Page 7 of Hopelessly Teavoted

He ought to have been here. Ought to have rented a car and driven the weeklong trip across the country as fast as he could.

The least he could do now was help save the shop that had meant so much to his parents.

With another snap of his fingers, the scent of mint tea and nutty lattes drifted a few blocks farther.

He was already a failure as a son, as a screenwriter, and as a friend. And now he was even failing the cat, which needed food.

“I have to go feed Emily Lickinson,” he muttered.

“Who the fuck ,” she said, hitting the last word angrily, “is Emily Lickinson?” Her eyes sliced into him. Her hands were at her waist. He had to be misreading it; he was nothing to her now, and she couldn’t possibly be jealous of a cat.

Dragging a hand over his face, he felt sweaty and nineteen again.

“My cat.”

“I thought you were allergic.” Her face softened.

“I am. Emily Lickinson doesn’t care, though. They make pills for that.”

“That’s an incredible name for a cat,” said Vickie. She smiled. “I’m glad it won’t be just you alone writing all day.”

He cleared his throat, flattered she remembered, and uncertain of why he found this next declaration embarrassing. He’d sworn to himself not to give a bat’s ass about it when he took the job. But Vickie was different. The remnants of friendship made him desperate for her approval.

“I am actually living back at Hart Manor. With my sister.”

“She failed to mention that.” Vickie cocked her head to one side.

Oh, he was going to make his sister pay for this later.

He ran a hand through his hair, pretty sure he could figure out what Priscilla was up to.

“Yeah. I took a job teaching English at Hallowcross High. I start in a few weeks.” He said it softly enough that he wasn’t sure she would catch it, but her face lit up immediately.

“That’s amazing, Az! You’re going to be a teacher. Can I call you Mr. Hart?”

“No.” He hated that idea, for uncomfortable reasons pertaining to the bow of her mouth again.

“Fine, fine. Azrael it is, as always. The witch named twice for the devil.”

He shook his head, unsure what to do now, and looked around, but the shop was empty.

She had loomed so long in his mind after the last time they had seen each other that he saw her everywhere, in anything that smelled like strawberries.

In between the lines of songs they had loved as children, anytime they came on the radio.

Those times he had occasionally given in and scried—just out of friendship, of course—she was always laughing, and in the past few years, often with a heartthrob that he recognized as an up-and-coming musician.

He hated that guy enough to change the station if his songs came on, even if the bitterness did make him an ass.

An ass who was staring now, looking guilty as sin, and needed to say something.

But when he opened his mouth, they both spoke at once.

“Speaking of the devil,” she said, while his words rushed out in a jumble as he asked, “How’s the famous Robbie?”

Outside the shop, people were starting to gather. The spell was working.

“What?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Oh. We broke up last month. But honestly, it was over long before then.” She looked murderous, and he thought he ought to change the subject.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the sudden uptick in his heartbeat, and the way his fingers wanted to magic her flowers, or a playlist. One full of old, obscure love songs.

“What were you saying about a devil?” he asked, willing his mischievous digits still.

“Oh, nothing. We can talk later. I’ll text you. I better get ready to win the hearts of these customers,” she said, looking at the door, which someone was pulling open. He watched through the wide glass window front as people flocked toward the entrance, illuminated by the setting sun.

“I can’t believe we are finally getting busy this late in the day,” she said, beaming. “Same number as before?”

“Yeah. Same number. Always.”

Azrael smiled. He hadn’t drowned in unrequited love for this woman for years without learning when to take a hint.

And he most certainly did not love her anymore.

He couldn’t. It would be too embarrassing, too pathetic, to hang on after discovering years ago that he’d never been more than an itch for her to scratch.

He’d be damned if he stood here awkwardly waiting for her to ask him to leave.

“Happy early birthday,” he said, hoping it came across casual, and like the date wasn’t seared into his brain. “I have to go.” He turned away from her. “Emily Lickinson, you know.”

“It was good to see you.” She gave him a smile that he felt deep in his chest as he held the door open for people filing in, suddenly eager for an evening tea and snack.

He should have been charming, but his tongue felt incapable, so he raised a hand, waving. He walked away toward the corner store for the cat food and then toward home and the giant, fluffy monster that was probably murdering all of his mother’s best upholstery.

The least he could do was stay away from Hopelessly Tea-voted and Victoria for a respectable amount of time.