A year earlier, Ava would have happily spent hours with the markers and colored pencils, doodling designs on index cards and adding notes likeLocal WriterorMy dork brother loves this series!Her shelf cards had sold so many books, I’d started giving her a commission.
Today, she’d just disappeared into the basement, muttering about wanting to hit the punching bag. From the volume of the thumps and creaks coming from below, she was hitting it with a baseball bat, or maybe a sledgehammer.
Morgan sat in one of the high-backed armchairs by the window, a cozy little reading nook I’d set up almost twenty years back, right after we opened the shop. His chemistry book sat unopened on the small end table while he drew a series of cartoon cats telling shoppers to buy theLittle Book of Cat Magic.
I watched him sketch out a fat tabby with long whiskers. “That’s cute.”
He jumped and covered the card. “I’m not a very good artist, but—”
“Don’t do that. Never respond to compliments by putting yourself down. You don’t diminish yourself for anyone.”
“Sorry.” He set the card aside and glanced around, making sure we were alone. It was early enough the shop was still empty. “Grandma, is there any way to block the effect that you—thatwehave on people?”
I thought about what Blake had said. “You’re asking because of your mom?”
He grimaced. “It’s embarrassing. I feel bad for her. It’s been four years since the divorce, but every time she sees him, she starts simping.”
I addedsimpingto my mental list of teenage slang to look up later, but I could guess the meaning from context. I’d had the same problems with a number of my own exes, some of whom had stalked me for months before I taught them how important it was to respect a woman’s boundaries. Especially a woman who carried a very big knife. “We create desire, not love. But desire can be confusing.”
His cheeks turned slightly pink. “I know that. But come on. She followed her ex-husband to Massachusetts. Who does that?”
“Maybe she just moved here to be closer to her children.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave me alook, the same expression of pity edged with condescension that I’d seen so many times on his father’s face.
“To answer your question, no,” I said. “It’s not something we can fully control or turn off. Especially given how your dad feels about her.”
Shit. Had I said that last bit out loud?
Morgan’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, how he feels? What did he say?”
The bell over the front door rang, and a boy in his late teens walked in. Thank god for customers. I hurried away from Morgan without answering. “Welcome to Second Life Books and Gifts,” I called. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Just looking,” he mumbled without making eye contact. He ducked into the gifts-and-souvenirs side and made a show of studying a display of handmade buttons on consignment from a local college student and crafter. About half were witch-themed. The rest were a blend of LGBTQ pride designs, climate awareness slogans, and cat stuff.
I returned to the counter and watched him on the cameras. He was fit and good-looking enough, with disheveled blond hair and just a little stubble. Strong jawline. Broad shoulders. The dark, broody eyes that were so attractive to young women who didn’t know any better.
He wore a black trench coat over a tan button-down shirt and black jeans. It was a good look for him. Not terribly practical on what the weather forecast predicted would be an unusually warm April day, though. But it was ideal for shoplifting.
Good luck with that, kid.Temple’s magic made sure none of our inventory wandered off. His spells didn’t do any permanent damage, but depending on how much this kid tried to steal, he might stumble and fall, split his pants, or soil himself when he stepped out the door.
Jenny kept a folder of security footage of would-be thieves triggering Temple’s spells. She played them on repeat when she needed a laugh. Her favorite was the woman who stepped outside and was immediately besieged by seagulls, one of whom flew off with her hair extensions clutched in its feet.
This kid didn’t act like a typical shoplifter, though. Oh, he dressed the part, and he’d scoped out the visible security cameras right after he walked in. But he wasn’t gravitating toward the pricier merchandise—the sterling silver jewelry, the framed print from theBewitchedmovie with Nicole Kidman’s autograph, the handmade wands with crystals and semiprecious stones and gold wire . . .
He left the souvenirs and entered the bookshop area. He sniffed, and his nose wrinkled. Either he wasn’t a fan of incense or else I hadn’t burned enough to fully hide the harvester’s stink.
He approached the nearest shelf and grabbed a book without looking. He pretended to flip through it while staring over the top of the pages at me.
“Are you interested inThe Millionaire’s Mistresses?” I asked.
He checked the cover of the book in his hands and blushed hard.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” I said. “Klasky’s a talented author. Her sex scenes are particularly spicy. Check out the end of chapter eleven.”
He shoved the book back onto the shelf like it was burning his fingers. Behind him, Morgan covered his mouth with one hand to hide his amusement.
The kid reached toward a different shelf, then seemed to give up on the pretense of browsing. He folded his arms and studied me with the intensity that usually got people slapped or propositioned. But there was little sexual interest in his scrutiny. No more than the usual, at least.
