Page 12 of Never Been Witched (Starfall Point #3)

Alice had lied to herself, right up until the moment Riley figured out that Clark had paid a young man named Kyle to terrorize her and break into Shaddow House to steal the locks and that Clark worked for the Wellings.

Alice still didn’t know how she’d held it together around her sisters, how she’d hidden her shame and regret from them for so long.

She remembered standing in the parlor at Shaddow House, acid boiling up in her throat as she realized what she’d done, even accidentally, remembered inadvertently giving Clark information that he had used against them.

She’d pushed all that panic down until she could breathe again, until it was squashed into a little box hidden under her heart.

Heaven knew she had enough room for several.

Maybe that was the beginning of the “holes” in her magic—locking those secrets away from the coven and pretending everything was OK.

And now, she was hiding in an alley behind a snow globe shop. She was miles away from OK.

Her awareness of what Clark was doing didn’t stop him from seeking her out, trying to get more information out of her, telling her to be that “good girl” and give him what he wanted.

He was fully aware of the leverage he had on her.

It was a sort of mutually assured destruction.

She didn’t want her coven to find out what she’d been doing.

But at the same time, she could go tell the whole island that he’d taken advantage of a confused, motherless boy to spy on Riley.

Clark had been subtle before, sort of floating in her periphery.

But lately, he was becoming more menacing.

He was pursuing her with more fervor than he had before, because Clark Graves was a man who didn’t tolerate being told “no.”

Alice moved closer, seeking the safety and noise of the crowd. Somehow, over the din of footsteps and happy chatter, she could hear a familiar voice. It wasn’t Clark’s; it was Collin Bancroft.

She zeroed in on that warm and comforting voice. It settled something in her chest, even if he was saying, “Are you sure that’s a fair price?”

She cocked her head. She heard that phrase all day, every day.

She had a special antenna for it, and that antenna told her that Collin wasn’t trying to haggle.

He sounded truly clueless as to whether he’d just been quoted a fair cost for a green-patinaed iron bench cast to look as it was formed from seashells and fronds of kelp.

“Absolutely, Mr. Bancroft. You will not find a finer example of the Coalbrookdale Company’s work in any store in the state, definitely not on the island,” Nick Manley was telling him. Alice glanced around the corner of Manley’s Finer Antiques.

Now, Alice liked Nick. He was a nice person, even if Franklin Proctor did consider him his personal nemesis. (Probably because Nick put the word “finer” in his store name. Franklin considered that a personal affront.)

“Alice?” Nick’s voice startled her. He was a short, stocky man with sunburned cheeks who dressed for comfort at work—khakis and a collared shirt—because he spent a lot of time moving furniture around.

That was probably another reason her grandfather looked down on him.

“Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

Collin’s gray-blue eyes narrowed at her, his brow crinkled with disquiet. Another tailored suit today, making Alice wonder if he slept in them.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, forcing a smile onto her face. “I was just trying to escape over to Petra’s for a pastry.”

“She’s trying a lemon rugalach for the summer.

It’s causing quite a stir,” Nick said, nodding sagely as he gestured at the bench displayed just outside his shop door.

“Mr. Bancroft here is considering this beautiful Coalbrookdale bench. It’s in wonderful condition for something made in the Victorian period, don’t you agree? ”

Alice glanced up at Collin, who was looking at her, not the bench. He seemed…upset, and she wasn’t sure why. Was it the bench? Did he know that Nick was trying to sell him a fake?

Nick had always been very sweet to Alice, but he had a terrible eye.

He couldn’t tell a Stickley from an IKEA flatpack.

He thought every item that sellers brought him was the genuine article.

And while Alice valued that sort of optimism, it devalued the stock of his store, including this perfectly nice cast-iron garden bench Collin was inspecting.

It simply wasn’t a Coalbrookdale bench. And the price Nick just quoted Collin would be outrageous, even if the surface had been visited by Queen Victoria’s royal bottom. Collin seemed financially comfortable, but Alice’s conscience wouldn’t let her allow him to be duped like that.

She glanced down the street at Clark, who was still knocking on her shop door.

If she was smart, she would run across the square and up the hill while Clark wasn’t looking.

But it felt better here, close to Collin, which made no sense, because she knew nothing about him.

He could be crueler than Clark, as far as she knew.

But the warmth radiating from his lanky frame and the clean citrus-and-ocean smell felt like something she should hover close to. Also, she was wearing heels.

“It’s a lovely piece,” Alice said carefully. “And it looks very comfortable. But, I’m sorry, it’s not a Coalbrookdale.”

“How do you know?” Collin asked, and the question wasn’t a pointed challenge of her expertise. He was genuinely curious. He leaned closer and Alice’s breathing hitched for entirely different reasons. Sensation returned to her fingertips and toes, the fear bleeding out of her system.

“Well, Coalbrookdale pieces tend toward more botanical designs, flowers and leaves, that sort of thing.” Alice ran her fingers over the molded seashell pattern.

“This piece has more of an…oceanic feel? Also, it’s been treated with chemicals to give it the distressed effect.

You wouldn’t have to do that on a hundred-and-seventy-year-old iron piece. It would just be there.”

“You can tell?” Collin asked.

“You can see the splash patterns if you look closely enough,” she said, casting a glance toward Nick, who seemed more annoyed than angry. “And it was made in Alabama, not England. Probably about ten years ago. I remember seeing it in mail-order catalogues.”

“You’re kidding!” Nick exclaimed. Annoyance had given way to interest as she shifted the bench forward until they could see the bottom slats. The stamp for McMurtree Creek Iron Works was punched into the bottom of the seat.

“Huh, I’ll be darned. I never thought to look there,” Nick mused. “Maureen Laughlin swore her grandmother brought it over from England after the Great War.”

Alice wondered why Nick believed someone’s ancestor would prioritize patio furniture when they were fleeing war-torn Europe, but she decided to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t feel good about moving this sale out of Nick’s reach.

“McMurtree’s an excellent company,” Alice assured them. “They make nice sturdy pieces that could definitely last more than one Michigan winter, but it’s not worth hundreds of dollars.”

“Thank you, Alice,” Collin said. “You saved me a bit of trouble there.”

“I–I’m so sorry, Mr. Bancroft,” Nick stammered. “Please believe me, I would never cheat a customer.”

“Of course not. Everybody knows that about you, Nick. Now, that hand-carved oak letter box you have in the display in there? The one with little deer leaping across the lid?” Alice noted, pointing to a glass case just inside the shop.

Even from the door, she could see the price tag listing an amount that was considerably higher than the price on the bench.

She’d always admired Nick’s insistence on pricing items in an obvious manner, so customers wouldn’t be surprised.

The virtue of honesty outweighed the potential negative impact of sticker shock, in Nick’s mind, and she appreciated that in his character.

She turned to Collin. “It’s authentic and well worth the price.

It might go nicely with your letter opener. ”

Nick flashed her a grateful grin. She winked at him as Collin peered into the shop. “I like it. Can you put it on my account?”

“Absolutely,” Nick said. “Just let me wrap it for you.”

“You’ve already established an account?” she asked Collin as Nick rushed into the shop.

“I plan on establishing accounts at all the antique stores on the island for a project at the hotel.” Collin lowered his voice to ask, “Should I worry about shopping here?”

“Oh, no, Nick means well,” Alice assured him. “But he believes every story that comes through his door. He’s the kid who wants the pirate treasure map to be real. I choose to think of it as charming.”

Collin smiled at her in a way that made little crinkles form around his eyes, softening the intense gray. It was adorable. “That’s kind of you.”

“Alice!”

Her head whipped toward the sharp voice, and she saw Clark striding up the sidewalk toward them. He had a smile on his face—or, at least, his teeth were showing, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Dammit .

Her brain had been so desperate to think of anything other than her Clark situation that she’d let herself be distracted.

Alice reached out in that moment and grabbed Collin’s arm.

She wasn’t sure what she was grasping for—anchoring, assurance, something to keep her from stumbling onto her butt on a public sidewalk.

But Collin reached up with his free hand and wrapped those long fingers around hers, squeezing them tight.

Rather than the electric buzz of her magic when meeting a fellow witch, she felt a sort of slow-spreading glow, like the sun shining through a bottle of honey. She wanted to bathe in that light.