I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could be someone worth loving.
I found him right where I’d left him, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee cradled between both hands, eyes fixed on the empty parking lot outside my window. He looked like a man who could out-wait the sunrise if he put his mind to it, but when he saw me, his entire face softened. Maybe it was just the hangover, but the sight made my pulse trip over itself.
He grinned. “Look at you. Hair’s all shiny.”
“Don’t make fun,” I said, even though I knew he wasn’t. “That was the closest I’ve come to dying.”
He shook his head, set his coffee down, and poured a second mug—mine, already doctored the way I liked it. He slid it across the counter. I took it, warm between my hands, and tried not to let my heart show on my face.
“Eat something else?” he asked. “I made extra toast.”
I sat at the table, folded my hands around the mug, and nodded. “Yes, please.”
He set a fresh plate in front of me. Toasted bread, buttered to perfection with just the right amount of strawberry jelly sat on top of it. I bit into it and closed my eyes, letting the taste anchor me.
We sat in companionable silence for a minute. I could feel him watching me, waiting for the right moment to bring up the thing I least wanted to talk about.
“You want to tell me what you were thinking last night?” He asked, voice low.
I took another bite, chewed slow. “About the bar?”
He nodded.
I set my fork down and tried to remember the moment it had all gone sideways. “I just wanted to feel… normal,” I said. “Like everyone else. Not the weird girl with the haunted past. Just a person who could laugh and dance and drink a little too much and maybe get hit on, but in a fun way.”
He nodded, but the lines around his eyes deepened. “You know why I was mad, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Because I scared you.”
He let out a huff. “Not the word I’d use, but close enough.” He ran his hand over his mouth, then looked me dead in the eye. “You’re not just the weird girl, Aspen. You’re a target.”
I wanted to protest, but the memory of the man in the bar—his hands, the way he looked at me like I was something to be owned—killed the urge. I stared at my plate, appetite gone.
Papa reached across the table, curled his hand around my wrist. “I’m not saying you can’t go out, or that you have to change. But I need you to promise me something.”
I nodded, eyes stinging. “What?”
“Don’t go alone. Not for a while.” His grip was gentle, but there was steel in his voice. “Let us keep you safe, at least until we figure out what’s really going on.”
I nodded, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
He squeezed my wrist and then let go. “Good girl.”
Warmth spread through me, chasing away the shame. It was nice, I realized, to have someone care enough to scold you. Not because they wanted to control you, but because they gave a damn if you made it to tomorrow.
He leaned back, expression softening. “Now. First thing. Who is Oscar?”
I froze mid-sip. “Oscar? I mentioned Oscar?”
“Yeah, you did. Said he was your prairie dog friend.”
I needed to tell him. He’s not a secret after all.
“Oscar is my familiar. He showed up after the weird dream when the book heated up. He said the book called him. He’s here for me. To help me.”
Papa stared at me for a second. “Can I meet him?”
Just like that, Oscar was sitting on the kitchen counter. Only this time, the little sucker spoke out loud. “Oscar B. Wilde, at your service.” He gave a small bow.
