2. Goldilocks
Goldilocks
The next morning I’m outside Grandma’s shop, The Cat’s Cradle, at eight thirty sharp. Hazel will be opening the shop while Grandma gets me situated at the market, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be having a late start.
The toe of my faux furry boot taps against the sidewalk as I shiver.
That winter chill is cold as fuck, but there’s no way I’m going inside.
The first time I walked in there I was almost bowled over by disorienting memories I had long forgotten.
Memories Mom stole from me, hid from me, with her magic.
I can barely remember Dad outside of a few core memories, like him helping me blow out the candles at my birthday party and buying me my first sketchbook.
I’d assumed I was too young to remember much else. But that wasn’t it at all.
I have no interest in it happening again.
I still don’t understand why Mom took my memories, but there’s a lot of things about my life that I no longer understand.
And despite everything, I don’t want to see the last place she walked free.
“Morning, dear!” Grandma steps out of her car. “I have most of the supplies already in the car but my favorite tablecloth is in the shop.”
My arms cross my chest as another shiver wracks my body. “I’ll wait here.”
I don’t miss the calculated eyes sweeping over me, or the raised eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”
Sure I don’t want to go in the shop? Yes.
She opens the door to The Cat’s Cradle as I turn to the town.
My hometown. Chagrin Falls, Ohio. The shop sits on Main Street along with the other mostly brick buildings that line the road on either side.
Boutiques, bookstores, and restaurants with people fluttering in and out.
Their chatter tends to hide the sounds of the waterfalls themselves, but you can still hear them when it’s quiet.
It’s the most New England town outside of New England.
When we were younger, Dad used to take us to the Popcorn Shop overlooking the falls every Sunday afternoon to get us hopped up on sugar before family dinner. Thankfully, that memory wasn’t stolen.
“I love this town in the winter,” Grandma says, sneaking up behind me with the tablecloth underneath her arm. “I may not always love snow, but it adds a certain magical quality to everything.”
“Yep. Let’s go.” The butterflies swirling in my belly are threatening to take over. I don’t want to go to the market. I don’t want to see Ash. I don’t want any of this.
I just want my life back. Despite how broken it was, how fake it was, it was expected. Comfortable. Mine.
The car ride is quiet. Grandma doesn’t know what to say to me anymore, and I don’t know what to say to her. She’s so fucked up by what happened to Mom I barely recognize her. It feels wrong to tease her when she’s already so hurt, but teasing her was the way we talked to each other before.
Now it just feels cruel.
And I may be a bitch, but I’m not cruel.
We pull up to the field, which is completely empty to the naked eye, but actually covered by a magical veil that obscures the market from view. It’s kept up by most of the witches who have stalls, including Grandma, and it also acts as a ward to keep out malevolent types and humans.
“Where are we setting up?” I ask.
Grandma waves her hands a little, securing her feet on the ground with a smile. Magic. The scent of it fills my nose. It’s the heat of a bonfire on a summer evening, the scent of marshmallows and wood crackles. Pure warmth and comfort.
I watch as dirt slowly spreads at her feet; tendrils of tree roots twist together, forming one large tangle. The roots lift the boxes and bags in the car, waiting for Grandma’s direction. “Come, come.”
I follow Grandma and her personal tree-root butler through the magical barrier and into the bustle of the market. I won’t be able to hide from Ash, not with my own booth. I’ll be a sitting duck and he’s going to torment me all he wants.
“Here we are!” Grandma says, fanning the deep, royal-purple tablecloth over the basic wooden table.
Very bougie—very Grandma. It’s thick and plush and ready to be decorated within an inch of perfection.
“I like to arrange things in their categories. I have a few different display cases and decorative plates to make everything look nice. You can have creative control over that. I trust your taste.”
Despite feeling like a grumpy monster, I preen at the compliment. Having good taste is something I take a lot of pride in, and knowing she agrees is validating. “I got this.”
“I was thinking of doing a little shopping while you get set up. Is that all right with you? I can answer any questions when I return,” Grandma says. “All the things you’ll need are on the ground in well-labeled boxes.”
Grandma is always well organized.
I nod in agreement, eager for a moment to myself. For a little space.
She leaves in a flourish of her dress, headed toward a flock of muumuu-wearing witches. I wrinkle my nose. Definitely not my style.
I pull one of the floral plates out, determined to organize crystals into a beautiful display, when I catch the gaze of a guy. A reasonably attractive guy, if I’m honest. Tall, blonde, fit.
But he’s not Ash.
And apparently since I found my stupid soulmate, the thought of even kissing another guy makes me want to fucking barf.
Dating was one of my favorite activities. I loved the instant endorphin rush from meeting someone new, and the flame of chemistry was addicting. It may have burned bright and quick, but it was fun.
And I never wanted more than that. I never wanted to run the risk of suffering with the pain my mother did.
Stupid. Fucking. Soulmates.
I slam a crystal down a little too hard, the crackling clink against the plate jarring the relative silence of my small booth. I cringe. I’m trying to avoid bringing attention to myself, not plaster a neon sign over my head that says, ‘Look at this stupid bitch.’
“Do you need help?” a masculine voice asks. I turn to find the guy—the perfectly attractive but totally barf-worthy guy—I made eye contact with. He’s smiling at me with amusement and it’s just . . . ick.
“No—” I start, but am interrupted by a deliciously large brute of a lumberjack wedging his way between me and the mystery man, his back to me so I can’t see the expression on his face.
“She’s fine. Move along,” Ash Cedar says, voice booming with authority and no small amount of possessiveness.
My knees wobble as I have to physically restrain myself from melting into his back. Even that was hot, and isn’t that frustrating?
The other man doesn’t bother replying before he scampers away. Or at least, I assume he scampers based on the sound of shoes hustling away on cold, crunchy ground. I can’t actually see anything around the massive Hulk-wannabe in front of me.
“Was that entirely necessary?” Despite my annoyance at my predicament flaring to life, I can’t fully remove the breathless quality from my voice.
With a swagger I refuse to admit is sexy as hell, Ash slowly turns to me. His giant arms are crossed over his barrel chest as his green eyes sweep over me. “Yes.”
“Maybe I wanted his help!”
I didn’t. But Ash certainly doesn’t need to know that.
“If you need help, Goldilocks, you ask me.”
I huff out a frustrated breath. “Can you please do whatever Alpha A-hole crap this is somewhere else? I have a booth to set up.”
A smile breaks across his face as if my resistance is purely amusing. “You’re going to be working a booth here?”
Fuck.
“Grandma wants to have The Cat’s Cradle set up at the market for the season,” I reply.
“Goldilocks.” He invades my space, the scent of warm fires, evergreen trees, and musk crawling underneath my skin. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I said I didn’t need help.”
His eyes flicker down to my lips, lingering there. “Nah, that’s not what you said at all. You said you didn’t need his help. You never said you didn’t need mine. You want to put me to work? I’ll do anything you tell me.”
I raise a single eyebrow. “Anything?”
The smile melts from his face, a seriousness I haven’t experienced from him overtaking his expression. “Tell me to lift boxes . . . arrange crystals. Tell me to get on my knees and crawl to you. I’ll worship at your altar.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks, spreading through my body and threatening to burn me alive. The mental image of this man on his knees is too much.
“And if I ask you to leave?” My voice trembles.
He nods. “Then I will. But not forever, Goldilocks. I’ll always come back for you.”
I set up the rest of the booth in a fog. A lusty, anxiety-ridden fog. It would be one thing if my attraction to Ash was one-sided. Or if he was shy. But his obvious pursuit of me is beyond my ability to handle.
I want him to stop.
Don’t I?
At the very least, I’m happy he respects me when I tell him to leave. He may not understand personal space, but he understands no.
That’s more than I can say for a lot of people.
By the time I’ve finished, the booth is neat and orderly but my brain is a jumbled mess. Even though I can’t see or hear Ash, I can still sense him. Sense the electric current that I only allowed myself to feel just once.
Right after Mom died.
We came to the market so Hazel could see the moving paintings and have her whole ‘coming to Jesus’ moment. For me, it was the first time Ash touched me. He didn’t say a word, neither did I. I was with my family and all he did was brush my shoulder with his arm.
The electric shock was exactly as Hazel described it. Like sticking your finger in a socket. Sharp, brief, and full of everything I’ve never wanted.
Sure, maybe when I younger I wanted what my parents had. But there’s no point in it. Not when losing it can turn you into the kind of person my mom is.
Was.
Is?
“The booth looks lovely, dear,” Grandma says, snapping me out of my musings.
I smile. “Thank you.”
“Since you’re not as familiar with the shop, I made a little cheat sheet for you.
” She hands me a slip of paper. “The pricing is on that. Everything should be labeled well enough that you can put it all together. But I’ll stay with you for your first week as you adjust. After that, if you need help you can always call me or Hazel. ”
“Do I get a paycheck for manning your booth like Hazel does for the store?” I ask.
Partially because the urge to be snarky is too much to ignore, and partially because I haven’t had a job in my life, and it would be nice to have some money.
Mom would give me a little something to get lunch at the cafeteria on campus but nothing extra.
“Yes. You’ll earn the same pay as Hazel does.”
At least she and I are on equal footing in something.
“And remember, your first magic lesson is tonight. I expect you to be in the shop by no later than seven.”
The shop? Uh, no. Nope. No thank you.
I shoot her my doe eyes. “Why can’t we just do it at home? I’m sure the house would appreciate the magic.”
“The house is just fine on its own.” She stares me down. “We will meet in the shop. It has the correct space and energy.”
How do I explain to her what that space means to me? It’s where my mom spent some of her last day. She stole my memories of it for years. All it does is remind me of what I’ve lost.
“Please? Could we maybe go outside in the yard if we need more space?” I can’t help the pleading tone, the desperation.
She’s already forcing me to be around Ash every day. I can’t do this, too.
She sighs, setting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s this important to you?”
I breathe in relief. She’s listening to me. “Yes. Yes, Grandma, it is.”
“Okay. We can start in the backyard. But you can’t avoid the shop forever, dear. It’s part of who you are just as much as each of your limbs.”
My body relaxes. “I would chop my own hand off if it gave me as much trouble as that shop.”
“Mmm.” Her nose wrinkles. “What lovely imagery.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Ever so charming. Now put a smile on, we have a customer.”