Chapter 25 THE APOTHECARY’S BLOOM #2
His heat brushes against my back as he pushes me. Higher and higher. I soar through the air like the ravens flying overhead.
“I want a gorgeous library with walls of books. One of those beautiful antique desks with cherubs on the legs. A music room. And…” I stop, excitement bubbling, and leap off the swing.
Kian’s already there, like he’s predicted my next move.
He catches me easily.
“What?” He grazes my cheek with his finger. I shiver.
“An indoor garden,” I say. “Like a greenhouse filled with roses, more books, a comfortable chair, the best hot chocolate, and big windows I can watch the stars from.”
“That’s…very specific.” A smirk tugs at his lips.
“What can I say? I have standards.”
“And yet you chose me.”
“And yet I chose you,” I whisper.
The hiss of the espresso machine drags me back to the present.
A redhead reminding me of a certain fairytale mermaid frowns behind the counter.
She mutters something to the machine. Then she scowls.
“Just whack it,” I call out, grinning. “Hit it like you hate it.”
Amusement glints in her green eyes. “You break it, you buy it.”
“But you’re the one hitting it.”
I sit at the counter and glance at the chalkboard behind her—the drink offerings.
The Velvet Hex. The Obsidian Heart. The Alchemist Kiss. Moonpetal Elixir.
What the heck?
Whack.
The coffee machine splutters and purrs, and soon the scent of freshly ground espresso fills the air.
“Damn. It works.”
“Told you. Works with everything.” I may have whacked one of Maxwell’s race cars a few years ago when it wouldn’t unlock. I could’ve sworn I was a dead woman.
But then it worked. Ha!
“So, what can I get you? First time here?” The redhead grins as she ties on a green apron.
“Just moved here, actually.” I look around, taking in the people quietly chatting, a brunette with ivory skin in a turtleneck stocking books on shelves, and the rows of spice jars—willow bark, lemon balm, calendula, echinacea, among other things.
“What is this place? Bookstore and coffee shop mixed with Practical Magic?”
She grins. “Exactly. It’s one of a kind. Aria,” she points to the brunette, “and I came up with it. We wanted our favorite things in one place. I’m Scarlett.” She sticks out her hand.
I shake it and smile. It feels good—chatting with regular people, getting a drink at a new café. Normal life things.
Brow arched, I motion to her hair. “Scarlett…with red hair.”
She mock groans and sighs. “I was named after Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind. My parents didn’t think things through.”
Scarlett tells me she and Aria met in the University of Chicago’s nursing program.
Aria graduated and is now a nurse at Chicago Memorial.
Scarlett took her family’s investment and opened this shop instead.
She wanted to use her herbology obsession to make weirdly perfect drinks and build a place where people want to linger and read. Aria hangs out here on her days off.
“Special perennial plants. Experimental strains.” She motions to the flowers.
“And trust me, my drinks are magic. Head cold? Bad luck in the love department?” She leans in and points to the jars behind her. “I’ve got you covered.”
“And some awesome books to read while you’re at it.” Aria drifts over and sits next to me.
She gives me an impish smile. “I saw you before with that scary dude outside. What are you? Part of the mafia? They are around here, you know.”
I swallow, my mind flashing to The Association, and that pause has her eyes widening.
“No way! Not judging though.”
“All are welcome here,” Scarlett comments. “We have a mix of folks from different ‘backgrounds’ in Saints Hollow. This is a safe haven.”
“It’s not really like that.” Heat crawls up my neck. There go my plans of making new friends. “Ren looks scary, but—”
“Hot. Killer vibes. Model body, though. Dude, see those shoulders. And that mask. I’m a sucker for men in masks.” Aria grins.
“Don’t let Blake hear that. You’re engaged, missy,” Scarlett teases.
Aria flushes and explains, “Blake’s a surgeon at the hospital, and he—”
“Is not a killer but does wear a mask.” Scarlett snickers. “A surgical mask, so it’s different.”
“Heeey. Surgical masks are…hot.”
“If you say so.”
Aria eyes Ren again. “Why doesn’t he come in? It’s freezing outside.”
“Genetically modified, maybe. A super soldier. He looks tense. I think he needs chamomile and ashwagandha in his coffee,” Scarlett muses.
The girls banter, and I blink.
Aria leans in and whispers, “Every book has a good story. Even the scary ones. I love the scary ones.”
“But she picked a golden retriever, make that make sense,” Scarlett stage whispers. “Honestly, I think she’s seen too much shit at the ER and it’s messed with her common sense.”
Something inside me loosens—an ache that’s taken residence under my ribs since the wedding. For a moment, I feel like my old self again.
The two girls chat about hospital gossip.
Aria talks about the new research wing under construction.
I bite back a smile, not mentioning my family’s donation is paying for it.
Instead, I make a mental note to email Chicago Memorial’s PR department and connect them with my replacement at Fleur for their joint media tour.
“I’m homesick,” I begin, and they swivel their heads toward me. “Any cures?”
Scarlett winks, her bangles jangling on her wrist. “I’ve got just the drink for you.”
“Welcome to your home away from home.” Aria runs to the shelves and returns with a book.
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.
“Matching me with heartbreak?” I say wryly. My mind flashes to a man with dark hair and a dangerous scar, who clutches me against him like he never wants to let go.
Aria smiles. “No. More like obsession and eternal love. And gothic, spooky atmospheres. Something you can sink your teeth into.”
An old ache flares. The images merge inside my mind—warm green eyes morphing into cutting emeralds, lost promises and words carved on a tree.
“Hey! We’re going to a new club in two weeks. It’s so hard to get in. You should come with. You can meet Blake!” Aria exclaims.
I stare at the friendly faces and shove my melancholy away.
New friends in a new place. Action, not reaction.
“Sure.” I grin. Maybe a night out will turn things around. And if my overbearing husband has an issue with it, that’s his problem, not mine.
The girls squeal, and I glance outside.
A dark sedan with tinted windows idles at the curb across the street, exhaust puffing out in dark plumes. Hair rises on my forearms. Ren stands sentry, his hand clutching his phone, his jaw clenched, brows pinched.
Like he’s worried.