22. Freddie #2
Callum walks over to the kitchen counter, setting the coffee tray down next to a pile of unopened mail. I trail behind him, and when I glance over my shoulder, Stella is aggressively wiggling her eyebrows at me. I flip her off behind Callum’s back.
When I look back at the counter, my lungs freeze.
They flowers a vibrant bunch of deep burgundy and peach dahlias wrapped in brown butcher paper. I stare at them, a sudden tightness gripping my chest. I’ve never had a man buy me flowers before.
“Are those…dahlias?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
Callum nods, picking up one of the coffee cups and holding it out to me. “Delphi mentioned they were your favorite.”
I reach out, taking the warm cup, my fingers brushing his. I carefully reach over with my free hand to touch the velvet edge of a burgundy petal. “Thank you.”
Then I glance down at the remaining cup in the tray and smirk, leaning against the counter. “I thought you didn’t drink sugar-filled coffee, McKinley. Did you convert?”
“I don’t,” he says, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache. “But I remembered you saying Stella was staying the night, so I picked up a hazelnut latte for her.”
From the living room, Stella gasps loudly. “Give me, give me!”
She jumps off the sofa and hustles over to the kitchen island, grabbing the cup like it’s a gold medal. She pops the lid, takes a deep sip, and lets out a sigh of pure bliss. She looks directly at me, pointing the coffee cup at my face. “Freddie. Keep this man. I’m dead serious.”
I take a slow sip of my own drink, the sweet cinnamon and espresso hitting my tongue, and look at Callum over the rim. “We’ll see.”
“I actually have to get going anyway,” Stella says, clutching her cup as she checks her phone. “I’m on the town council committee helping set up for the Autumnal Equinox festival this year.”
I wince, leaning my elbows against the laminate counter. “Stells, that sounds like my worst nightmare.”
“That is precisely how I would describe it,” she groans.
Callum chuckles, crossing his arms. “Why’s that? Local politics get a bit vicious?”
“Vicious doesn’t cover it,” Stella says, shaking her head.
“It’s twenty grown adults arguing over whether the pumpkin patch should be on the north lawn or the south lawn for two full hours.
Last week, Mrs. Higgins brought a tape measure to prove the hay bales were obstructing the artisanal cider booth, and it almost devolved into a physical altercation. ”
“Isn’t Alden on the committee this year too?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Stella’s cheeks instantly flare up with a fresh flush of pink. “Uh. Yeah. He is.”
I snort, taking another sip of my drink. “Did he rope you into suffering through that with him?”
“Actually, it was the other way around,” she mutters, looking very intensely at her coffee lid.
I just laugh, giving her a knowing wink. “Of course it was.”
Stella narrows her eyes at me, though the blush on her neck betrays her completely. “Right. I’m off. I’ll come back later tonight to grab my overnight bag. Tell Jett I said bye.” She stops and pats Callum on the arm. “Thank you for the latte, Callum. Truly a hero.”
She pauses, tapping her chin, then motions for him to lean down.
Callum tilts his head, bending his tall frame obligingly so Stella can reach his ear. She whispers something to him for three solid seconds. Callum’s eyebrows raise, and he gives a single, respectful nod. “Yes, ma’am. Noted.”
Stella turns back to me with an innocent smile. “Ta-ta for now, lovey!”
The moment the front door clicks shut behind her, I cross my arms, eyeing Callum suspiciously. “Okay, out with it. What did she just tell you?”
Callum sets his coffee cup down, a slow, wicked grin spreading beneath his mustache as his eyes sweep over my messy hair and pore-strip-adorned nose.
“She said you’re her person,” he rasps softly, taking a step toward me. “And that if I do anything to fuck this up with you, she’ll take a dull cheese grater to my balls.”
I burst out laughing, shaking my head. “God, I love her. That’s my girl.”
The kitchen still smells like burnt toast and the cheap cinnamon coffee I bought in bulk last week.
Morning light slants through the half-open blinds, catching dust motes and the faint glitter of cat hair floating in the air.
My apartment always feels a little lived-in and messy at this hour—dishes in the sink, one of Jett’s toys under the fridge, the record player in the corner still spinning something soft from last night.
Callum leans a hip against the counter, watching me like he’s trying to memorize the whole mess of it. “So what’s on the agenda today?”
I peel the pore strip off my nose with a wince and toss it toward the trash. Miss. Of course. “My shift at Spellspin’s about to start. Gotta open in—” I glance at the microwave clock “—twenty-three minutes, which means I’m already late in spirit.”
A disgruntled meow answers from the hallway. Jett stretches his long black body in the slow way cats do when they’ve been napping and are deeply offended by the existence of other living things. He struts past us, tail high, and stops just long enough to give Callum a full once-over.
“Well, well,” Jett says. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Callum’s mouth quirks. “Morning to you too, asshole.”
Jett flicks an ear and continues to his bowl like the conversation is beneath him. I roll my eyes and point at him with my coffee. “Chop chop, Your Highness. We’re heading downstairs in a few. You’re on security detail whether you like it or not.”
He mutters something that sounds a lot like “I don’t get paid enough for this” into his kibble.
Callum’s gaze tracks the cat for a second before sliding back to me. “Where’s Twyla?”
I let out a soft chuckle. “Where isn’t she during the day? Honestly, she kind of just flits and flees wherever the wind takes her. She usually shows back up around dusk to dump all the hot gossip from the hollow on me while I’m trying to unwind.”
“The hollow?” Callum tilts his head, trailing a thumb along the ceramic handle of his cup.
“Yeah. The place where all the local fae hang out,” I explain, taking a bite of my toast.
“Oh, right.” A small, sheepish grin tugs at his mouth beneath his mustache. “The fae. Right. Keep forgetting about them.”
I can’t help the laugh that spills out, soft and a little tired.
Callum clears this throat before asking, “Can I hang out with you at the record shop today?”
I blink. “Really? It can get kind of boring. Slow mornings, dusty crates, the occasional customer who wants to argue about whether vinyl sounds better than streaming.”
He shrugs, one shoulder lifting like it’s no big deal, but his eyes stay on mine. “I don’t believe anything with you could be boring.”
I look down at the counter as I pick at the butcher paper around the flowers. “I was actually planning on bringing Aria’s book down with me,” I say quietly. “Along with Grimm’s notes. Thought I’d see if I could cross-reference a few things…try to figure out how to actually get you back home.”
The sentence hangs in the air. It’s an awkward thought to bring up, a cold splash of reality after the last few days, and honestly, it’s one I really don’t want to face right now.
Callum senses the shift instantly. He steps into my space, his big, calloused hand reaching out to wrap around mine where it rests on the counter. His thumb rubs gentle back-and-forth strokes over my knuckles.
“Maybe I can help,” he says softly. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
I offer him a sad, small smile, pressing a quick squeeze to his fingers before gently pulling my hand away. I glance up at the vintage wooden clock ticking away on the kitchen wall.
“I…yeah. Maybe,” I say a little too awkwardly. “I gotta hurry up and get ready or I’m going to be opening late.”
I turn back to him over my shoulder as I pull my unwashed hair out of its topknot. “You can come if you don’t mind being put to work, McKinley.”
Callum’s voice follows me. “Being put to work never scared me off.”
Twenty minutes later, after a lightning-fast shower and peeling off my zit patches, we head down the narrow back staircase to Spellspin.
The moment I unlock the door, it instantly smells like dusty paper, warm vinyl, old wood, and the lingering hint of sweet clover from the shop’s enchanted cleaning charm.
I flip the deadbolt, turn the sign on the glass door to OPEN, and dive straight into my morning routine.
I walk over to the vintage turntable behind the counter, flipping through the fresh stack of processed arrivals resting on the wooden crate.
My fingers dance over the edges until I find what I’m looking for—Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and an original pressing of Purple Rain.
I’ve always been an old soul; modern pop is fine, but give me 1977 basslines and 1980s synth-rock any day of the week.
“Here,” I say, handing Callum a stack of alphabetized crates. “Make yourself useful and put these in the 70s rock section under ‘S’ and ‘T’. Don’t mix up Steely Dan and Supertramp or I will throw you out.”
“Strict management. I like it,” he deadpans, taking the heavy box with effortless ease as he tosses me a wink.
Jett struts through the door behind us, instantly zeroing in on his favorite spot. He leaps onto the low rug near the front window, knocking over his catnip mouse—the one missing its left ear and completely frayed at the tail—and starts batting it across the floorboards.
I wander over to the corner where an electric keyboard sits on a wooden stand. Nobody has ever tried to buy it, and honestly, I hope they never do. I press a middle C, listening to the soft, tinny hum before fiddling absentmindedly with a couple of keys.
Tinkle-tinkle.
The brass bell above the front door chimes, and I look up right on cue.