He let her talk.
And then he told her the truth.
“You’re not too much. You’ve never been too much. You’re exactly enough.”
The look on her face—God, thatlook—was worth every miserable moment in this terrible motel. Worth every broken faucet he’d fixed while waiting. Worth twelve years of Fiona and three years of wandering and a lifetime of building walls that had never kept out anything that mattered.
She kissed him.
No magic required. Just her choice, finally made.
She’s chaos, Liam thought, pulling her closer.She’s difficult and messy and she sets things on fire when she’s emotional.
She was also warm in his arms, and brave despite her fear, and she’d driven to a crappy motel to tell him she wanted him. Not because of a spell. Not because she had to.
Because she chose to.
She’s worth it, he decided.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Liam MacLeod let himself believe that something good might actually last.
EPILOGUE
NEXT WITCH UP
Two weeks after the music box
“Dating apps are a scam,” Diane announced, stabbing at her phone with the energy of someone committing a small murder. “A scam designed by people who hate women and want us to die alone surrounded by cats.”
“I resent that,” Luna said from her perch on the back of the couch. “Dying surrounded by cats sounds ideal.”
“Not helpful.”
Cassie poured more wine into Diane’s glass—the third refill of the evening—and settled back into the armchair that had become her favorite spot since the house stopped rearranging furniture without permission. Sunday dinner had wound down an hour ago. Margaret had gone home with promises to return Tuesday for Cassie’s lesson onweather-reading. Liam was in the kitchen doing dishes because he was the kind of man who did dishes without being asked, which still felt like a miracle.
Sophia had driven back to campus that morning, leaving behind a trail of borrowed sweaters and a note that said“Don’t be weird. Be happy. Call me if the gnomes do anything new.”
Now it was just Cassie and Diane and wine and Diane’s ongoing war with modern romance.
“Look at this.” Diane thrust her phone at Cassie. “Brad, forty-seven, loves hiking and craft beer. His photo is him holding a fish. Why do they always hold fish? Is that supposed to be attractive? ‘Look at me, I killed something slimy, want to mate?’”
“Maybe he really likes fishing.”
“Nobody likes fishing that much. It’s performative masculinity disguised as a hobby.” She swiped left with violent satisfaction. “Next. Oh, this one’s bio just says ‘ask me anything.’ That’s not a personality, that’s an interrogation invitation. Left. And this guy—fifty-two, ‘young at heart’—his photo is from 1997. I can tell by the frosted tips.Left.”
Cassie laughed, reaching for her own wine. As she did, her elbow knocked against the small dish on the side table—the one where she’d been keeping the spelled quartz Margaret had given her for grounding practice.
The quartz rolled.
Landed against Diane’s phone.
And pulsed, once, with a soft golden light that Cassie really hoped Diane hadn’t noticed.
“Did your rock just?—”
“No.”
“It definitely?—”
