Page 7 of The Summoning Spell (The Holiday Glitch #1)

Trouble in Aisle Four

S he hadn’t meant to take him to the store.

It was a survival decision, really. Her coffee stash had given up the ghost sometime around midnight, the toilet paper situation was dire, and she needed something grounding, something painfully normal, before she spiraled again into whatever post-demonic-afterglow existential crisis she was teetering on.

She shoved a hoodie over her tank top, yanked her hair into a bun that might’ve had sentience, and pointed at him with the sternness of someone who once babysat demon-possessed toddlers at a Halloween fair.

She could’ve ordered delivery. She could’ve stayed in the comfort of post-sex couch melt. But some small part of her craved the dull ache of the ordinary—fluorescent lights and cart wheels and people who didn’t rearrange her soul just by breathing.

“No weird shit,” she said firmly, keys already in hand. “No glowing. No teleporting. No letting your horns out. And absolutely no being hot at strangers. ”

Ashar blinked at her, mid-sip of his coffee. “Being hot is not an action.”

“You know what I mean.”

He smirked, but followed her out the door, anyway.

The drive was quiet, except for the playlist of angry women with guitars she blasted to feel normal again. Ashar didn’t complain. Just sat there, long legs folded into the passenger seat like he’d ridden shotgun for years, his gaze flicking over the passing trees with curious detachment.

She glanced at him once at a stoplight. He caught her, and he smiled. She turned up the volume.

The grocery store was aggressively normal. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, carts squeaked like anxious mice, and everything smelled like over-chilled produce and quiet despair.

Ashar stuck close, pushing the cart without complaint. He didn’t even blink when she tossed in tampons, boxed wine, and a family-sized pack of lube.

“You never know,” she muttered.

“I don’t judge,” he said, voice low, maddeningly smooth.

They were halfway through the baking aisle when she noticed something strange.

He wasn’t looking at the women.

She hadn’t expected him to flirt, exactly, but a few smirks or raised brows wouldn’t have shocked her. He was a walking thirst trap. The local moms in yoga pants were definitely noticing.

But Ashar? He didn’t give them a second glance.

He was watching the men.

Every guy who looked her way, dads with carts, college bros, even a teenager comparing brownie mix boxes, got the same look: narrow-eyed, tilted-head scrutiny like a predator daring them to take one more step .

She paused. “Are you seriously staring down that old guy for handing me a coupon?”

Ashar’s voice barely rose above a growl. “He was too close.”

Blair blinked, and then flushed. Holy hell. Her brain tried to reboot.

He was guarding her like some unholy combination of possessive boyfriend and apex predator. Like she was his territory, and not in the gross alpha-male way, but in the I will burn down a kingdom for you way.

And she liked it?

No. No, that was the part of her that still mistook control for care. That was codependency. That was the trauma brain talking. She’d been here before. Possession dressed up as protection. But this felt different, too different, and maybe that was worse.

Ashar reached past her to grab a jar of cinnamon. His arm brushed her shoulder.

Her pulse spiked. Not helpful. She tried to shake it off, stalking ahead into the cereal aisle and examining the boxes of fiber flakes as if they held the secrets of the universe.

Ashar caught up, dropping the cinnamon into the cart. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s the lighting,” she hissed. “Everything looks red under this demonic fluoresce, oh god, you love this, don’t you?”

“Love is a strong word.”

“But accurate?”

He leaned close, voice dipping into dangerous territory. “I enjoy being close to you. Especially when you get flustered, it’s illuminating.”

“Ugh. ”

He laughed, low and unrepentant. “Do you want me to stop?”

She hesitated. And that silence, that heartbeat where her brain tried to lie but her mouth didn’t, was enough.

Ashar smiled again. And it was the kind of smile that should’ve been illegal in public.

They moved on. Got coffee, paper towels, and something that might’ve been ethically sourced kale. Blair tried to focus on her list, on keeping everything normal. Predictable. Safe.

But every time a man looked at her too long, Ashar was there.

Not touching, he wasn’t glaring; he just kept watching.

Absurd, but weirdly comforting in a way she didn’t want to name.

By the time they got to checkout, she was vibrating with something unfamiliar. Not quite arousal, and not quite dread. Something in between. Something sharp and warm and clawing at the walls she kept meticulously reinforced.

He loaded groceries while she paid. Thanked the cashier, who gave Ashar a once-over and bit her lip.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t even blink, Ashar didn’t even glance at her. And something in Blair’s chest pulled tight, not with jealousy, but with disbelief. She wasn’t used to being the only object in someone’s attention. She wasn’t used to being enough.

He didn’t even act like he noticed, but Blair noticed.

Dammit, she noticed everything now.

* * *

Back in the car, she didn’t start the engine right away.

Ashar sat beside her, calm as ever, thumb tracing a pattern on the ridge of the paper towel package .

She finally asked, “So is that a demon thing or a you thing?”

“What?”

“That whole alpha-shadow-lurking thing you did in the store. You stared down a man in Crocs like he was seconds from dragging him to hell for breathing near me.”

And I kind of liked it, Blair thought.

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “What if it’s both?”

“Should I be worried?”

“Are you?”

Blair didn’t answer.

Ashar leaned in, just a fraction. “I’m not trying to scare you, Blair. But I do protect what’s mine.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m not yours,” she said. But even to her own ears, it didn’t sound like she believed it.

He didn’t argue, didn’t claim her, didn’t correct her, either.

She started the car, hands tight on the wheel. “Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not.”

“And I’m still not catching feelings.”

He smirked. “You keep saying that.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him again either. Because if she did, she might admit something her heart already knew:

That maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind being watched.

Not if it was him doing the watching.