Midnight Macarons (Magickal Morsels #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ROSE

You can do this. It’s just a present.

That’s what I keep telling myself, but the words taste sour in my mouth.

The little bell over the art supply shop door chimes as I step inside, the familiar scent of turpentine and paper tugging at old memories.

I inhale slowly, then exhale even slower.

It’s quiet. Still. The kind of still that makes you feel like the air is listening. The kind of silence that makes the thoughts in your head overly obtrusive.

I can’t let that deter me. Not the silence. Not the crippling anxiety whispering that I might be making the wrong choice.

“Hello?” My voice breaks the hush, more to drown out my own thoughts than to summon anyone. I glance down each aisle, scanning the signs at the top of the shelves—acrylic paint, canvas—until I land on the one I’m looking for: paintbrushes and tools.

“Bingo,” I whisper, forcing nonchalance while every instinct in me screams that this could be a mistake. Pretend it’s just a normal trip, a normal girlfriend buying her boyfriend a normal anniversary gift.

But it’s not.

I’ve been here plenty of times with him, watching as he compared brushes, picked apart pigments, told stories about colors like they were old friends. But this time is different. This time I’m not trailing behind him on an errand after a long day.

This time, I’m here for our anniversary.

One year.

The longest I’ve ever stayed. The longest I’ve ever let myself stay without cutting ties and running, afraid of being tethered to someone.

And for the first time, I want to give him something real. Something that says I might be staying for good.

I run my fingers along the smooth wooden handles, the bristles protected in tiny plastic sleeves.

I don’t know much about art, but after eleven months of silent observation, I’ve learned enough.

His emotions have always been easy for me to read—too easy.

Even without calling on my magic. Not that I try.

Everyone deserves their privacy, but when he’s constantly blasting feelings like a stereo cranked to eleven, it’s impossible not to notice.

And every time we stopped here, he always beelined for this aisle, pausing in front of one particular item.

A set of sable-hair brushes.

The kind that will cost me nearly a month’s rent. But this is our one-year anniversary—the longest I’ve ever been with anyone—and tonight I want everything to be perfect. Including the gift.

So why does nausea churn in my gut as I press the little red button for help beside the glass case?

“Just pre-event jitters,” I mutter, waiting as the elderly shopkeeper hobbles out from the back.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into an empty parking spot behind the club.

My gaze flicks to the neatly wrapped package on the passenger seat: a gift for Jett.

The brushes he’s been eyeing for months, out of his budget as a budding artist. Out of mine too, if I hadn’t been picking up extra gigs.

Still, it’s small compared to the rest of tonight.

For months, I’ve been orchestrating this day—securing The Rubbish Toads, his favorite rock band, to play a show in the suburbs of Greyhaven.

It took every favor I could call in: connections from my college internships and the triplet fae sisters who own the exclusive Summerwind club.

Landing them a performance slot wasn’t easy.

Since starting my job at the event center, I’ve been working with the sisters to book clients for private parties and events at their club, and that relationship finally paid off.

It’s been a lot. But all of it builds to this night, our one-year anniversary.

And tonight, I’m going to ask Jett to move in with me.

He hasn’t officially, but he’s practically lived with me between various art jobs, spending more nights at my place than his own.

I’m afraid of commitment. Afraid of letting someone connect to me so deeply. That’s why I always cut ties before things get serious. Not that I’d ever cared enough to want to take them further.

Well—except once. One guy. One wolf, for that matter.

In a single weekend—no, in a single kiss—he made my magic hum, made me feel alive in ways I still can’t explain. So much that I ran. I was too afraid to face my own feelings, too afraid to risk what it might mean: the chance to be free, to explore the world, to chase my passions.

We’re not even going to go there. That was the past, and I’ve moved on. Even if his blue eyes still haunt my dreams. I wasn’t ready to commit back then. But I am now.

I think.

“You deserve this, Rose. You give so much—you deserve love and happiness,” I murmur as I grab my black leather purse. Its cool, smooth exterior steadies my clammy palm as I fumble with my jangling keys. I head for the backstage door, willing my nerves away.

I glance at my watch, the numbers sharp against the pale face.

Two hours until showtime. I told Jett to meet me here an hour before the band goes on, promising him a backstage tour and a chance to meet them.

I meant to keep it a surprise, but I’m terrible at surprises and slipped about who was playing.

What I didn’t tell him was everything it took to get them here—and that I did it all for him.

Jett and I met over a year ago, right after I came back from visiting my best friend, Netti.

I was searching for something—freedom, expression, adventure—I wasn’t sure.

What I did know was that I wasn’t ready to settle down.

After too many years under my parents’ thumb, stifled by their expectations, I wanted more than the neat little path laid out for me.

I love my small town, with its mix of witches and supernatural beings, but I craved something beyond it.

Like most witches, I can manage the basics: levitating objects, weaving enchantments, brewing potions that sparkle with charm.

But I also have something rarer, an ability that thrives on connecting with and helping others—an empathy magic that feeds on shared emotions.

That’s what pulled me into event planning.

It’s demanding, yes, but it gives me freedom—the chance to travel and bring joy to people’s lives.

And that’s why I fell so hard for Jett. He sees the vibrant energy in me, encourages me to chase my dreams. As a fellow artist, he understands my need for creative expression and growth, mirroring my own aspirations.

Yesterday I’d checked in with The Rubbish Toads, made sure their equipment arrived, oversaw soundcheck, smoothed every detail. The triplet fae sisters assured me this would be a roaring success.

Still, a nervous energy prickles under my skin as the key slides into the lock. The muffled thrum of tuning guitars and low, vibrating drums hums through the air, and a smile tugs at my lips. Then the knot of anxiety twists in my stomach again.

Why am I so anxious?

“You’ve got this, Rose,” I whisper, pepping myself up for the third time today as I weave through stacks of equipment and boxes.

The dark backstage wraps around me like a balm, familiar with its musty odor of old instruments, the metallic tang of strings, the faint bite of cleaner. Here I’m in my element: coordinating the chaos, making sure everything runs smoothly, ensuring tonight is perfect.

A high-pitched squeal shatters the moment, followed by heavy breathing and muffled moans.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exasperated.

I don’t have time for amorous teenagers—or worse, a groupie tangled up with a band member.

Whatever they do on their own time is fine, but right now I have a job: get everything ready before Jett arrives so we can enjoy the evening together.

Besides, I have kissing of my own planned.

Rounding another stack of boxes, I freeze.

In the dim lighting of the backstage, I make out a man with long bleached hair and pale skin, pants around his ankles, pounding into a blonde sprawled across a pile of instrument cases.

Her dress is bunched at her waist, hair splayed, breasts bouncing with every thrust. Heat floods my face as I slap a hand over my eyes, but the image is already seared into my mind.

“I don’t know who you are, but this is not the time or place. You have two minutes to make yourselves presentable and leave before I call security,” I say sharply, turning away and tapping my foot against the wooden floor.

“Rose?”

My stomach plummets at the familiar voice, a chill racing down my spine.

The man who isn’t supposed to be here for another hour.

Jett.