Don’t let it go to your head.
The winery had beenpatient with me, but patience had its limits.
“You’ve called in sick fourteen times in the past two months,” Valentina said, arms crossed, standing in the middle of thetasting room like a general surveying a battlefield. “Fourteen. That’s more sick days than you took in the entire previous year.”
“I had a lot going on.”
“You had a ‘magical emergency.’” She made air quotes. “Multiple times. I don’t even know what that means, Diane.”
I couldn’t exactly explain that I’d been dealing with a possessed phone, an army of summoned ex-boyfriends, and the discovery that I’d inherited matchmaking powers from my dead great-aunt. Valentina was many things—brilliant, demanding, terrifying in a pantsuit—but she was not someone who would take “sorry, disco ghosts” as a valid excuse.
“I know I’ve been unreliable,” I said. “And I’m sorry. Things have… settled down now.”
“Settled down.” She studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “You do seem different. Less…”
“Chaotic?”
“I was going to say ‘like you’re about to bolt at any moment,’ but chaotic works too.” She uncrossed her arms, which was as close to relaxing as Valentina ever got. “I’m not going to fire you. You’re too good at your job when you actually show up. But I need to know you’re committed.”
“I am. I’m—” I almost laughed at the word. Committed. Me. “I’m in a different place now. Literally and figuratively. I moved in with someone.”
Her eyebrows rose. “The antique shop man?”
“How do you know about?—”
“Small town. People talk.” A hint of a smile crossed her face. “He seems grumpy.”
“He is grumpy. It’s part of his charm.”
“Hmm.” She picked up a clipboard—Valentina always had a clipboard—and made a note. “Fine. You’re back on the schedule starting Monday. Full hours. No more ‘magical emergencies.’”
“No more magical emergencies,” I agreed. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m being realistic. But I’ll give you as much notice as possible.”
She sighed the sigh of a woman who had learned to accept what she couldn’t control. “That’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Monday. Seven AM. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
I walked out of the winery into the autumn sunshine, feeling lighter than I had in months. I had a job. I had a home—a real home, with someone who wanted me there. I had friends who’d become family and magic that had finally stopped trying to drown me.
For the first time in my life, I had a life I actually wanted to live.
It was terrifying. It was wonderful. It was mine.
Sunday dinnerat Cassie's had become tradition.
Not the kind of tradition that felt like obligation—the kind that felt like gravity. Like no matter what else happened during the week, we all just naturally ended up at 47 Maple Street when Sunday rolled around, drawn together by something stronger than habit.
Tonight, the table was chaos in the best possible way.
Liam had made something Scottish involving potatoes and an alarming amount of butter. Cassie had contributed a salad that was mostly croutons—she’d gotten better at magic but not at cooking. I’d brought wine, because that was my role and always would be. Marcus had brought a cheese plate arrangedwith the precision of a man who’d spent thirty years handling delicate antiques.
