Page 9

Chapter Nine

W hit stared at the cheery brightness of the glass of orange juice on the large dining table. The sun was just starting to come up outside the east-facing windows of the dining room, and it seemed to dye everything in happy morning colors.

The year had turned to the dark half, his magic was on the rise, and he could feel it would be unseasonably cold today. But he wasn’t thinking about that this morning.

He’d left the party the night before with the resolve to keep his encounter with the summer witch in perspective. It was interesting and fleeting. And it was over when he’d stepped away from her. He had a good life—an easy, fulfilling, mostly calm, steady life.

That’s what he’d told himself. That’s what he knew to be true. That’s what his brain wanted for his life.

But when he’d slipped into sleep the night before, she’d invaded his dreams. They were filled with hope and a happiness he didn’t know he could feel. Bright summer days, cozy winter nights. Even now, he could still hear her voice as if she were humming in the other room—her clear sweet tones playing over and over in his head as she sang the fire back to life.

He couldn’t remember ever being afraid of ghosts. As most winter sorcerers, he’d learned to coexist with them at an early age. But finally, he understood what it meant to be haunted.

And unreasonably—unthinkably—he’d awoken that morning with an idea. If a summer witch was okay with kissing a stranger, would she be okay with marrying one?

It was a crazy idea—absolutely absurd—but he hadn’t thought about anything else since he’d opened his eyes that morning.

It was an obsessive little thought he couldn’t seem to shake, that no logic could shoot down.

Oh, he’d asked himself real questions, brought up real concerns. They didn’t know each other at all. What if they hated each other in the light of day? She was a summer witch, and her upbringing, her way of thinking—her magic—would be totally foreign to him. His friends and family would have a hard time accepting a summer witch into the fold, and who knew how seriously hers hated the winter faction. And yet…the outrageous pact he’d made with his grandfather—the pact he’d agreed to only to delay the inevitable—hadn’t specified a winter witch…

Had he wondered whether the rest of his life was worth a house, a house he loved, sure, but still just a house? Of course, the thought had crossed his mind. But for some reason, it didn’t seem to hold much sway.

In any case, he didn’t want a real marriage—no matter what had happened in his dream. He could approach this with logic and reason. He imagined the whole thing would be like having a roommate. He’d have his life, and she’d have hers.

What’s the harm in asking her? He considered the idea as he drained his orange juice and picked up his empty oatmeal bowl.

He moved through the dining room to the kitchen. The house was much too quiet for this time of day, his grandfather usually up and puttering around. But he’d left earlier that morning. Whit had found a note on the refrigerator with his grandfather’s goodbyes. Grandfather had an early flight to get down to Florida and didn’t want to wake Whit. He’d promised to send a postcard and said he hoped to meet his new granddaughter-in-law when he returned.

Sticking the glass and bowl into the dishwasher, Whit knew what he had to do next.

Heading out into the hall, he started up the wide, polished staircase. Then he turned left into his bedroom, where he passed his bed and settled into an armchair before pulling his computer from the side table onto this lap.

It didn’t take him long to find the website of Bronwen Floral and Gifts. It was pretty standard and neatly organized.

He clicked on the “About Us” page and was greeted with a photo of his summer witch and her family. There was a short description underneath talking about how it was a family business and when they’d opened.

He gazed at her as she smiled from the screen, her brother’s arm around her and her sister’s head on her shoulder as they stood in front of their parents, who sat on the counter behind them.

Though none of them looked quite the same, they all looked related. The siblings all had the same cheeks—their mother’s cheeks—and their father’s nose, which was small and slightly upturned. Clover’s hair was a dark auburn, which framed her fair face—making her skin appear that much lighter. Her sister’s hair was blonde, while her brother’s was a bronzy red. Her mother’s was a strawberry blonde streaked with grey, and her father’s was a muted white. Her brother was bigger than her, muscular but lean. Even her sister had a few inches on her.

They must be a tall family . From the night before, he remembered that she seemed of average height.

Her eyes, a cornflower blue, sparkled as if her sister had just said something to make her laugh.

He clicked on a social media icon at the bottom of the page to see more pictures.

Their social media page was mostly a series of posts about sales and specials or pictures of flower arrangements. He scrolled for a while before finding a picture of Clover. She held a vase full of pink roses as she lifted her hand to the brim of her baseball cap—embroidered with the name of the shop.

The caption read: Want to send something special to someone even more special? Our resident delivery girl has you covered.

Even better .

Clicking back to the shop’s website, a banner flashed across the top of the screen. “Order in the next four hours for same-day delivery.”

Whit’s mouth quirked in a smile.

Scrolling the page, he clicked on the first flower bouquet that caught his eye—something yellow. The label said they were camellias. He didn’t really care what they were as long as they brought her to his shop.

A sense of satisfaction flooded Whit as he completed his purchase and closed his computer. Everything would be settled by the end of the day. He would have his answer one way or the other.