Vinnie catches up, gray eyes dancing with mischief as she grins like she knows what's coming.
"Here." Amelia thrusts a sparkly gift bag at me, complete with hot pink tissue paper and a sad bow, clearly on its fifth birthday. "Happy birthday, you repressed little witch."
I reach in until my fingers close around a small box. Without thinking, I pull out a sleek package containing a very expensive-looking, verypinkvibrator.
"Amelia!" I bury it under tissue paper as Vinnie dissolves into laughter beside me.
"It's top of the line," Amelia announces proudly. "Multiple settings, waterproof, and the reviews? Let's just say you won't be missing any men for a while."
"I can't believe you made me pull out a vibrator in public!" But I'm laughing too, even as my face burns.
"Girl, please." Amelia flips her hair. "Everyone owns one. You can thank me after you try setting three."
"Oh my god." I glance around, catching Mrs. Peterson's knowing smirk as she walks past. "I can never show my face in public again."
"You're welcome!" Amelia sing-songs, delighted by my mortification.
"You know what?" Vinnie loops her free arm through mine. "This is the perfect end to a perfect birthday. Good food, better wine, and now . . ." She dissolves into giggles. "Well, you won't be lonely tonight."
"I'm never drinking with you two again."
We wobble down Main Street, our boots crunching through the fresh powder that's starting to dust the sidewalks. Even at night, Hallow's End looks like it belongs on a postcard. All twinkling white lights wrapped around bare tree branches, wreaths still hanging in shop windows despite February being half over.
The wine Vinnie insisted we drink makes everything soft around the edges, turning the streetlights into warm halos against the inky sky. Steam rises from the grates between The Sunflower Bistro and the old hardware store, and somewhere in the distance, the town hall clock chimes nine.
"Text us when you're home!" Vinnie calls as we part ways. "And don't forget to name your new friend!"
"Oh, I will!" I shout back.
My cottage welcomes me with its familiar warmth, and Salem immediately winds between my legs. Not out of affection, but pure feline judgment for being forty-seven minutes late to his dinner time. One heel catches under the entry table, and I have to grab the wall to stay upright, nearly taking out a picture frame in the process.
"I know, I know," I tell him, trying to focus on walking in a straight line. Which is harder than it should be because three—four?—glasses of wine hit different at twenty-six than they did at twenty-one. "Mommy's late and probably shouldn't have let Vinnie talk her into that last glass. Or two. But in my defense, it was really good merlot, and you can get extra treats."
Salem sits by his empty food bowl, tail twitching, giving me the look that saysyour alcohol consumption is not my problem, human.
He keeps up his disapproving stare, yet I spot the tiniest twitch of interest in his whiskers at the mention of treats. Drama king.
"You're worse than Freddy Krueger," I inform him, using the wall for support as I kick off my other heel. It goes flying somewhere under the couch, a problem for future sober Ivy. I snort-laugh at my joke, which only makes Salem's judgment intensify. "But I still love you."
I'm halfway to the kitchen, dreaming of my bed, when a sharp knock interrupts at the door. I pull it open to find Caleb on my porch. He's in his full Cheesy Delights uniform—ablack polo, with a cartoon pizza slice wearing sunglasses, and finger-gunning under the slogan LIFE'S BETTER WITH A LITTLE EXTRA CHEESE! He's holding what looks suspiciously like a gift box.
"Hey." He grins, dimples flashing. "I've got about five minutes before Martin chews me out for breaking the sacred twenty-minute delivery rule. But figured this one was worth it."
"You remembered." I sway slightly and his hand automatically finds my waist, steadying me.
"Course I did. It's just a last-minute Amazon panic package. No big deal." He shifts the badly wrapped box from one hand to the other. "Fair warning, I ran out of paper halfway through. Had to improvise."
"That explains why half of it looks like a newspaper sports section."
"Open it before Martin sends out a search party." He steps closer, bracketing me against the doorframe.
My fingers tear through the paper, revealing a box filled with . . . wait.
"Caleb . . ."
"Remember that duck video you sent me the other day?" His fingers twitch at his side before he shoves them into his pockets. "I figured you've already come up with twelve reasons why you shouldn't get one—which, knowing you, is an underestimate—but I checked with my buddy from college. He's got a farm outside of town. Says we can visit in spring. Just to look. No pressure if you don't want to."
I pull out each item with trembling fingers. ADucks for Beginnersbook, a ridiculous duck plushie wearing sunglasses, a packet of organic starter feed, and a note that readsFor future emotional support poultry.
