“Heather!” I shout back, then scoop her up in a twirling hug, which only works because she’s no longer tied to Jenny. “You did it! You tricked someone into mating you!”
She laughs, and when I put her down, she punches me in the shoulder, but it’s only a playful tap compared to her sister’s sledgehammer.
I feel a spark of pride at how well Blossom walloped me. I’m the one who taught her how to swing a good right hook in the first place. She only agreed to learn when I offered to be the one she practiced on.
“Dance with me.”
The bride tugs me onto the temporary wood platform next to the band, and I lead her in a dramatic waltz to a lively country song. Heather hasn’t stopped grinning since the ribbon was wrapped around her wrist, and the sight is as satisfying as a chilled glass of sweet tea on a hot day.
“You’re happy?” I ask, my tone taking on a rare note of seriousness.
She nods hard, her green eyes sparkling. “So much that I think I might explode.”
“Let me know when that’s gonna happen. I’ll lay out tarps.”
Heather chuckles and pulls me closer, just as I spy a mischievous light in her gaze. “I want you to feel this way,” she says.
I smirk. “Sorry, not into the polyamorous thing. You and Jenny are on your own.”
She keeps on wearing herI’ve got a secretsmile. “Oh, no, Manny. Jenny and I wouldn’t make you feel like this. I know that. But I know who would.”
Suddenly, I find it hard to swallow.
She can’t mean …
“Things are in motion,” the wood witch sings, and I watch as the tiny buds weaved into her hair begin to flower, her joyfulmagic spilling into them. “You just need to go with it.” Heather pulls back to hit me with an intense stare, eagerness and concern warring in her eyes. “This might be your one shot. Don’t mess it up.”
“My shot at what?” I rasp. “What are you talking about?”
But Heather doesn’t answer me, only takes the lead and whirls us to the edge of the dance floor, her concentration coming to rest over my shoulder. “Papa! I’m mated!”
As Heather’s arms slip from my shoulders, I turn to meet the steady gaze of Root Fernmore. He’s a short white man with ruddy cheeks, thinning brown hair, and an easy smile.
After my parents died in a hunting accident—two werewolves mistaken for real wolves, lurking near livestock—I had to move from New Mexico to this small Georgia town and live with my uncle. My father’s brother was not a caregiver and had no idea what to do with an angry, heartbroken ten-year-old boy. When Heather found me wandering alone, she dragged me home with her and told her father I needed some apple pie. Root took one look at me, then slipped his apron on and started baking. That first bite was the first time I felt something other than devastation since I’d learned about my parents’ deaths.
Heather forced me back into the world of the living.
Root comforted and supported me as I grew.
Blossom …
Blossom tormented me with her mere existence.
Now, she stands next to her father, looking like a fantasy in her green gown. The little witch also looks ready to sneak off, but Heather is too quick, looping her arm through Blossom’s to keep her in place.
“I’m mated! Blossom, are you aware that I’mmated?” Heather holds up her hand, showing off the rock she now sports.
“New rule,” Blossom deadpans. “Every time you saymated, you have to take a shot.”
I snort, and the younger witch throws me a glare.
“Fine.” Heather lets her hand fall, but her grin stays firmly in place. “I won’t say the M-word anymore. I don’t want to be hungover on the first day of my honeymoon. Not the best way to start off my mating.”
“Mating. You said it. That counts.” Blossom scoops up a glass of champagne. “Don’t have a shot on me, so you’ve got to chug this.”
And Heather—wild witch that she is—does as her sister demanded, letting out a burp when the bubbly is gone.
“You are the embodiment of grace,” Root says, smiling at his two daughters. “We’re going to miss you. You’ve never left for this long.”
