“NO, MATE.”
“Alright. Calm the fuck down. Her fleshisgorgeous. You just want to sink your teeth into her.”
Great. Now I’m arguing with my wolf. Life just keeps getting better and better. That little witch said she had no ability to use magic, but she sure as shit put a spell on me.
Chapter 4
Aspen
By the time dusk settled over Dairyville, my body ached in places I’d forgotten I even had. I was cleaning up the bakery, hands raw from the lemon-scented soap and arms spattered with the ghosts of dough and glaze, and thinking,this is the kind of pain you earn. I stood at the kitchen’s edge, surveying the aftermath: mixing bowls stacked, cooling racks half-filled with tomorrow’s ambition, a single, beautiful cinnamon bun left on a parchment square like a consolation prize. It was the sort of exhaustion that curled up deep in the muscles and radiated a slow, low fire through my ribs. Satisfying in a way I couldn’t quite put into words.
The last customer of the day—some woman in blue jeans and a band t-shirt, hair up in a messy bun and a kid at each hip—had called me “hon,” paid in cash, and left with a box of cookies and a “see you tomorrow.” She was the third or fourth person to say that, which felt both like a blessing and a threat. I’d never worked so hard to fit in. I tried to make every customer feel seen and even made larger purchases extra special by tying them up in boxes with a white string that, according to the internet, was part of the “brand experience.”
I set the mop in the bucket, wiped my palms on my apron, and took a long, slow breath. The bakery looked cleaner than I imagined it had in years. The air was scrubbed free of its sugar rot, replaced with something sharp and hopeful. The display case gleamed. A girl with flour in her hair and dark circles under her eyes looked back at me in the reflection. A sense of accomplishment that I’d never felt filled my being.
For the first time since I’d arrived in Dairyville, I wasn’t afraid to stand still. There was a fragile hope in my chest, almost like pride, though that was a feeling I’d never known well. Maybe that was what Mama had tried to teach me—how to plant roots without getting choked out by the dirt.
I went to the front door and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED; the bell tinkling its final note of the day. It was early afternoon, and people were still shopping at the antique stores and boutiques. Come dusk, the streets outside would be mostly empty, as the last of the sun dragged shadows up the sides of the buildings. This little town looked like it belonged to another time. I started to believe I could like it here.
I looked up at my own yellow awning, bright and cheerful against the blue of the Texas sky. I thought of Mama, and how she’d have been happy with her decision. I closed the door and leaned against it, glancing around the bakery. Goosebumps suddenly ran up my spine, and a gentle breeze brushed acrossmy neck. I heard a voice, small and light.“I knew you could do it. I always believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself. Now,youhave to start believing. You are more, so much more, than what people have said about you. You have everything you need to be great already inside of you. Find a way to grasp it.”I stopped and looked around the dining room.
“Mama?” A tear ran down my face. I knew I’d not be able to see her, but I absolutely heard her voice; heard what she’d said. “I’ll find a way, Mama. I promise I will.”
As I locked up, my thoughts drifted to JT—Big Papa Rice—and the way he’d looked at me earlier. He had been the first person, the first to actually compliment my food. He’d been standoffish and kind of a jackass, but sincere. It seemed like he was battling with himself. I think his instinct told him that all witches were bad. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him for thinking that.Ifeel that way about most witches.
But there was something about him. And it went beyond the fact that he’s maybe the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Yes, he carried scars on his face and neck, and probably across his body, but that does not detract from his innate attractiveness. He had a light around him that drew me in. Even when I wanted to punch him. He clearly worked to keep his dark blonde hair styled and his beard neat and trimmed. I wondered if that was because of his scars or if he’d always been meticulous. Maybe I’d find out someday.
“Oh, girl, what are you even thinking about? That guy hated you. You’re never gonna find out anything personal about him.” I had this conversation with myself as I went back to the kitchen and started tomorrow’s prep. I needed to get his sample cake made. I lined up the baking sheets, measured out flour and sugar, and set the coffee to auto-brew at five thirty. I liked the rituals, the way they anchored me to the present. Mama always said that purpose was the best shield against grief, but tonightthe old ache pressed in at the edges of my mind. I let it hang there, just out of reach.
As I worked, I couldn’t help but think about how the townsfolk kept their distance. Polite, yes. Kind, even. But there was a wariness in the way they watched me—a slight tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes when I handed them their change. It wasn’t hostility. More like curiosity, the way a person looks at a snake in the grass and tries to decide whether it’s venomous. I’d grown up with that look. In Verdant Hollow, it was sharper, more direct. Here, it was soft and hidden behind layers of small talk and neighborly goodwill, but it stung just the same.
Papa’s warning surfaced in my mind: ‘Dairyville is almost a hundred percent human. We keep all the supernatural stuff under the radar. They can sense when you’re different.’ I hadn’t tried to hide, but I hadn’t advertised myself, either. I was just the girl from Georgia with the odd name and the knack for cinnamon rolls. That was enough, for now.
I finished cleaning the last mixing bowl, got the cakes out to cool, and wiped down the counter with a fresh rag. The kitchen was quiet but not empty; it buzzed with the memory of today’s work, of laughter and music and the constant hum of the ovens. I liked the idea that I could fill a space with my own energy, make it a little less lonely. After I wrapped the cooled cake layers and got them into the cooler, I washed up the last two pans. I thanked all the appliances for their hard work today as I walked out of the kitchen.
Pearl’s Bar & Grill smelled like salvation, or at least like home. It was all fried food and sweet pie and old wood that’d seen more laughter and heartbreak than any church pew. When I stepped inside, the place was humming, half the town jammed into vinylbooths and wood tables, the air so thick with gossip you could slice it and serve it with a side of ranch. I didn’t know where to stand, so I just hovered by the coat rack, hoping not to get trampled by the high school football team demolishing burgers at a long table.
Pearl herself spotted me before I had a chance to sit. She sailed out from behind the bar, hands spread like she might actually hug me, and I braced myself for the impact. There was something about her—this kinetic energy wrapped in pastel sweaters and pearls—that made you feel instantly seen, maybe even known.
“Look at you, little flower,” she crowed, with an easy smile on her face. “You worked yourself to the bone today, didn’t you?” Her eyes swept me from head to toe and found all my rough edges. “Come, come. I’ve got a booth with your name on it. Right by the window. That’s the best seat, trust me.”
She steered me, gentle but insistent, past a row of men in Carhartt jackets and women who didn’t so much as glance up from their chicken fried steaks. I slid into the corner booth, the red vinyl sticky against my legs, and tried not to notice the way a few people’s eyes bounced off me like I was just another ghost passing through town.
Pearl pressed a menu into my hands but didn’t bother to give me time to read it. “We’ve got meatloaf tonight, or you can do the catfish. Don’t ask for a salad unless you want to watch me die of disappointment.” She plucked the menu away, already certain she knew what I needed. “And you’ll get the pie. It’s pecan, just made this morning.”
I tried to protest, but she patted my arm and sailed away, leaving me with a glass of sweet tea and a sudden, unspooling sense of comfort I hadn’t known I missed. The table was covered in little carvings—hearts, initials, the odd dirty word—and I traced them absently, letting my mind drift.
Mama would have loved this place. She’d have found the corner with the best light, ordered a daily special, and made best friends with the entire kitchen staff by the end of the night. She’d have told me to smile more, to loosen up, to let myself be taken care of for once. It made my chest tight, remembering.
The food arrived before I could get too lost in the memory. Pearl herself set the plate down, balancing three others on her arm for the neighboring table. “Eat,” she commanded, like it was the admission charge for sitting in the booth.
I picked at the meatloaf, poking at the mashed potatoes until the brown gravy made little rivers on the plate. It tasted like Sunday afternoons, heavy and rich, but my stomach was knotted up as my mind drifted back to Big Papa Rice. I took a few bites anyway, determined not to let Pearl down.
I was halfway through the pie—perfectly sweet, with a crust that flaked apart in my mouth—when someone slid into the booth across from me. She was my age, maybe younger, with hair the color of campfire smoke and eyes that sparkled like she was always one step from starting a commotion. She grinned wide and unapologetic, and propped her chin on her fists.
“You smell like rosemary and trouble,” she said.
I blinked, thrown by the greeting. “Excuse me?”
