Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Julian
The rental car smelled of disappointment and stale Marlboro Reds.
I cracked the window and let the Virginia humidity slap me in the face.
It was either that or I’d gag on the cocktail of air freshener and decades-old cigarette funk that clung to the upholstery like a bitter ex who just wouldn’t let go.
The A/C wheezed in protest every time I asked it to do its actual job, and the radio had one speaker that only played static unless I smacked the dash at just the right angle.
So yeah, glamour wasn’t the word.
But it was cheap. And cheap was all I could afford after Claudia cut the check. Her idea of a generous budget didn’t quite cover investigative travel and my caffeine addiction, so the Prius-that-time-forgot it was.
I gripped the wheel tighter as Riverbend crested into view. The knot in my gut had been tightening with every mile. I told myself it was because I was here on a job—because I was going to expose Jude Brooks for the glitter-drenched, chakra-humping fraud he was—but that wasn’t the entire story.
Not even close.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. My head said one thing—destroy the illusion, break the story, get the clicks. But the rest of me? The rest of me was a jumble of chaotic thoughts. Why? Because Jude Brooks wasn’t just a subject. He wasn’t just content.
He was hot.
No, like, stupid hot. Like “God called in a favor from Aphrodite and told her to make something special” hot.
And that kiss—that lightning bolt of a kiss we’d shared in the healing center—still echoed through me in ways I wasn’t ready to unpack.
His lips had been soft but demanding, his scent some maddening mix of herbs and heat.
His hands, when they’d touched my waist, had seared through the fabric of my shirt and branded themselves onto my skin.
And I’d blown it by getting too carried away with my stupid lust for him. It was a first for me, being humiliated by a man, and it would never happen again.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to focus on the windshield, where the outskirts of Riverbend came into view.
It still looked like something out of a Hallmark LSD trip.
People were walking around in floaty skirts and patchwork pants, some of them barefoot, most of them holding woven baskets like they were on their way to gather wild herbs or kidnap children into a cult.
I snorted. “Okay, Summer Solstice Barbie, calm down.”
A woman in a crocheted shawl walked past carrying a tambourine and a taxidermied fox. She waved.
I waved back before I could stop myself.
Then I remembered the outfit I was wearing.
I glanced down at the loose-fitting cotton shirt, dyed a deep burgundy with some kind of vaguely tie-dye swirl across the chest. The wide-legged corduroy pants were from a vintage thrift store in Brooklyn, and the leather sandals had required a lot of internal bargaining with my ankles.
I looked like a damn extra in a Fleetwood Mac video. But that had been the point—blend in. Don’t spook the herd. Look crunchy enough to get invited to drum circles and maybe even sneak into a ritual or two. That was the plan.
But it didn’t stop me from feeling like a poser, especially now that I was back and not sure if I was here to take Jude down or throw myself at him like a slutty man-shaped offering.
The Riverbend Inn appeared up ahead like a mirage. Wind chimes whispered from every corner, the entire place ringing softly like a fairy grandmother breathing secrets into the breeze.
I pulled into the gravel driveway and parked under the shade of a massive magnolia tree. My sandals crunched as I stepped out, stretching my legs and staring up at the inn with more hesitation than I wanted to admit.
The last time I was here, I’d been curious. Cynical. Detached.
Now I felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my emotional firewall and dared me to walk back inside.
You’re not here to get laid, I told myself. You’re here to expose Jude Brooks.
Right. Totally.
I walked up the steps, hand dragging along the wooden railing. It was smooth and warm under my fingers, worn down by time and touch. The scents of lavender and cedar hung in the air, with the faint smell of patchouli competing for attention.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The lobby was empty. All I sensed was the faint scent of incense and something that sounded like…
Chanting?
I tilted my head. The voice was feminine, low and rhythmic. I followed the sound past the front desk, leaned over the counter, and—
“Oh, what the fuck…”
The desk clerk was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the desk, eyes closed, palms up, and murmuring something in a language I didn’t recognize. Probably Sanskrit. Or Elvish.
She opened one eye slowly, like an ancient owl who’d just been mildly inconvenienced by a very loud squirrel.
“Hello, Julian.”
I blinked. “Uh, hi. I’m checking in?”
She closed her other eye, sighed, and stood up with the grace of someone who’d spent her entire life in yoga classes with names like Starlight Flex. Her long hair was braided with tiny beads and what looked like a damn feather.
“I know who you are,” she said coolly, walking around to the desk.
Her fingers moved over the keyboard with an eerie quiet. No smile. No small talk. Just a side-eye that could freeze boiling water.
“So, uh,” I said, shifting my weight, “still working the front desk, I see.”
She didn’t respond.
“Nice… chanting. Was that a check-in spell or…?”
“I was asking the goddess for patience,” she said flatly. “Apparently, she’s in a meeting.”
I swallowed a laugh and took the keycard when she handed it over.
“Room five,” she said, her tone crisp. “End of the hall. Avoid the west stairs—they creak when Mercury’s in retrograde.”
I turned to go.
“If you hurt him,” she said suddenly, voice sharp as a flint blade, “you’ll have to answer to me.”
I stopped mid-step.
Slowly turned around.
Her gaze was steady. Harder than I expected from someone who smelled like patchouli and oat milk.
I crossed my arms over my chest, ready to say something cutting—something that would leave her gasping for sage. But the words caught in my throat.
Because she meant it.
And pissing her off might get back to Jude.
So instead, I forced a smile. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
The lie tasted bitter.
I stalked out before she could say anything else, walked straight back to the car, popped the trunk, and yanked my suitcase out. It wobbled on one wheel, catching on the gravel, and I muttered curses under my breath as I dragged it toward the porch.
What the hell am I doing? I thought again.
Jude was just a guy. A guy who played at healing people with pretty words and moon water. A guy who probably believed his own hype. A guy who kissed me like he meant it, then humiliated me by turning me down.
I shouldn’t want him.
I shouldn’t.
But fuck. I did.
I climbed the stairs and made my way down the hall, the keycard damp in my sweaty hand. The wood floors creaked beneath my feet, each groan of the house like a whispered warning.
When I reached the door, I paused.
Room five.
I slid the keycard, waited for the telltale beep and click, then pushed open the door.
The room was… surprisingly nice. Not luxurious, but well cared for.
Clean white sheets, floral curtains, a vintage dresser with mismatched drawer knobs, and a tiny kitchenette in the corner that had probably witnessed several failed attempts at oat milk lattes.
Everything smelled faintly of lavender and lemon—comforting, with just a hint of spiritual superiority.
I stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind me.
My suitcase landed on the bed with a dull thud.
And that’s when I saw him.
Or rather, me—my reflection, staring back from the mirror above the headboard.
I jumped, just a little. Surprised.
Jesus.
Who was that?
The guy in the mirror didn’t look like Julian Reed, world-weary podcast host, born skeptic, leather-jacket-wearing city boy who ordered his coffee black and his feelings repressed.
This guy looked like he might say “namaste” unironically.
I stepped closer, peering at the gauzy shirt clinging to my chest, the swirled pattern like a galaxy of poor choices.
The corduroy pants sat lower on my hips than I remembered, and the thin leather sandals looked like they’d walked me straight into a drum circle.
My hair was messy from the drive, my eyes a little glassy from lack of sleep, and the whole emotional collapse into my own bullshit thing I’d been nursing since Jude rejected me.
I looked like a fraud. And the worst part? That had been the plan.
I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out my phone, and typed a message to Claudia.
Arrived in Riverbend. Will begin “research” shortly.
Vibe is… aggressively whimsical. Will keep you posted.
I stared at it for a moment, then added:
Jude looks better in my head than I’d like. Send vodka.
I hit send.
It was only 3:07 p.m.
I needed a drink.
A real one. Something with booze and bite. Something that would settle the nerves currently staging a one-man protest in my chest.
Which meant one place.
The Chalice & Cherry.
I stood, swiped my wallet and keys off the dresser, and glanced one last time at the mirror.
“Blend in,” I told my reflection.
The man in the mirror didn’t respond.
He just looked nervous.
And maybe—just maybe—a little excited.
Riverbend in the late afternoon felt like walking through a Pinterest board titled Whimsical Pagan Small Town Fantasycore.
Every storefront was hand-painted, every sidewalk crack stuffed with wildflowers, and every person I passed looked like they had at least one Etsy store and a firm opinion about moon phases.
A woman wearing what I could only describe as a bridal gown made entirely out of recycled curtains stepped out of a shop called Crystals & Croissants and offered me a tiny cup of “chakra-aligning herbal elixir.” I politely declined and kept moving, dodging a guy on a unicycle playing a flute and a toddler with glitter all over his face holding a sign that said, “Mercury is always in retrograde if you’re a coward. ”
Cool. Noted.
Riverbend didn’t just lean into the whole crunchy mystic vibe. It bathed in it. Rolled around in it. Possibly had a threesome with it. And the worst part?
I didn’t hate it.
Not outwardly, anyway. I kept a neutral expression as I passed a boutique called Womb Wisdom, another called Tie-Dye and Try Not to Cry, and finally arrived at the squat brick building with its wrought-iron sign and small pride flag: The Chalice & Cherry.
The queerest, weirdest bar I’d ever been to—and I say that as someone who once did an investigative piece on a speakeasy that operated entirely out of a backroom hot yoga studio in Queens.
I pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Dim lights. Velvet drapes. Thrifted furniture that looked like it could’ve been stolen from a drag brunch or your grandma’s attic. The air smelled faintly of rose, smoke, and something spicy that might’ve been incense or just an ambitious cocktail.
The man who owned the place, I think his name was Percy, stood behind the bar in a black tank top that said I Put the Bi in Bitter. His expression did not say Welcome back, traveler.
“Hi,” I said, sliding onto a stool. “Miss me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like I miss chlamydia.”
Charming.
I took a breath. “I’ll have a Negroni, please.”
Percy made the drink, and he did it well—but with the cold efficiency of someone who wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire. He set it down in front of me with a muted clink, then walked off without another word.
Okay. Rude.
I stared at the amber liquid, then took a cautious sip. Perfect balance. Strong enough to burn a little.
Which was exactly what I needed, because clearly I was the villain in a story no one had bothered to tell me about.
First that woman giving me the spiritual cold shoulder back at the inn, and now Percy acting like I’d pissed in his turmeric latte. Had I offended someone the last time I was here? Did I give off some kind of bad-vibes aura that only spiritual types could detect?
I took another sip of my drink, then leaned forward on my elbows, trying to scan my memory. I’d barely interacted with Percy the first time. Maybe made a sarcastic comment about the full moon cocktail menu, but that hardly warranted a full-scale vibe assassination.
As I debated whether to ask him, Percy walked by again and muttered under his breath, “If you mess with my friends, I’ll mess with you right back.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t stop walking. Just rounded the far end of the bar like he was prepping for a round of cocktails and divine retribution.
Okay. Cool. Totally not menacing.
I sat back, glass halfway to my lips, frown deepening. What friends? Was he talking about…
The door opened.
And every thought I had scattered like birds at a gunshot.
Jude.
He stepped inside, and the room seemed to tighten around him.
Like the air got thicker just from his presence.
The late-day sunlight streamed in behind him, turning his already golden skin into something almost unreal.
He wore a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, simple jeans, boots that looked like they’d been worn through prayer circles and heartbreak.
His hair was a little longer than I remembered, curling at the edges, and his eyes—those serious, searching, soulful eyes—swept over the room like a slow-moving wave.
Until they landed on me.