precisely.

It was the completely wrong reaction to seeing Vickie.

The last time he’d been that close—well, it was best not to dwell on that.

“Az,” she breathed, and for a moment they were back there, standing in the rain outside her dorm building, about to make terrible choices.

If he could just get to her in this moment of softness, and figure out what she was doing in the shop, it would all be fine.

Everything was fine. He opened his mouth, preparing to stay casual. Aloof. Perfect.

He was fine .

“What the hell are you doing in my parents’ shop?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fucking goddess, that had come out so poorly that he might be willing to try just a teensy little memory wipe, just for a second, even if it was ill-advised. And illegal.

Her eyes narrowed and she watched his fingers come together.

“Azrael Hart, don’t you dare even think about hexing me to forget right now.”

Her stony green eyes said she meant it. Memory wipes were prohibited for so many reasons: to keep magic secret, to protect consent, and to avoid being a jackass. It had been a terrible idea to even think of violating international human rights laws just to regain her good opinion.

Which he’d pretty much already lost forever, anyway.

He’d have to go about this the old-fashioned, mundane way, then.

“Sorry. I, uh, haven’t been myself lately. Since my parents died, really.” The honesty was a peace offering, one that spilled out more easily than it ought to around her. He couldn’t help himself; he had always needed her to know him, for better or for worse. “Maybe before that too.”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

Slapping his errant, tempted fingers on his leg, he looked away from her. He’d been moments away from fading her memory. And he already hated himself enough for the time in her dorm that had sullied their friendship.

She eyed his palm carefully, and bit her lip.

“I’m sorry about your parents, Az. You know I loved them.”

She had. Much more openly than he had ever allowed himself to, and now they were gone, and he was a bloody monster. A devil in more than just two names.

He swallowed, trying for some semblance of normal. “It’s good to see you, Vickie. The last I heard you were still in business school. Are you home for break?”

She shook her head and stepped back an inch. As far as she could go against the counter. Blinking, he tried not to imagine what it would be like to brace her against it, their bodies aligned, the softness of her against all his sharp angles.

“No. I’m taking a permanent hiatus from school at the moment.” He snapped out of his inappropriate reverie. He could feel color rising to his cheeks, the shame of his body’s unbidden reaction to her, even after all this time.

“That doesn’t really—” he began, but stopped, seeing her face.

Vickie stared for a moment, and cocked her head, before smiling.

“Fine. I dropped out. I bought your mom’s shop. As a little early birthday present to myself. I’m taking a big leap, following my dreams, all of that stuff.”

“You WHAT?” He paused for a moment, dumbfounded. “You’re telling me that Maximillian and Amelie Starnberger—the town’s founding family—agreed to buy a campy little tea shop?”

Vickie bit her lip hard enough that it was distracting.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to stop them from magically snapping mood-setting music into existence, or even worse, from tracing the constellation of freckles on her cheek next to those pink lips.

The bottom one was just a little bit poutier than the top…

and now he was staring at her mouth like a fucking pervert.

When he looked up, she was looking out the window, nibbling that bottom lip. Devil dammit, to be those teeth.

“Not exactly, Az. They disowned me. Formally and legally. But I took a loan. I’ve got it completely under control.”

He glanced around at the empty tables. Not a single soul, though she’d set out pastries and the accompaniments for tea as carefully as Persephone Hart ever had. This was all that was left of his mother, and now here he was, making an absolute ass of himself.

“I have to get out of here,” he mumbled, dragging a hand through his hair, and snapping his fingers quietly behind his head to send the warm scents of the shop drifting through the air outside.

“What? Are you in town for a few days?” she asked.

“No,” he muttered, the strawberry scent of his childhood love reminding him of too much loss. “I’m back home. For good.”