“Of course, Buttercup.” I press my lips against her forehead, rewarded with eyelids that flutter closed and a soft smile on contact. Fuck. I could kiss this woman’s forehead forever. Slowly, I turn her on her side, wrapping my arms around her.
Her feet meet my calf with a satisfied hum. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
“What?”
“Snuggling. I—it feels different when it’s with you, that’s all.”
The warm flutters in the lower portion of my stomach, which have always turned into screaming aches whenever Madeline Finch is around, would agree with that assessment. Touching her is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s like a warm fire crackling in the hearth, this comfort of home when it’s contained, but there’s always the threat that if I let it grow, it could consume and burn me alive. It’s spellbinding, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a curse.
I lay my palm flat on her taut stomach, savoring our tangled heat. “I get that,” I say against her hair. Rosewater locks lull me into a false sense of safety.
But I’ll enjoy it since dreams like these don’t last forever.
Chapter eight
Let it Snow
Maddie
ThebellperchedoverA New Chapter’s entrance rings with urgency as I slam open the door and stomp over the bookstore’s dusty threshold with one goal: get Ellie to undo everything. “You made me Seth Aarons’s booty call?” My voice thunders over the persistent chime.
Present life a mess or not, there’s no way I’m letting three years of hair appointments, curating the perfect wardrobe, cuticle care, and social climbing go to waste.
I’d much prefer to remain “Satanic Barbie” in a dire situation than be “Tutor Girl” because, oh, yeah, that’s my nickname here.
Pathetic.
My converse thud with every heavy, angry footstep toward the weathered counter. For all the differences around me, all the brick colonial buildings and snow-covered chimneys, this place remained the same.
The winter display winks, laughing at me, and I peer at a new title I missed on my last visit, a picture of a man in a grey beanie and a flannel gazing down at a blonde-haired woman in a pink peacoat with an uncanny resemblance to myself on the cover.
No. It can’t be—
I reach towards it.
“Spoilers. Maddie. Spoilers are no good.” A voice tsks behind me, and I jump, retracting my hand.
Ellie stands, unblinking, behind the counter.
“Love at Frost Sight? You couldn't think of anything better?”
“I don’t name them.” She shrugs. “I write the stories. Different faerie binds them and makes the story permanent.”
“It’s a lot skinnier than the other ones.” I grab the book, studying it from multiple angles. An already published story may impede my Have-Ellie-Undo-This strategy, but maybe where it’s skinnier, she won’t mind.
I’m saying there’s a chance, anyway.
“It’s a novella. Holiday ones are all the rage now, you know, but… you both don’t need much to get to where you were supposed to be, just a push and a fresh start where you don’t have all that compounding anxiety on your shoulders.”
“Yeah, so about this fresh start,” I say nervously. The matte cover of the book sparks like hot coals against my fingers, and I cram it back on the display rack.
“Yes, you’re welcome for that. Don’t you feel much better, girl?”
“No. I feel the exact opposite of better. I think you may have confused helping me with torturing me, so if you wouldn’t mind, please undo… all of this.” I gesture at myself. “Now.” I cross my arms, hoping I can still muster a cutting glare, but I fear my stare’s about as sharp as a butter knife. Darn.
She licks the tip of her pencil and jots down a note, hand flying in a possessed writing frenzy. “Won’t do. Helping or torturing, whatever you want to call it, the story’s finished, so there’s no use trying to wiggle your way out of it now. Once I start a story, I need to see it through, or the noggin gets too full of voices.” She taps her pencil with her head. “It won't do to have a lot going up here.”
“That’s not happening already?” I snort.
