Page 62 of How to Flirt with a Witch

Ugh, she’s cute.

“You can’t tell methatwas the internet and an app,” I say.

The crinkles around her eyes and dimples in her cheeks make an appearance as her smile widens. “The kitchen is below us. They send orders through the floor. You just have to be careful with your limbs, or you’ll get an elbow full of syrup.”

I cradle my mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. The dishes are porcelain with flowers and the cutlery is gold, reminiscent of the vintage tableware at my Nana’s place. The coziness and familiarity is a funny contrast to this exciting new world where I get to learn about magic and have breakfast with Natalie.

“So, the test?” I take a sip and let the rich brew trickle through me. That is agoodroast.

Natalie pours a shot of cream into her coffee and stirs, the spoon tinkling pleasantly. “We’ve agreed to do it in a safe environment here in the CSAMM labs. The Alchemists are collecting a bunch of objects and cursing one of them. Fiona and I don’t know which item holds the curse.”

“A double-blind study.” The aspiring psychologist in me jumps like an excited puppy. “So if I prove I can pick out the curse, you’ll let me help you?”

“One step at a time.” Her response comes readily, like she knew what I would say. “Anyway, I thought your purpose was to be a psychologist.”

“I can do both.” It’s easy to imagine living here with Natalie, sitting in this lounge, enjoying this food, playing games under that willow tree… basking in her smile. I have no intention of abandoning my career plans and the people I love, but I like what this place promises—the community, the chance to learn about magic, the sense of purpose. I want this life, even if I’m not a witch. Even if my role can’t be anything more than Natalie’s assistant.

A knot forms in my stomach as I take a bite. I can’t screw up this test.

“Why is Greg in the dining area again?” A shrill voice shatters the peaceful air.

I turn to see a woman stomping after a fawn-colored French bulldog, who waddles between the tables sniffing for dropped food. The woman looks a bit like a French bulldog herself, with a stout build, fawn hair in high pigtails, wide-set eyes, and her face scrunched around her upturned nose.

“Greg, get out!” She shoos the bulldog, who continues sniffing without acknowledging her flapping hands.

A woman at a nearby booth stands. “Agnes, he’s allowed to be here.”

“It’s against thelawto have dogs in a restaurant!”

The other woman mumbles something I can’t hear, putting the dog in her lap and feeding him a bit of egg off her plate.

Natalie’s expression falls in exasperation.

“I wish she’d give it a rest,” she murmurs while the women argue. “Familiars are free to roam the building, as long as they have a tag and are registered. We’ve had strict rules about keeping animals accounted for ever since a cat got into an Alchemy lab and aggravated some cursed birds.”

I laugh, which makes her lopsided smile reappear.

The longing to stay turns into an ache. If I lived in CSAMM, Ethel could roam with the other pets. She would love exploring, climbing the willow tree in the corner, and making friends with other cats.

“You’re not doing a good job of making me hate it here,” I say.

She folds her forearms across the table, leaning in. “Who said I want you to hate it here?”

I frown. “You’ve made it clear you don’t want me to stay.”

“There’s a difference,” she says, her voice low, “between that and wanting what’s best for you. Trust me, I very much want you to stay.”

The way her dark eyes penetrate my skin sends a lick of heat through me. It travels downward, tingling, and I cross my legs. I drop my gaze to my plate so I can get ahold of myself.

I want to believe her. I want to think my feelings are reciprocated. But as long as she lets ‘what’s best for me’ get in the way, nothing’s going to happen between us.

“Who areyou?” Agnes’s shrill voice moves closer, and a flash of pain crosses Natalie’s expression before she smiles up at our guest.

Irritation spikes as Agnes severs whatever tension had been pulling taut between us.

“Hi, Agnes,” Natalie says politely. “This is Katie. You must have heard the gossip.”

“Of course I— Well, not yet, but—” she snaps. Pink spots bloom in her cheeks. “I haven’t met with Fiona yet this morning, but I’m sure this matter was first on the agenda.”