“Yes! Actually, yes. She made tea, and I drank some. I did feel dizzy afterward. Maybe she drugged me.” The thought of it shouldn’t excite me, but it’s better than believing that I was actually cursed by a witch.
“Okay . . . you drank tea. I bet it’s fake. Let’s go scrub it off.” We make our way to the bathroom, turning the faucet on high and slathering a rag with soap. As I sit on the porcelain throne, Ari mercilessly rubs my skin to remove the tattoo. After twenty minutes, ten of which were spent thoroughly covering every detail of my interaction with Irina, we succumb to the fact that this isn’t going away.
After giving up, we curl up on the couch to make a game plan. “So, all we need to do is keep it hidden until we can go back and see her. All the shops open at noon on Sundays. We won’t leave this house until right before, and you can wear a sweater when we do.” Ari’s confidence in the plan is reassuring, except I haven’t told her yet that the shop isn’t there anymore.
“About that . . . I was running this morning, before I saw you, and the shop was gone. Like nowhere to be seen.” I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I can’t watch her reaction.
“Excuse me, what?” she shouts.
“I said it’s gone.”
“I heard you. B-but what are we going to do? It can’t just be gone. We have to find it.” My heart fills with warmth at her use of the wordwe. At least I’m not alone in this. I mean, aside from the fact that it’s happening to my body.
“Go shower and get dressed. We’ve got a witch to find.” She snaps her fingers, the sound reminding me of Irina and inducing another tremor through my body. But instead of hesitating, I move. Off to the shower and to find the damn witch.
ten
Sam
A Surprise Dinner Guest
I should have let Olive kiss Max. Not because I want her to end up with him, but because it isn’t cool to take her choices away from her. I’ve never been a fan of telling any woman what to do or when to do it. I value the women in my life as equals, and how I behaved yesterday was borderline caveman. But that’s what she does to me, and it’s not the first time I’ve invoked my wishes or opinions on her.What the fuck is wrong with me?
One look at that milky skin covered in white cotton panties and I was hooked. It’s not logical the way I’m drawn to her. She’s irritatingly beautiful, to the point that she makes underwearsuited for a grandma sexy, but even more than that, she’s smart as a whip and downright funny when she uses her Southern charm as a vessel for sarcasm. A saccharine package that sucked me in, then repeatedly knocks me over the head with a mixture of lust, amusement, and downright annoyance.
“What-ah-ya lookin’ at today, Samuel?” Mrs. Beasley asks, her thick Boston-accent voice releasing me from my ever-present thoughts of Olive.
“I’ll take two loaves of sourdough and some pumpkin cinnamon rolls, please.” After placing my usual order, I look around waiting for her to bag it up.
With the tourists still lingering from the festival, there are more people milling about the market than usual. This is my Sunday standard—well, this and Mom’s dinner.
Taking the bag gingerly from Mrs. Beasley, I offer her a nod before checking my shopping list. I need to find a pie to bring to dinner and restock on the grass-fed beef I’ve come to love. I wonder what kind of pie Olive prefers. Is she a cherry lover? Or perhaps she prefers a peach cobbler with her Southern background. As if my barrage of thoughts, which never stray far from her, conjured the one and only, I spot her examining some apples a few tables down. I approach slowly, tapping her on the shoulder lightly and leaning in to whisper in her ear, “Hey, princess. See something you like?”
Olive spins abruptly, nearly knocking into me, her strawberry-scented hair wafting as it whips past my face. Her eyes are wide, like she’s more than startled from simply bumping into me.
“Uh, hi.” She shifts on her feet nervously, looking around like she’s searching for someone. “It, um . . . seems like you’re stocking up,” she says, settling on examining my purchases. Dragging my eyes from the tips of her black Chuck Taylors up to her freckle-dotted face, I drink her in.
“This is nothing, princess. Cooking for one, unless you want to come for dinner sometime.” It’s more of a statement than a question; I’m counting on her turning me down.
“Oh, I-I wasn’t looking for an invitation. I just wondered where you put two loaves of bread. Must have a secret workout routine you’re hiding. Maybe at one of those fancy places with green drinks.” Is she? No . . . She couldn’t have just paid me a compliment and mocked me all in one breath.
“Are you flirting with me, princess?” I ask, coming right out with it.
“I, oh . . . I’m not sure. But maybe not if you don’t stop calling me princess.” Her cheeks turn a slight shade of pink with her sheepish reply.
“Look, I know we didn’t get off on the best foot, but I am serious about what I said last night. I want to take you out.” My words come out a little more growly than intended. But I feel like I might die if I don’t get her to agree to one date, to give me one shot.
“I don’t know, Sam. I know you believe that’s what you want, but you don’t really know me.” Her shoelaces seem to have suddenly become very interesting, as if she can’t bear to look at me when she turns me down. My stomach drops then jumps like a pole vaulter, launching into my throat. I know in my bones she isn’t saying no because she doesn’t want to. It’s something deeper, a past hurt.
Compelled to do anything in this moment to soothe whatever insecurity she’s failing to mask, I reach out, placing my index finger gently under her chin, lifting. When her eyes meet mine, it’s electric. She can hide or run or whatever it is she’s doing, but I’m locked in. Hell, I was a goner when I called her mine not even twenty-four hours ago. Not that I’d admit that to her.
I run my knuckle over her soft cheek. “Olive, listen to me. I mean, really pay attention.” I search her eyes to make sure she’sfollowing my command before continuing. “You’re right. I don’t know you well at all. But from what I can tell, you’re a good friend, kind to others, you work hard according to Beau, and you’re gorgeous as all hell. You may be a little fancier than I am”—a small breath escapes her lips, and that mask she usually holds firmly in place slips just a smidge—“but I’m nicer than I probably seem, and I do know what I want. It’s pretty simple, princess. A chance. Just give me one chance to take you out.” The pulse in her neck picks up, her eyes turning from light green to a deep emerald. I know she wants this, but will she admit it?
“Olive, we gotta go. Get a move on,” Ariella Marino shouts from across the street outside Union Tavern, breaking the moment I think we were about to have.
Olive’s lips morph into that perfect smile, and it’s almost like I once again can see her wall building itself back up, brick by brick. “I should go.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder toward Ariella, turning to leave without a response.
“Wait.” I grab her hand, grasping for just a second more as I run my thumb over the inside of her wrist. “Let me have your phone,” I demand.
