Asher: Come over.
Cameron: Go. Write.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed.
Between both of their jobs, the upcoming book signing, and Thanksgiving just around the corner, their schedules were overloaded as it was. Which was why they hadmutuallyagreed to spend the weekend apart. Not thatthey’d been seeing much of each other lately anyway. Only, now, they didn’t have to feel guilty about it.
Asher: I miss you.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d left Asher’s house. The guy was completely incorrigible and a total procrastinator, but still…aww. Asher didn’t talk about feelings, not if he could help it. Meaning, any expression of emotion, no matter how flippant, was a pretty damn big deal.
Cameron: Miss you too. It’s just a couple of days.
Asher: Four days.
Cameron: Three.
Asher: Three…and like a third.
Cameron chuckled again as he rolled his eyes, then repeated his order for Asher to either write or get some sleep.
Asher: I see how it is. Abandon me in my hour of need.
Cameron: I think you’ll survive.
Asher: Fine. Call me later?
Cameron: Maybe.
Cameron: Did you eat?
Asher: Yes, mom.
They bantered back and forth for a few more minutes with Asher refusing to let it drop until Cameron promised to call him later that night. Of course, he would have agreed without persuasion, but it felt good to flirt, easy, and there definitely hadn’t been enougheasyin their lives lately.
Feeling better than he had when he’d first woken up, Cameron hummed under his breath as he slipped his cell phone into the front pocket of his dark jeans. He pulled on a hooded sweater jacket, checked his back pocket for his wallet, then grabbed his keys from the end table.
Outside on the porch, he paused and stared at the closed door. There hadn’t been reporters in Mission Grove for more than a week, but he still didn’t feel comfortable leaving his house unlocked. Honestly, he didn’t know if he ever would again.
Deadbolt engaged, he pocketed his keys and jogged down the front steps to his driveway. Instead of sliding behind the wheel of his platinum Infinity Q50, he kept going until he reached the sidewalk, then turned north toward the Boardwalk.
The strings of Cameron’s heather-gray sweater jacket had long since been sacrificed to the dryer gods, making the hood practically useless against the chilled winds thatgusted over the lake. Temperatures had continued to trend downward since the beginning of November, making Cameron long for warm summer days again. While he conceded there were a lot of good things about fall, he could have done without the bleak, gray days and constantly cold feet that came with it.
Despite the unseasonably cool temperatures, the hum of conversation and the scent of freshly brewed coffee reached him as he rounded the corner at the end of the street. Clearly, not even the maudlin cloud-cover could dissuade the residents of Mission Grove from their morning caffeine infusion from the Witch’s Brew.
Pulling the zipper of his jacket up to his chin, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rounded his shoulders as he crossed the concrete bridge that led onto the Boardwalk.
The wooden planks and waist-high railing had been re-varnished since the last time he’d visited. The craft stalls and produce carts had been stored away for the winter. Bright flowers and colorful posters had been replaced with chalkboard signs, small bales of hay, and dozens of pumpkins in varying sizes.
Only a few businesses remained open year-round on the Boardwalk, all cloistered together in the center of what amounted to an oversized deck that stretched out over the lake. Fit to be Dyed was one of just two hair salons in Mission Grove, favored mostly by the younger crowd.Every woman over thirty he knew preferred Daisy’s on Main Street.
Southern Charms, a home décor boutique, did a fair amount of business, especially in the months leading up to Christmas. Currently, a display of cute, grinning scarecrows crowded the front of the shop, sticking up out of barrel planters on thick, hallow pikes. A sign in front of them indicated they were fifty percent off the regular price.
The mouthwatering scent of candied pecans, warm vanilla, and spiced apples wafted from the Pied Piper. An advertisement in the window announced they were still taking pecan and pumpkin pie orders for Thanksgiving. His mother preferred to make her own desserts for the holiday, but she always ordered something from the shop at Christmas.
Cameron turned left and followed the walkway to the store at the end of the row with a large sign over the awning decorated with glowing stars and half-moons.Witch’s Brewwas written across the inky blue backdrop in sparkling gold script that looked like falling stars at night when the letters were illuminated.
Willow Bracken, owner of the coffee house and purveyor of rich, decadent concoctions with unusual names like Salem Express, was probably the most interesting person Cameron had ever met. She wasn’t a native of Mission Grove, or Texas, for that matter, but had moved to their small town from somewhere inConnecticut three years previously. As the town’s only known Wiccan, the transition hadn’t been an easy one. It probably hadn’t helped that she insisted every coffee order come with a free Tarot reading—whether the customer wanted one or not.
