"Come on," he wheedles. "My night was clearly cursed. Maybe if I'd borrowed one of your protection charms . . ."
"That's not how it works and you know it." I answer, taking the turn towards Hallow's End a little too sharply. "Besides, you're twenty-six. How about we focus on why you're still this much of a disaster?"
"In my defense . . ." He pauses. "No, you're right. I have no defense."
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence as Caleb's head gradually droops against the window. Soon, the quiet is broken only by his soft snores, and the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers fighting the snow. I keep both hands firmly on the wheel, squinting through patches of early morning fog as we wind through familiar streets.
I nudge his shoulder when I pull up to his house. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You're home."
He startles awake with a grunt, blinking owlishly at his snow-covered front yard like he's not quite sure how he got here.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "You're always saving my ass. Bad dates, drunk calls, that time I needed a place to crash for two weeks when my heating broke." He scratches the back of his neck. "I don't deserve you."
"Oh please, like I wouldn't do this for anyone." I roll my eyes, but there's no heat in it. "Besides, you make up for it with free pizza and your mom's secret cookie recipe."
"That you had to bribe out of me with three shots of tequila." He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face me. "Still. You're always there. No questions asked, just . . . there."
"That's because I'm clearly the responsible one in this friendship."
"Breakfast later?" he asks, hopeful. "When I'm less likely to throw up and more likely to remember how to human?"
"Rain check. I have inventory to do at the shop." I wave him off. "Go sleep it off, Romeo."
He leans over and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. My heart stutters, heat flooding my cheeks. His lips curve into that familiar smirk as he pulls back. "Thanks for the rescue, Shorty."
"Text me when you're conscious," I manage.
He's already climbing out, the ridiculous pink hoodie a bright spot against the falling snow. "Yes ma'am," he calls over his shoulder and disappears inside.
My skin still tingles where his lips touched it, and I ruthlessly squash down the flutter in my stomach. It doesn't mean anything.
It never does.
Just another morning in the life of being Caleb Miller's best friend.
The bell of TheEnchanted Quill chimes as Margie bursts in, bringing a gust of late February wind that sends loose papers flying off my counter. Snow dusts her wild red curls, and she's bundled in what looks like three different scarves.
"Sweet baby Jesus, it's freezing out there." She unwraps herself while I chase down a runaway receipt. "Only in Hallow's End do we get a blizzard warning right after a warm spell."
Winter in Hallow's End has always been my favorite. The whole town hibernates together, swapping soup recipes and emergency candles between neighbors. Just another cold seasonin our little corner of nowhere.
"At least your guests are getting the full New England experience," I say, retrieving the last paper from under a shelf. Margie has been running Willow Cottage B&B since before I opened my shop, and her envy-inducing little place usually gets booked months in advance.
"How's Ana doing with that sleep tea?" I ask, thinking of her six-year-old who's been having nightmares lately.
"Finally sleeping through the night." Margie leans against the counter, her smile warm. "Though now she's insisting the lavender gives her magical dreams. I blame you entirely for that, by the way."
"Better magical dreams than no sleep." I laugh, passing her another batch of Before Midnight tea. "The Murder Chronicles is killing me. Let's finish binging the last episodes this weekend?"
"Yes! I'll bring wine, and Vinnie better show up with those muffins she promised last time." Margie checks the time. "Shit, gotta run. Got a family checking into the cottage in twenty."
After she leaves, I return to restocking the display of locally sourced crystals near the window. Zara's perched behind the register, her dark curls falling into her face as she studies for her Art History midterm.
"So, what are your big birthday plans for Saturday?" she asks suddenly, closing her textbook.
"Shouldn't you be learning about . . . whatever dead artist you're covering?" I dodge, but Zara's already grinning. When Katie cut back her hours for her senior thesis last month, I got lucky finding Zara. She might be new, but she's picked up the shop's rhythm faster than I expected. Plus, she definitely keeps things interesting around here.
"Botticelli can wait. Come on, spill. Twenty-six is like your quarter-life-crisis year." Zara's eyes sparkle with mischief. "You're supposed to have some sort of existential breakdown, quit your job, and move abroad tofind yourself. Though . . ." She glances around the shop, with its crystals and tarot cards, "I guess you kind of skipped straight to the spiritual awakening part."
