Chapter 3 #2
So, I laugh and make a joke about leftover pizza, because it’s easier than admitting the truth: I’d rather starve for him in silence than lose him by trying.
“Do you know how insane that sounds? The fact that he’s thinking of you while he’s on a date in the first place is wild,” she says, eyebrow arching.
I just shrug.
Willa has a customer and hurries back to her shop but shakes her head as she mutters, “You’re both delusional.”
The bell above the front door hasn’t rung in half an hour, and the shop finally smells like lavender and lemon balm instead of stress and caffeine. I’m labeling tinctures when I hear the low rumble of a truck out back.
I glance out the window and see Finn swing in and park like he’s done it a thousand times.
The bed of his truck is piled high with lumber, buckets, and what looks like building supplies.
He climbs out, flips his ball cap backward, and adjusts it with an effortless ease that should not make my stomach flip.
He grabs a brown paper bag, tucks it under his arm, and balances two drinks in his hands.
When he’s strolling up to the back door, his eyes find mine through the window, and he smiles, wrinkles fanning from the corners of his eyes, warm and easy. It’s like he already knows I’ve been working too long and didn’t even need to ask what I’d need. He just knows like he always does.
I push open the now quiet back door and hold it for him as he ducks and folds himself in. The doorframe’s too low for him. Always has been.
“Hey, Row,” he says. “Get caught up?”
“Almost. Trying to stay productive before my next mental breakdown.”
He sets the bag on the counter and pulls out two sandwiches. “You need better coping mechanisms.”
“This is my coping mechanism,” I say, gesturing to the herbs, the scales, the entire witchy chaos of my life.
He gives me that half-smile that does dangerous things to my pulse.
We eat at the counter. He tells me about helping his brother Remy fix a fence in the goat pen that a recent storm took out. I tell him about a woman who asked if my herbal pain salve could cure her husband’s erectile dysfunction.
“She was serious?” he asks with a chuckle. “Poor dude.”
“Dead serious.”
His laughter intensifies, nearly having him choke on his sandwich, and then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
The laughter fades a little when I mention what I heard earlier. “Mayor Briggs was doing one of his fancy tours this morning,” I say, sipping my drink. “He pointed at the bookstore entrance to the apothecary and told his group that ‘a shady witch runs this place.’”
Finn stops mid-bite. “He said that?” The words are calm, but something in his face changes.
His jaw tightens just enough to make a muscle jump and his eyes go darker, sharper, like a storm rolled in.
He sets his drink down slowly as if he’s fighting the urge to stand up and go find the guy right now.
I know that look. It is the same one he gets when someone cuts Junie off in a crosswalk or when a tourist is rude to Willa at the shop. Protective, controlled, and a little dangerous. I’ve seen both him and Remy with the same demeanor.
But this time it’s for me.
His voice stays steady, but the anger leaks through the cracks. “Rowan. He talked about you like that?”
And God help me, my heart does something it should not do when he looks at me that way.
“Oh yeah, real professional, right? Probably thought he was being funny.”
“What’d you say?”
I smirk. “I asked if he wanted me to turn his toupée into a familiar.”
Finn groans, grinning despite himself. “You made fun of his toupée again? Are you trying to never get your permit?”
“I don’t care,” I say, my voice sharp and cool. “If I have to kiss that man’s ass to get what I need, he can keep his permit and his bald spot.”
“Row,” he says, amused but cautious, “you’re a menace and probably the reason why he has no hair.”
“A witch never tells her spells,” I say, crossing my arms.
He laughs again, but I can tell he’s half ready to step in before I start an all-out war. Which is fair. I’m halfway there already. I’m sick of him messing with my business and my livelihood.
I pull out my phone. “You know what, I’m calling his office.”
Finn leans against the counter, watching me as he chews. “This should be good.”
The phone rings twice before a chipper voice answers. “Mayor Briggs’s office.”
“Hi, I need to schedule a meeting with the mayor about my permit.”
“Let me check his calendar,” Marilyn says, her voice dripping with customer-service sugar.
I wait, phone pressed to my ear, pacing behind the counter. For a second, there is quiet shuffling, keys clicking. Normal. Professional.
“This is Rowan Maren.”
And then I hear it. The change. That tiny inhale, the pause that lasts a beat too long.
Her tone cools instantly, like someone opened a freezer door. “He’s… busy this week.”
Of course he is. He’s always suddenly booked solid the second Rowan Maren calls.
My irritation sparks fast and familiar. We’ve done this dance before.
Marilyn pretending the mayor is available for everyone but me.
Acting like she’s protecting the town from some kind of apothecary-related uprising.
I can practically picture her expression right now, that tight little smirk she gets when she thinks she’s won something.
I grip the phone tighter. My pulse flicks with anger I’m trying to keep under control. I need this meeting. I need answers. I need the damn town council to stop keeping me from running my business.
And Marilyn knows it. I can hear the smugness creeping into her voice, soft but unmistakable, as if she’s savoring every second of making this harder for me.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my own tone polite, but inside my frustration is coiling tight, sinking deep. This is not just a scheduling conflict, it’s personal.
“Then squeeze me in somewhere, please,” I say.
“He has several very important appointments.”
“Like his daily nap between ego inflation and donut consumption?”
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Never mind,” I say, hanging up before she can reply.
Finn blinks. “Getting sick of this?”
“She’s trying my patience,” I say, grabbing my bag.
“Where are you going?”
“Up there.”
“Up where?” he asks, setting down his sandwich.
“City Hall.”
He follows me to the door. “I’m coming.”
“No, you’d only try to stop me from what I’m going to do.”
“Row—”
I hold up my finger. “If you want to help, you can watch the shop for me. If I don’t come back in thirty minutes, come get me. I’ll probably need bail money.”
City Hall smells like stale coffee, a cheap candle, and someone’s stinky lunch.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in a way that makes my teeth itch, and the air tastes like old paperwork and grudges.
My heels click down the hallway with a rhythm that feels like purpose, like anger sharpened to a point.
Marilyn looks up from her desk the second she hears me. Her eyes widen, then narrow into a smug little sliver. Her blouse buttons are off by one, the fabric slightly askew across her chest, and for a moment she looks startled that I noticed. A soft blush creeps up her neck. Interesting.
“You can’t go in there,” she says, voice clipped and tight.
“Watch me,” I say, and push open the door.
Mayor Sammy Briggs’s office hits me like a wave of cheap cologne and clutter.
The blinds are half-closed even though it is midday, casting slanted shadows across piles of unfiled paperwork.
A half-eaten sandwich sits on his desk, next to a crumpled napkin with Marilyn’s glittery handwriting on it.
His tie is askew, and he slouches behind his desk.
He’s not doing paperwork or reviewing permits. He is hunched over his phone, the bright glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses. The sound effects from his game chirp through the room. He’s playing Candy Crush. While my business sits in limbo because of him.
My blood heats. “Real busy with appointments, huh, Mayor?” I cross my arms, letting my voice carry.
He jerks so hard he drops his phone. It clatters across the desk. He fumbles for it, then freezes when he finally registers me standing there. “Ms. Maren. This is highly inappropriate.”
“What’s inappropriate” I hiss, stepping farther into the room, “is waiting three months for a made-up permit while you give tours about witches ruining the town aesthetic, and spend your workday banging your assistant who is also helping you block my business.”
His face goes bright red. He glances at the door in a panic. Marilyn is out there, pretending to be on the phone, but absolutely listening. His eyes are darting between us like he is calculating the fallout.
“You need to leave,” he sputters.
“Sure,” I say. “But maybe focus on your job instead of Candy Crush.”
His jaw snaps tight. “You are out of line.”
“Maybe,” I say, leaning on the desk. “But at least I’m not shady. That would be you. And maybe I should hire an attorney to sue you and the city for blocking my ability to run my business. I have plenty of documentation. How would that headline look, Sammy?”
He stands up like he wants to scold me, but I am already moving. I stop in the doorway long enough to let my words land.
“I’ll be in touch. But probably not through your assistant. She’s just as crooked as you.”
I turn my gaze to Marilyn. Her face is blotchy, her lips thin, and she fumbles with the phone in her hand like it suddenly weighs ten pounds. I walk past her without another word.
Outside, sunlight hits me full in the face, warm and almost blinding after the gloom of City Hall. My hands are shaking. Not from fear, but from adrenaline and righteous fury. With the realization that I’ve been patient for too long.
I’m being sabotaged. And I’m done playing nice. Some people get my good karma.
But people like Mayor Sammy Briggs? They get my bad karma.