He opens the door for me to enter, and my gaze sweeps him from head to foot—shiny new boots, button-down pressed nicely, hair all in place.
There’s nothing in his appearance that should elicit my reaction, but my stomach sinks nonetheless. “Thanks,” I mumble as I step past him.
“Nice sneakers.”
My jaw hardens. “Yep,” I mutter, entering the cozy cottage.
It is the cutest and most welcoming house. Dried herbs hang from the rafters. Pools of sunshine brighten the oak floors. The scent of lemon polish lingers on the furniture.
I pick my way through the house as I head to the kitchen.
“Ovie!”
“Come on in.”
When I enter, she’s sitting at the counter, a stack of envelopes beside her.
Invitations to my ball. My heart drops as I approach. Not just from the invitations, but from her eyes—they’re red, puffy.
She’s been crying, and I’ve got two guesses as to who made her that way.
“I saw Charlie on my way out.”
“Yeah.” She takes a stack of envelopes and taps the ends on the slick counter, straightening them. “He’s going out for a bit.”
And this—this right here—is exactly what love looks like twenty years later.
If love can turn into this, what chance do I have?
“I brought gingerbread cookies.”
My aunt’s eyes go wide. She smiles. Her graying hair is piled up high on her head, and big golden earrings dangle to her shoulders.
“You did? Well how thoughtful of you.” Her eyes narrow and she adds playfully, in her over-the-top Southern way, “You’re either trying to sweeten me up, or you just love your aunt. My bet’s on the sweetening up, and it just might work,” she adds with a laugh.
I open the container, revealing the finest demon cookies this side of the Mississippi.
She oohs and ahhs. “They look so good.”
“Have one.”
“I’ll have two. Do you want coffee?”
She starts to get up, but I wave her off. “No, I’m fine. Ovie”—I replay the words that have circled in my head for days—“look, I know we need this ball. I know I’ve got to marry, but I just can’t do it this way.”
Each of my sisters has to wed. That's the deal. Seven sisters, seven magical bonds to restore what we've lost. But I don’t want to pick my husband from some Victorian-style matchmaking event where I'm on display.
“I can’t be paraded around like a peacock. What do you say? Can we please cancel?”
My aunt looks at the cookies. “Did you mean to make them demons?”
“If I lie, will that help my case?”
“No.” She tuts. “Case in point why you need to marry. Heck, I tried to curl my hair with magic and wound up burning off one of my curls. Don’t even get me started on trying to boil water.”
Guilt twists my stomach. “It’s not that I’m against marriage?—”
“It’s just you refuse to save your family’s magic? Is that right?”
