Page 4 of Season of the Witch (Toil and Trouble #3)

The clock on the polished mantel struck two.

It meant he’d already been here an hour and needed to get back to his desk, but he lingered anyway.

The tradition of taking tea with his mom had started when he’d been a boy, after one of the many times his dad had brushed him off.

Always in his mom’s parlor, so welcoming with its plush feminine furnishings, they’d have cake and tea and talk.

About anything. No judgments. It was one of the many reasons he adored his mom, even if others found her a little eccentric and gossipy.

Here was his safe haven, complete with the tang of lemon polish and the notes of his mom’s French perfume.

If only she’d let him have coffee. He sighed and forced himself to finish the chamomile, setting the cup in its saucer on the coffee table with a click.

“Are you leaving?”

“Work won’t do itself,” he said lightly.

Before he even stood, she crossed arms clad in pale green cashmere. You work too much , he mouthed in time with her, and grinned again.

She huffed, even as a smile tugged on the corner of her mouth. “Think you’re smart, do you?”

“I’m your son.”

“Don’t flatter me.” But she preened anyway. “You’re your father’s son, through and through. Work this, work that.” She sighed, missing the tightening of his expression. “Life is for living, Henry. When was the last time you brought a witch home? When am I gonna have my grandbabies?”

Heat funneled up the back of his neck. He refused to react, knowing that was half her plan.

“Dad doesn’t complain about my work ethic.

” It was near enough one of the only things that earned him praise from the old man.

He still remembered the glow of finally being invited into his dad’s private study to discuss business, the relief of having something in common.

“Oh, don’t get me started on your father.

” Frustration stole over his mom’s sharp, pretty features.

“Does the man ever take a day off to be with his wife? An hour? No, he has to drive himself and our son into the ground, and for what?” She sniffed, shaking back long, loose hair the same color as his own, undeniably striking against skin so pale, it had blue undertones. “A company.”

“A legacy.”

“Honey, you spit out that Kool-Aid before it rots your brain.” The prim words made him laugh. She clutched her hands together, despairing. “Love is what you should dedicate yourself to. And for once, your dad has done right by pairing you with Tia again.”

Abruptly, his humor shut off, a lid closing a box with finality. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice flat. Harsh.

She ignored him. “Why can’t you make it work? You two were so beautiful together.”

He gave her a half-incredulous stare. “We argued constantly.” Except when they’d been in bed, and even then, every time had been a challenge, neither willing to give in.

Crisp sheets under hot skin, mouths roving, hands gripping hard enough to bruise.

The memories made lust coil tightly in his gut.

“Heat is essential.”

“Mom.”

“Boy, how do you think your dad and I made you? We burned up the sheets plenty, still do when the man looks up from his computer and his crystals to remember he has a wife.”

“Hey, far as I’m concerned, all you guys do is kiss. The Goddess must’ve floated me down on a cloud.”

His attempt at humor failed as she peered at him from suddenly soft eyes. “You don’t have to work so hard for him, honey,” she said, equally gentle.

It made him tense. “I don’t. I work hard for me.”

She clicked her tongue, doubtful, and like that, all Tia’s past accusations about being a lapdog rose from where he’d tried to bury them. He stood quickly, disturbed. “I have to go.”

Far from put off, his mom crossed her arms again. “Henry Charles Pearlmatter, did I raise you to run out on your mother?”

“You raised me to know when to flee a losing battle.” He stooped, kissed her cheek. “Nobody ever wins an argument with you.”

“Think you’re charming, huh?” But she smiled a little. “At least think about it. About what’s important.”

He knew what was important, but he also knew his mom and he would never agree on that.

Before he could leave, his dad strode in.

Though he’d been working from home, he still wore suit trousers and a shirt.

His hair was neatly brushed ebony, framing the angles of a lightly tanned face more likely to be called distinguished than handsome.

Pale green eyes, exactly like Henry’s, examined the teacups.

Henry stood taller, fighting not to shift in place. “I was just taking a small break.”

“Hello, dear.” His mom waved before his dad could respond. “Remember me, your wife?”

His expression cracked as he turned from his son. “I thought you looked familiar. Divining tattoos, veil, full moon ceremony?”

“I was the one in sage green,” his mom confirmed. “Come kiss me, husband, before you drag our progeny off to the labor camp.”

His dad chuckled and did as ordered by his wife, his love for her a subtle constant all of Henry’s life. The only time the man ever unbent was with her.

Sure enough, any affection drifted away from those eyes as they shifted to Henry. “I need to speak with you.”

Henry nodded and left without a backward glance.

Ten minutes later, he masked the challenge racing in his blood. “I can get him.”

“I have no doubts.” Seated, Richard placed his hands on his antique desk, the surface well-ordered and well maintained.

It was dark wood, much like the bookcases that lined the walls, the only relief the plants his mom insisted he have in here.

The sun didn’t touch this part of the manor, so lamps were always burning on the dark furniture.

The rug beneath Henry’s feet had barely faded with age, although it should have with the amount of times he’d anchored in this spot.

Richard Pearlmatter didn’t have “guest” chairs.

And that was what Henry still felt like here—a guest.

But if he managed to convince Archibald Siddeley to invest, if he was the one who secured international business for PH Inc… .

Maybe , his mind whispered.

Richard tapped a file folder twice before it appeared in Henry’s hand. “This is the dossier we’ve put together on him. He’s to attend a company party we’re hosting in three weeks. I want you to memorize that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be ready, Henry.” The words were stressed. “I have no doubts that Gloria and Peter will similarly equip Tia Hightower.” A small amount of distaste crept into his voice. “If we could keep her away from Siddeley, it would be better, but that idea was naysayed.”

Meaning his dad had gone toe-to-toe with the Hightower women and lost. Henry sympathized.

His dad let out a short, aggravated breath. “I understand they’re Legacies, but why they persist in this pretense that Tia be involved in the company… It’s sheer stubbornness. They’d be better trying to marry her off.”

A Legacy family, much like his own, was the cream of the society crop. Every generation added to the next by sacrificing a small amount of their magic to make the line stronger. Not as strong as the High Family, but definitely a desirable match.

Henry forced away the image of Tia walking down the aisle to a no-faced warlock, his skin feeling too tight over his bones. “Tia would never go for that.”

Richard harrumphed. “Likely you’re right. But we need someone calm, efficient, who listens to others. Her hot-headedness is too much of a hazard.”

The disparaging words burned in Henry’s chest. His jaw worked side to side as he forced a nod. It wasn’t like his dad was wrong. He might have been the fire warlock but Tia had a quicker temper.

Well. Most of the time.

These days, it was hard to remember that he’d ever had a reputation for being the calm, charming Pearlmatter.

Shove Tia and him in a corner office for five weeks and all that had been shot to shit.

From the day they met to the day they exploded, they’d worked against each other like flint and stone, and now after eight years, they’d picked up their swords like no time had passed.

Every day she trained a look on him that dripped condescension, every time she scoffed when he mentioned his dad, every time she pushed just to push him, his resolve weakened like toffee held under a flame. There was only so much he was willing to take before he snapped. And then…

He’d see those red lips part with desire, not insults. The breathy catch she used to make would bleed into the air when he bent her over the desk, her body shuddering under his roaming hands. As she writhed, he’d flip up the skirt of those dresses she swanned around in and he’d—

Fuck.

Savagely, he snapped the thought off. Not because he couldn’t face the truth—he’d long ago accepted he’d never find a woman who made his blood run as hot, or his head as dizzy, as Tia Hightower.

But Tia didn’t change; she was as stubborn as ever.

He’d loved her for it, as much as he despised what it meant—there was no future for them.

And fantasies where he could relearn how to make her moan, or hell, even just laugh with her, were pointless.

“Just remember,” his dad warned, bringing Henry back, “Siddeley is English. Breeding and etiquette will matter to him. Manners.” The look Richard leveled on his son was pointed. “No matter how Tia tries to provoke you, I don’t want any scenes.”

Henry stiffened his spine. “No scenes,” he agreed, ignoring the unease that flipped in his stomach. He could handle his feelings around Tia for one night. For his dad’s sake.

Right.

Somewhere, he just knew the Goddess was grinning and rubbing her hands in anticipation.