Chapter 12

Well,getting two incantations, two magic powders, and a rune to meld together and play nice was next to impossible. It was like trying to make a salad dressing, but the oils and spices and vinegars and water were refusing to get along. I needed an emulsifier, something like mustard or tahini, to create a stabilizing matrix.

When my third attempt quite literally blew up in our faces, Sawyer bolted for the fresh air outside and I stomped into the kitchen to rage-bake some pumpkin biscotti. I made an obscene amount, partly for the therapy, partly so I wouldn’t be bothered to make cookies again for Cohen for a while so I could devote every waking moment to this spell.

Rage-baking made more a mess in the kitchen than normal baking, and globs of pumpkin spotted every surface like an outbreak of orange pimples. Muttering, I grabbed a rag and wiped everything down as the last of the cookies cooled. Then I chucked them into Ziploc bags and threw my head out the window to holler, “I’m running into town!”

“Bring back a fire extinguisher,” came Sawyer’s snarky reply.

“Wussy!”

I muttered the entire way into town, as grumpy as the werewolf I’d adopted. Finding an empty spot on the square, I parked the car and tried not to storm into the coffeehouse. As my hand gripped the door handle, I slapped on a smile and reminded myself that it wasn’t anybody’s fault that I’d had that spell blow up in my face. Still, I wanted to rip the cheerful little bell off its hanger when it announced my entry into the Magic Brewery.

“Misty,” Cohen greeted enthusiastically. Then: “Woah.”

He wasn’t commenting on the scowl that had formed on my face but rather the four gallon-sized Ziploc bags crammed full of pumpkin biscotti.

“I hope this is enough,” I almost growled.

“Should last the ’til the end of next week, I wager,” the barista said with a wink. “Mocha for Scott!”

I waited for this cable-knit-sweater-wearing Scott to collect his mocha and hurry back to his laptop by the window before approaching the counter and setting the cookies—gently—on top. Cohen wasted no time in retrieving a ledger to record the new inventory, then plucked a few bills from the till. My cut from the trial batch.

“If you fill up that cookie jar there, I’ll make you a Misty Latte on the house,” the barista offered.

Grunting my agreement, I leaned over the counter to retrieve a disposable glove and then got to carefully transferring the cookies into the massive glass jar. When Cohen put far more attention into making my latte than what was entirely necessary, even when taking my coconut allergy into account, I realized my mood was dampening his.

“So, uh, what’s new with the gossip mill?” I prompted in an attempt to smooth things over.

“Well,” the barista replied immediately, obviously relieved my irritation had nothing to do with him, “you know those strangers who were in here the other day asking all those questions? Seems like they weren’t just blowing through town as everyone thought. Apparently they rented a suite at the Candlelight Inn, down there by Sanderson’s Processing. Mrs. Bilberry was in here just yesterday not-gossiping all about it.”

“Oh?” I asked, all ears.

“They don’t want room service, nor the free breakfast—which is unheard of because Mrs. Bilberry’s waffles are legendary—they’re using up all her hot water, and she swears she heard a goat or lamb bleating in one of the rooms.”

“Lamb or goat, huh?” I echoed, brow furrowing. “They haven’t been causing any problems, right?”

“Not that anyone will admit to, other than the nuisance of their questions. If Charlie had been here instead of at that craft brewery convention going on in Maine, he would’ve dragged ’em out by their collars. I was almost going to cut the electrical just to get them out of here the other day and stop harassing my patrons.”

“Almost?”

“Well, they seem to want to give Arthur Greenwood the biggest berth possible. He walked in here, took one look at them, and they skedaddled like hens in front of a fox. Man didn’t even have to say a word. I gave him a free black coffee with maple syrup on the house. And a couple of biscotti, of course.”

For some reason, my heart leapt at the thought of the lumberjack shifter enjoying my food. Yet, he’d refused the ones Emmett had offered him. “D-did he like them?”

“He— Well, you can ask him yourself!” Cohen handed me my latte and lifted a hand in greeting as the little bell above the door announced the arrival of another customer. “Hey, Arthur! I was just telling Misty here how much you enjoyed those pumpkin biscotti.”

Feeling my stomach plummet, I half-turned to find the lumberjack shifter striding towards the counter, the Celtic pendant tapping against his chest in time with his stride. Even though he was dressed in his customary fleece coat and red flannel, khaki pants and boots, his hair and beard never wavering from their usual style, I realized I would never grow tired of looking at him. Of marveling at the power and strength contained in those broad shoulders and chest and muscled thighs. Of that flower of warmth that blossomed in my heart whenever those hazel eyes met mine.

I was just as drawn to him now as I was the first time I’d met him.

“They were acceptable,” he rumbled, careful not to look at me. “Miss Fields.”

The acknowledgement brief and coolly polite and made me want to shrivel up like a sun-dried tomato.

“I’m here to expand that shelving in your storeroom,” he told Cohen, ignoring me, “but the alley door was locked. Could you—”

“Acceptable?” Cohen laughed. “You took every one of them. Totally cleaned me out. You’re the reason I had to ask Misty for more. Speaking of which.” Cohen yanked the remaining Ziploc bags of cookies off the counter and shoved them somewhere out of sight. “Nothing to see here.”

Arthur sucked in a short breath. “The door?”

Cohen snapped his fingers. “Right. I’ll have to hold it for you because the lock’s broke. Been trying to get Axel around to fix it but he’s servicing and winterizing all the big farm equipment now.”

Just as he turned, the little bell rang again, this time Ms. Charlotte Harris and three other ladies, all in pastel pant suits and pearls, striding inside like Easter eggs on parade.

“M-Ms. Harris’s bridge club,” the barista whispered, like he was witnessing the arrival of the Four Horsemen themselves. Then he slapped on a blinding smile and hailed, “Be right with you, ladies. Just need to run off to the storage room for a sec.”

His palms slapped against the counter. “Misty! You’ve got to help me!”

“Wh-what?” I sputtered. “I don’t know how to work any of these—”

“Not the coffee! The door. The springs are busted so it won’t stay open. Plus the lock keeps locking.”

“So use a prop?”

“And let any vermin in the alley wander into my store? I don’t think so. Please, Misty.”

“I think—” I began.

“She doesn’t need to—” Arthur started.

“Mr. Lancaster, how much longer will you need?” came Ms. Charlotte Harris’s prim voice. “The ladies and I don’t like to have our game interrupted by late coffee. We need to concentrate on our strategies, after all.”

“Right away, Ms. Harris!” Cohen drilled me with a look that said I’d better help him or he’d make my Misty Lattes decaf from here on out.

“Fine.”

“Meet you around back, Arthur,” Cohen said, seizing my wrist and practically dragging me behind the counter and after him into the storeroom.

It was a brisk and weaving walk to the alley door, but my feet remembered the way from that mad dash I’d done with Flora just a few days ago. Digging the keys out of his apron pocket, Cohen unlocked the door and rammed his shoulder into it to free it from the frost.

“No vermin,” he reminded me, already hurrying back through the shelves to Ms. Charlotte Harris’s waiting bridge club.

Sucking in a breath, I leaned against the door to keep it open to the chilly and blustering afternoon, watching Arthur back the Cedar Haven truck down the alley. From the amount of wood and gear in the truck bed, it looked like the build-out was going to be extensive. Which was just as well. Cohen and I had nearly tripped half a dozen times from the overflow boxes and buckets strewn about all helter-skelter from the latest delivery.

Moving to the side, I held the door open with my foot as he brought in the first load with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

My heart did a little flipflop. He could’ve said nothing at all. Could’ve ignored me entirely, but there he was watching me under lowered lashes and making sure he didn’t tread on my foot or whack me in the head with a two-by-four.

As he set his first load inside, I heard an empty can rattle by one of the nearer dumpsters. Searching for the origin of the sound, I spied a tabby cat stalking down the alley.

Sawyer? What was he doing so far away from the farm?

Something in the way the cat walked had my eyes shifting to the side to search for a glamour, then Arthur hissed near my ear,

“That’s not a cat.”