“Maybe it’s magic.”
I suck my teeth, practically hissing at the words. “Let’s not get carried away, Bridg. We both know magic isn’t real, and she’s not my next girlfriend. Olive is way too proper for me. I doubt she’s ever even stepped foot in a tattoo shop. Not interested. She’s more Max’s type anyway,” I lie, something I strictly avoid, and a lump hits the back of my throat as a result.
I don’t even know her well enough to determine if she is or isn’t a match for anyone, but since the moment I saw her, I wanted her for myself, not my baby brother. I’ve never believed in love at first sight or that magical connection people reference, but something happened when I saw her this morning. It’s like my brain rewired itself, and now after one flashing (which she handled like a champ) and a three-minute conversation, she’s all I can think about. It’s unsettling.
Bridget stares at me with her mouth hanging open. “You’re so full of shit it’s not even funny. I can just picture it now, you calling Mom and encouraging her to set Max up with Beau’s new beauty. What’s she like anyway?”
She’s not wrong, but the whole thing is so fucking weird. I’m not like this. I don’t fall for anyone, even if deep down I want to find my soulmate, to have that profound and unwavering love that my parents have shared for more than thirty years. “Uh, she’s Southern and easy to rile up, but it’s also like she stepped right out of the country club. Didn’t really learn much about her.” I shrug and resume drawing.
Bridget shifts in the chair, putting her hands on her knees and leaning forward. “A debutant, really? Interesting. I wonder what she’s doing in Mage Hollow.” She lifts one eyebrow. I know she’s pushing me. Bridget and I are the closest in age in our family, and she’s always been able to read me.
I drain the rest of my coffee, throwing the empty cup in the bin that sits under my desk. “Look, I know you’re fishing. It was a brief conversation, nothing to tell. How are you holding up? You never texted me back last night.” I level her with a look, changing the subject.
“Mmmk, big brother. We’ll see.” She stands and moves toward the door. “But don’t forget that Mom knows everything, and I can tell from your face that you’re still picturing her panties.”
With that she leaves my office, cackling the whole way to the front door, completely disregarding my question about her breakup. Last night it was the end of the world, and today we are apparently avoiding it all together. It isn’t until I hear the familiar jingle and the shop door closing behind her that I realize I never mentioned the flashing.God damn it, Mabel!
“Make sure you clean this with antibacterial soap a couple of times a day, then put this on it after so it stays moist,” I say, handing Bill a tube of tattoo jelly. I just wrapped up a traditional piece on his forearm, a horseshoe accented with gold and red. It’s a cool piece, but I know from experience he’s not the best at keeping things clean.
I’ve learned through years of practice that tattoos with fine details will look like shit if they aren’t cared for properly. It doesn’t matter how good I am or how precise the lines are. The healing process is critical. My best clients take it seriously, and the ones who don’t inevitably return for multiple fixes. I should be grateful for the extra cash, but it’s more important to me that they have a quality result.
I finish ringing up Bill, my last appointment of the day, and he makes his way toward the door, stopping next to the window. “Holy shit, who the fuck is that?” he asks, staring at someone across the street.
I move so that I can see around him and am once again paralyzed by her beauty. Every bit of her is stunning. From the blue-and-white dress she’s wearing, to her long strawberry blonde hair that’s swaying in the breeze. Olive looks like shestepped off the pages of a magazine and landed right on my doorstep.
“That’s, uh—she’s new in town,” I mumble. Shaking my head in an attempt to rattle the thoughts of her out of my brain.
Bill sighs heavily. “She’s going to give everyone in this town a run for their money.” His assessment makes me chuckle a little. He’s not wrong, there is something magnetic about her. I can’t help but wonder, like Bridget, why she would even come to Mage. What could have been so appealing about this place that she would willingly work for Beau?
I clap Bill on the shoulder a little too hard. “You better get home to Tracy before word gets back that you were staring at the new girl.”
He turns and looks at me, a slow understanding seeming to sink into his features. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’m sure she has a thing for guys with tattoos,” he says sarcastically.
And that’s just it, he’s probably right. It’s not that ink in your skin makes you an immediate bad boy, it’s more that other people assume that’s true. I could be the most religious, Bible-toting, saves-kittens-from-trees kind of guy, and it wouldn’t change the way people like Beatrice Bushnell, and maybe Olive, see me.
three
Olive
A Bright Yellow Vest
My feet pound the pavement, the wind whistling through the trees as I run. The sun hasn’t risen yet, streetlights cast dark shadows around every corner. There’s something exhilarating about the feeling of sweat dripping down my body, the heat in my lungs like a hot-air balloon burner propelling me forward. I’m basking in the warmth of my working muscles, a contrast to the crisp air of early fall in the Northeast. I should be scared by the number of mysterious things lurking just beyond my reach, but the need to feel a rush of adrenaline, to push myself out of my safety net, is freeing.
I round the winding road leading into Mage Square, and my pace slows. The dim glow of the Victorian oil lamps brightens the usually busy center just enough to emphasize the parts of this town I’m beginning to love most. There’s the quaint gift shop that’s outfitted to supply shoppers with a myriad of magical-themed toys, freakish candy, protective sage, and ancient spell books a plenty. Or Union Tavern, which I’ve come to know serves the best turkey Reuben to ever touch my taste buds and beer served at exactly the right temperature in a frosted mug so cold you can almost hear it crackle. There’s no shortage of interesting yet slightly corny things to find here. Mage Hollow goes big on playing into their supposed “witchy” past. They claim to be a more accepting version of Salem, the original home of those who prefer black cats and broomsticks over perfectly appointed linens and ocean-themed decor.
A bright glow emanates from the far corner of the square affirming one clear truth: Beau Brooks is no slouch. Despite my initial suspicions about his extended lunch breaks and seemingly ridiculous working hours, the man gets down to business. I’ve always been an early riser, waking before anyone else to run, ready myself, and of course have coffee—Mom always says a good Southern woman is never seen without a full face of makeup and a smile. That means, getting all the unsightly stuff done before the sun comes up. For the past four days, my morning jog has led me here, only to find the lights illuminating the windows of the Black Kettle while Beau scurries around inside, stocking shelves.
I’ve offered to come in early to assist, but he always says the same thing:The morning is my special time, the early bird does not get the worm here, Olive. I’m tempted to ignore him and show up early anyway. But I don’t want him to be annoyed by me just a few days in. I’m trying to make a good impression, to start my career on the right foot. And that’s just it, to me it’s so muchmore than a career—it’s freedom from the flashing red sign held over my head by every wannabe suitor that reads:her father has money. Not to mention my mother who trails behind them ready and willing to sell me off for what is practically the modern-day version of a goat.
Checking my watch to note my mileage and the time, I whip around to head back in the direction I came from. Running past the shop might make Beau squirrely; it’s not worth the scolding. I tap the volume on my AirPods up, running quicker to pace with the beat. Darkness encroaches on me, slightly impairing my vision as I make my way back out of the square, carefully watching each of my steps on the cobblestones. I’m making swift progress until I run into a brick wall, or what feels like one, with a thud.
I rip my earbuds out just in time to hear a somewhat familiar and irritatingly sexy voice growl out, “Jesus, the fuck are you doing out here.”Nope, not a wall. Just Sam.
“Running?” I say, a bit of sarcasm in my tone. It’s too early for niceties even if I’m swallowing down the lump of guilt that lodged in my throat as soon as the words left my lips.
“It looks like you’re asking to be mugged.” He shakes his head at me, or at least I think he does. It’s hard to tell as I’m still plastered against his broad chest, his cedar-and-cinnamon scent overwhelming me with every breath I take. I shove off, peeling his grip from my biceps.
“Nope, not that.” I glance around to see if anyone is watching, a force of habit from years of learning not to cause a scene. The only thing I notice is a pile of boxes in the back of a truck. Maybe his truck?
