Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
THAT WAS ALMOST A KISS
Music is always my salvation. When the weight of responsibility crushes me, when the pages of magical texts blur together into an incomprehensible maze of symbols and incantations, when my brain feels like scrambled eggs left too long on the stove, I turn to rhythm.
Right now, after three straight hours of attempting to decipher the difference between moon bell essence and starflower extract, I need that escape desperately.
“I can’t absorb another word about magical herbology,” I groan, slamming the heavy tome closed with more force than necessary.
The sound echoes through Thorne Curiosities like a gunshot, and dust motes dance in the late afternoon light streaming through the shop’s tall windows, casting everything in a golden haze that should be peaceful but only emphasizes how trapped I feel.
Sir, perched regally on the polished counter beside me with his tail wrapped neatly around his paws, gives me that withering look he’s perfected over what I suspect are centuries of dealing with inadequate humans.
“The reopening is in three weeks, Keisha. You haven’t even begun to grasp the most basic magical properties of—”
“I know, I know.” I wave him off, already digging my phone from my back pocket with the desperation of someone drowning who’s just spotted a life preserver.
“Just give me fifteen minutes to clear my head. That’s all.
Fifteen minutes to remember I’m a human being and not just a vessel for arcane knowledge. ”
The Familiar’s whiskers twitch with the kind of disapproval that suggests I’ve just proposed burning down the shop for fun. “Time is of the essence. The community expects—”
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeat, already scrolling through my carefully curated playlists with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. “Then I’ll be the most studious, dedicated, magically-inclined woman in all of Ruby Springs. I promise.”
Sir’s amber eyes narrow to slits. “Your promises have proven remarkably elastic lately.”
Beyoncé’s bass drops through the shop’s sound system.
Thank God my grandmother installed decent speakers when she renovated this place.
Something inside me loosens like a knot finally giving way.
My shoulders roll back, tension melting from muscles I didn’t even realize were clenched, my hips start to sway of their own accord, and I slide off the uncomfortable wooden stool that’s been my prison for the better part of the afternoon.
For the first time today, I actually breathe fully, pulling air deep into my lungs instead of the shallow, anxious sips I’ve been surviving on.
The shop transforms into my personal stage, my sanctuary.
Between the pristine shelves lined with curiosities I’m still learning to identify, past glass cases filled with enchanted oddities that pulse with their own subtle magic, I dance like nobody’s watching.
Because nobody is watching, just one increasingly disgruntled Familiar.
Lucien’s nowhere in sight, and the connecting door between our shops is closed.
I spin on my bare feet, having kicked off my shoes hours ago, letting my long braids fan out around me in a dark cascade.
The familiar weight of them against my back, makes me feel more like myself than I have in weeks.
The playlist transitions seamlessly from Beyonce to Rihanna before finally landing on Jill Scott’s Golden, and a little squeal of pure joy escapes me before I can stop it.
“This is my jam!” I announce to the empty shop, my voice rising with the chorus as if Jill Scott herself is in the room with me, encouraging every note.
I sing at the top of my lungs, letting the rich melody fill every corner of the space, feeling the persistent tension in my chest dissolving with each word, each breath, each movement.
Sir’s tail twitches in what I choose to interpret as barely restrained irritation rather than the feline equivalent of a seizure. “Must we endure this theatrical display?”
“Oh, come on!” In a moment of pure impulse born from the intoxicating combination of good music and temporary freedom from dusty textbooks, I scoop him up before he can protest, cradling his surprisingly solid weight against my chest. His fur is incredibly soft, and he’s heavier than he looks, all lean muscle beneath that pristine coat.
“Dance with me, you eternally grumpy cat.”
His entire body stiffens in my arms like I’ve just committed the gravest possible offense against his dignity. “I am not a common house cat to be cuddled and cooed at, woman. I am a Familiar with centuries of distinguished service, a repository of wisdom, and I absolutely do not—”
I twirl us both around, and his indignant protest cuts off mid-sentence.
For one brief, glorious second, I swear I feel his paws tap against my forearm in perfect rhythm to the music before he apparently remembers his carefully cultivated reputation for aristocratic aloofness.
When he nips at my fingers, not hard enough to actually hurt, just a warning shot across the bow of my presumption, I can’t help but laugh.
“Party pooper,” I tell him fondly.
With an aristocratic sniff that would make the King of England proud, he wriggles free of my embrace, dropping soundlessly to the polished wooden floor and immediately beginning to groom himself as if my touch has somehow contaminated his perfect fur.
“I shall return when you’re prepared to approach your studies with the gravity and dedication they require. ”
“Love you too!” I call after his retreating form, his tail held high like a flag of surrender as he disappears behind a shelf of enchanted trinkets.
Alone now in the golden afternoon light, I close my eyes and surrender completely to the music, to the rhythm that flows through my veins like liquid sunlight.
The lyrics wash over me, and I spin faster, arms outstretched toward the vaulted ceiling, letting everything go, every worry, every insecurity, every moment of doubt that has plagued me since arriving in Ruby Springs.
For these precious minutes, I’m not the failed Witch, the disappointing heir.
I’m just Keisha, dancing in a pool of afternoon light, free and whole and completely myself.
The sound of someone clearing their throat shatters my musical sanctuary.
My eyes fly open in alarm, my foot catches on absolutely nothing but my own startled clumsiness, and suddenly I’m pitching forward toward the unforgiving antique hardwood floor.
Before I can face-plant in a spectacularly ungraceful display that would give Sir enough material for months of condescending commentary, strong hands catch me, pulling me upright against a solid, warm chest.
Ezra.
His black-rimmed glasses are slightly askew from the sudden movement, and close, closer than we’ve ever been, close enough that I can feel his breath against my forehead.
I can see the flecks of amber hidden in his dark brown eyes like tiny flames.
His cologne, something earthy and sophisticated with hints of sandalwood and cedar, fills my senses and makes my head spin in an entirely different way than the dancing did.
Heat radiates through his thin gray t-shirt, and beneath my palms, which have somehow found their way to his chest without my conscious permission, I can feel the unexpected firmness of lean muscles that speak of hours spent swimming and running, of a man who takes care of himself with the same quiet dedication he brings to everything else.
We’re so close I can count his individual eyelashes, can see the way his pupils dilate slightly as we stare at each other. Impossibly, breathtakingly close. If I just rose up on my toes, if I just tilted my chin up the smallest fraction. I can almost taste his lips. . .
He steps back abruptly, his hands steadying me for one more moment before falling away, leaving me feeling cold and strangely bereft. The space between us suddenly feels like an ocean.
“Sorry, Keisha.” His voice is deeper than usual, rougher around the edges as he reaches into his worn leather satchel with hands that aren’t quite steady, producing yet another stack of books that look far older and more mysterious than anything I’ve been studying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Heat floods my face in a wave of embarrassment so intense I’m surprised I don’t spontaneously combust. “No, Ez, I’m sorry you had to see all of this—” I gesture vaguely but specifically at my curves, at my soft body that was just moving with such abandon, “—shaking around the room like some kind of amateur dance video gone wrong.”
Something flashes in his eyes, quick as lightning but unmistakable.
Something sharp and intense. Not pity or not embarrassment on my behalf.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “No.” The word comes out firm, almost harsh.
“You don’t get to say that about yourself.
” His gaze holds mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“That, for one, was absolutely no hardship to witness.”
The air between us suddenly crackles with something electric, something I’m afraid to name because naming it might make it disappear, or worse, might make it real. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely.
Oh heavens.
I clear my throat, desperately grasping for solid ground in this suddenly shifting landscape between us. “So. . .more homework? More books to make me feel inadequately prepared for all of this?”