“Don’t worry,” I growl. “I can handle him.”
“Great,” she whispers, dropping her attention back to the lit screen. “I’m going to call my mom while you’re inside.”
My gaze falls to her mouth. It’s so plump and glossy, like a waxed apple—perfect for biting into.
I rip my eyes away and they land on two men walking by. They spot Rowe, who sits oblivious in the passenger seat as these two Neanderthals ogle her, eye-fucking her at the same time.
I get out and slam the driver’s-side door. The men glance at me, note the scowl on my face, and speed into the shop, their proverbial tails tucked between their legs.
That’s right. Keep moving.
No one’s allowed to eye-fuck Rowe except ... except ... I don’t know who.
As I make my way down the street, there are clusters of locals outside, walking into stores. For as gray as the exterior of Mystic Meadows is, the people are drab, too. Their clothing is colorless—dingy whites and faded blacks, sorrowful slates and muted creams.
It’s almost as if the decline of magic that Rowe told me about didn’t just affect the town structures, but the people as well.
I tuck that info away and head inside the hardware shop. There, the men who leered at Rowe are nowhere to be seen, and a few folks browse the aisles. The store’s nice. It’s well lit, and a quick glance reveals that they sell everything from paint to camping equipment.
Just as I turn toward the tents, I hear them.
Voices—gruff, agitated, and just loud enough to snag my attention.
Up at the counter, three men stand with their arms crossed, their postures stiff with frustration. They’re dressed like every contractor I’ve ever met: baseball caps pulled low, mud-stained jeans, and yellow construction boots that have seen their fair share of jobsites.
One of them, the clear ringleader, plants his hands on the counter and levels a glare at the man behind it. His voice is as sharp as a handsaw.
“I’m sick of this, Coleman. Every time I buy lumber from you, K-Yard advertises a better deal. Every time. Now, I like your lumber, but your prices are just too high.”
“Yeah,” mutters the man beside him.
“Damn straight,” adds the third, his drawl thick with irritation.
Well, well, well. What’s this I hear? A problem? A negotiation standoff?
This might just be the opportunity I need.
Behind the counter, Coleman Barrier—store owner and, as Rowe so lovingly put it, “human splinter”—stands like a stone pillar. His thick forearms are crossed defensively over his chest, his flannel shirt untucked, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He doesn’t budge, but his jaw tightens.
“Now, hold on,” he says, voice steady but firm. “I give y’all the best deal I can. You know that, Chandler.”
Chandler, clearly the man in charge of this contractor trio, snorts and slaps a sheet of paper onto the counter. “This is the deal K-Yard has running right now. If I do the math, going with them on my next job will save me thousands.”
Coleman wipes a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I can’t force y’all to do business with me.”
“Oh, but you can,” a voice calls from the back.
Heads turn as a woman peeks out from behind a shelf, one manicured hand braced on the edge. She wears a low-cut white blouse with ruffles at the sleeves, big hoop earrings swaying as she leans forward. Her hair is teased up high, and dark liner circles her sharp blue eyes.
“Hilary,” Coleman warns.
She purses her lips like she’s about to spit fire, but instead she just lifts a knowing brow and disappears behind the shelves again.
Chandler picks up the flyer and shakes it at Coleman. “If you can’t match these prices, I’m walking.”
The other two men grumble their agreement, shifting like they’re already halfway out the door.
And that’s when I step in.
