Page 52 of Season of the Witch (Toil and Trouble #3)

thirty-six

“Well, this is pathetic.”

Henry jerked his head up from where he’d rested it on the back of his office chair. Bastian and Gabriel stood in front of him, one golden in jeans and a leather jacket, the other dark in a cashmere coat and leather gloves.

He frowned, swinging the chair toward the door. “What?”

Emma’s fiancé touched a finger to the frame on Tia’s desk, lifting it up to look at. “You, working on Christmas Eve.” He put the photo of Tia and her friends down, then picked up the lipstick she’d left, uncapping it to reveal the deep red.

Henry’s fingers itched to burn Bastian’s so he’d quit touching Tia’s things. “Mom and Dad are at some party. Didn’t feel like joining.”

Especially when Henry hadn’t bothered to see them since he got back. He didn’t feel like listening to his dad count the ways he’d failed. The investment, the company. Tia.

We’re done.

He purposely glanced away from Bastian and his sticky fingers to his oldest friend, who remained in the doorway like a silent specter.

Bastian and he had been friendly all those years ago, but Gabriel had been there through it all.

His friend had a reputation for being aloof but Henry knew personally the warlock would go to the mat for the ones he cared about.

Speaking of… “Aren’t you meant to be with Leah and Melly?” The reindeer sweater he wore had to be for them. That or the warlock, who normally preferred suits, had lost his damn mind.

Gabriel followed his gaze and his pale cheeks flushed. “I will be. After.”

“After?”

“After we knock some sense into you.” Bastian at last turned from Tia’s desk. “What the hell were you thinking?”

A deep scowl slashed Henry’s face. “I don’t need this.”

“Seriously,” Bastian continued, ignoring him, pacing up and down. “You masqueraded as an amnesiac to—what? Humiliate your ex?”

“No,” Henry denied, bracing his hands on the reports he’d been pretending to read. “And it’s none of your business.”

“Leah is very upset by it,” Gabriel put in. “ Leah is my business.”

Henry stared at him. “You’re meant to be on my side,” he said finally, wincing at how the words made him sound about ten. “You don’t even know why.”

Gabriel arched one perfect brow, his green eyes vivid and sharp. “You’ve never got over her so you decided to find out why she broke things off. That way, you could win her back.”

“And to do that,” Bastian added, his pretty face twisted in disbelief, “you decided to airbrush the past for a few weeks to get close without her cursing your junk.”

Henry slouched. “Okay, so you do know. But I really did lose my memories. For a bit.”

“I just want to know how you thought it was going to go down when you told her the truth.” Bastian glanced at him, his navy gaze dark against his tan. “You were going to tell her the truth?”

“ Yes . When the time was right.”

“Never. It’s never the time to tell Tia you lied to her for weeks.”

Henry longed to argue but he couldn’t pretend. He uttered a curse and pushed his hands into his hair. “I fucked up,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed, earning a glare as well. His British accent clipped the next words. “What I want to know is why on earth you let Tia walk out on you a second time.”

Anger kindled in Henry’s chest and he shoved up out of his chair, leaning his weight on his hands. “It’s not that simple. She said we were done.”

“And what about when you’ve talked to her since?”

A muscle ticked in Henry’s jaw.

Bastian groaned.

Gabriel sighed.

Heat hummed in Henry’s blood as he fought not to set his friends on fire. “I can’t chase after her all the time,” he gritted out. “She has to fight as well.”

Bastian wagged a hand at the chair they’d found Henry in. “This is you fighting?”

“I tried to explain and she wasn’t hearing it.”

“So you explain again. When she’s cooled down and a good twenty feet from any hex bags.”

“You tried to explain,” Gabriel smoothly intercepted before Henry snapped. “Did you apologize?”

Henry glowered. “I did it for us. So we could have a chance.”

Both warlocks stared at him.

He tried again. “If she’d only listen, she’d see that, but she’s always too stubborn. Too stubborn to look at a different side and admit she might be wrong.”

They kept staring. Pointedly.

His skin began to steam. “That’s not—it’s not the same.”

Gabriel said a lot with a second sigh. “Did you at least learn anything through your masquerade?”

Yes.

She thought he’d stopped putting her first in any situation. And he had.

She thought he didn’t listen. And he didn’t. Because if he did, he wouldn’t have fallen back into old patterns, yelling at her as she yelled at him. Trying to win instead of losing ground for the longer battle.

Hell, he’d yelled that he’d loved her like it would help him win. Using those words like a sword instead of the unshakeable fact it’d always been.

The sun would always rise in the east. The tide would always roll in. And Henry Pearlmatter would always love Tia Hightower.

When she’d told him they were done, he could’ve argued. He could’ve chased after her. He could’ve done anything.

Instead, he’d done nothing. Again.

What had she said?

Words. Always just words.

“Fucking hell,” he said aloud and dropped back into his chair.

Bastian rubbed his hands. “We have about thirty minutes before Emma and Sloane realize I’m not still in The Louvre. Let’s talk Operation Hightower.”

* * *

Christmas Day came and went, and this year, the Hightowers celebrated.

Tia never went back to her apartment, instead heading with her dad to the family manor to talk. After a lot of tears and tissues, her dad had sworn he’d answer anything she asked, even about her biological father. That he’d even go with her to meet him—if that was what she wanted.

She wasn’t sure it was. Why should she chase after some dick who’d abandoned her?

The echo of her bitter thoughts about Henry had her flinching. Uneasy, she’d said she’d think about it. No rush to make that choice. She already knew who her real dad was.

She slept in her childhood room, redecorated in calming blues, and woke up to a tree, presents and beignets.

They exchanged presents, ate turkey, discussed new potions—once a Hightower, always a Hightower—and when her nana turned up, instead of heeding Tia’s hesitation, she prodded her granddaughter with her cane and demanded who she should kneecap.

Wisely, Tia kept Chrichton’s name to herself.

By the time Boxing Day rolled around, any residual awkwardness between her and her family had cleared like the sky after a storm.

She wasn’t sure if she’d completely forgiven them, but not holding on to her pain with a death grip made her feel less tight inside.

Like there was more space somehow. And one day, she figured this would be just another fact, like her nana’s penchant for grits or the way her mom always groaned when her dad brought out his antique potion books.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say she’d never thought of Henry, but she’d given it the old college try.

It was hard being so confused about him.

About everything. The threads surrounding the whole messy situation were too tangled together, and she had no clue where to start picking it apart.

For all she knew, he was fine with the way things were, even with his final declaration.

Because I love you!

She had a shift at Toil and Trouble, so left her parents’ house with enough time to jump into the shower at home.

His words followed her into it, whispering in circles as she ran conditioner through her hair.

Maybe he did love her, but love hadn’t been enough last time. Not for him. Not for his dad.

Thank fuck for the bar shift. She hadn’t had near enough time there lately, and with all the revelers, it’d be too busy to do things like think .

She was halfway out the door when she noticed the small wrapped gift on the hall table. Emma, she thought with a smile, grabbing the gold package the size of her hand. Living it up in Paris but still remembered to send gifts. Just like her.

Time zipped by for the next few hours as she laughed with repeat patrons, pouring unlimited glasses of wine, mixing up Christmas-themed cocktails, lining up shots and even doing one with a favorite regular.

She was rushed off her feet, even with the temporary bartender they’d hired over the holidays.

Finally, somewhere around three, she declared an official lull and sent the poor twenty-two-year-old off to recover some sensation in her feet. Tia’s own hummed in her heels, but used to that, she instead drained half a bottle of water from the under-counter fridge.

The little gold package caught her eye.

She’d untied the red bow and lifted the lid, revealing red tissue paper, when the door opened again. Intense power slid down the back of her neck, frying the tiny hairs there.

Isabella sauntered in, all swaying hips and confidence, like she visited bars all the time. Bianca followed at her heels, a perpetual thundercloud glaring at any of the single men who dared sully Isabella with their commoner eyes.

Tia’s mouth parted as the High daughter stopped at the bar. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hello.” Isabella glanced around, sliding off berry-pink cashmere gloves.

Her hair was a mass of white curls threaded with a pink hair ribbon, lips the same shade as the coat she unbuttoned, revealing a modest ivory dress that left her shoulders bare.

“So, this is your bar.” Interested, she surveyed the room, missing the few men who eyed her back. Or they did until they saw Bianca.

“Yeah.” Tia tried to look at it through her eyes.

It was no ballroom, but it was a decent-size space, outfitted with wine leather booths, a giant TV on an exposed brick wall, dozens of wooden tables and chairs and a small stage where they hosted local bands or karaoke nights.

It was cozy, comfortable, a place that invited you to relax.