A Spell of Heat (Omega Witches of Willowbrook #1)

Caroline

Spell for Concealment:

Blend rosemary and ash in a pouch. Carry near your skin. What is hidden stays hidden.

“Why in the Goddess’s name is Oscar buying so many love potions?” I ask Thistle.

My cat obviously doesn’t reply.

Thistle, sleek and black as a shadow with those too-wise yellow-green eyes, is sprawled across the counter beside my mortar. His tail swishes once, as though he’s weighing my question and refusing to dignify it with an answer.

Typical. He’s been my familiar since I was sixteen years old, and he’s never once given me the courtesy of explaining the things he seems to know.

“I mean, really,” I mutter as I grind dried rose petals into dust. “Five vials in the past two weeks? Either he’s trying to get the whole town to fall in love with him or something’s going on.”

The rose dust blooms into a faint blush of color that sticks to the air before settling.

My nose itches, cinnamon and honey threading beneath the scent, my own Omega magic stirring like it always does when I’m at the workbench.

Potion brewing is the only place I feel steady and grounded.

But Oscar’s latest request? It needles me.

Oscar is a well-known aspiring writer who has been working on his romance novel for as long as I can remember. He’s also an awkward flirt who has asked out every single woman in town at least once.

Nope, I’m not exaggerating.

Most people think that makes him a hopeless romantic, but honestly, I think it’s a little creepy.

My best friend agrees. Amara actually thinks it is a rite of passage to be hit on by Oscar Dune.

What exactly does a quiet, bookish twenty-three-year-old need with this much bottled romance?

Thistle lifts his head and blinks, unimpressed.

“Or maybe he’s selling them? You think I should tell someone?” I ask.

His whiskers twitch. Silence.

“Right. Of course you don’t care. You’d let the whole town burn as long as you got fed on time.”

Still nothing.

I sigh, tuck a lock of auburn hair behind my ear, and turn back to the potion. Love potions are fiddly at the best of times. One wrong measure, one mismatched herb, and you don’t get romance—you get something sticky and obsessive. Which is why I usually hate making them.

But the Finch twins insist that if a customer asks, we provide. That’s the rule at Foxglove & Finch: no judgment, only brewed-to-order.

The glass vial waits on the workbench, washed so clean it gleams under the lamplight.

I add powdered rose, a dash of honey dissolved in warm water, then grind cinnamon bark until my fingers sting with the effort.

The smell fills the little back room, spicy and heady, and the faint shimmer of magic runs over my skin.

Thistle yawns, teeth sharp and tongue pink, then curls his paws beneath him as if I’m boring him senseless.

“I guess I should cut you some slack,” I say. “If you hadn’t knocked over that tincture, I’d have drunk it myself, and then who knows what would’ve happened?”

His ears flick.

I pour the cinnamon-honey mixture into the vial, then stir counterclockwise three times with the silver spoon. Steam curls up, pinkish-gold, fizzing faintly. Almost there. Just needs…

I reach for the last jar on the shelf, glancing at the crooked label. Ash of willow. Or is that alder? The handwriting looks like June’s, and I know I should double-check. Instead, because I’m tired and thinking about Oscar’s ridiculous orders, I toss a pinch in and set the jar down.

My phone is already propped against the window ledge. I set the timer for five minutes, the exact duration needed for the infusion to stabilize, then press start. The little digital beep makes me feel oddly proud of myself for once.

Organization. Progress.

Maybe I’m not as scatterbrained as everyone thinks.

“See?” I tell Thistle. “Perfectly under control.”

Which is exactly when he lifts one paw and knocks the phone off the ledge. It clatters against the stone floor, the timer silenced.

“Thistle!”

I snatch it up, brushing dust off the screen, but when I glance back at the workbench, the potion is already hissing. A sulfurous smell curls up, stinging my nose, and my stomach drops.

Wrong ash. Not willow. Alder. And alder, when heated with cinnamon and rose, doesn’t make a love potion—it makes an unstable minor combustible.

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

I grab a cloth and snuff out the little flame licking the rim of the vial. It sputters, smokes, then dies with a pathetic pop. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my ears.

If Thistle hadn’t knocked over the timer, I’d have left it brewing, and by the five-minute mark it would’ve gone off like a firecracker in my face.

I slump against the counter, breathless, staring at the faint scorch mark on the cloth.

Thistle tilts his head, eyes gleaming like he knew all along.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

He blinks slowly, magnanimous in his forgiveness.

This is why he’s still with me. Why I’m still alive, if I’m honest. Sixteen-year-old Caroline wasn’t exactly in the best place when Thistle padded into her life. Some nights, I still think he chose me not because I was meant to be a witch with a familiar, but because he knew I needed saving.

If he hadn’t been with me, my grief would have dragged me under. I shake my head, not wanting to remember any of that.

I need to concentrate.

I start again, more carefully this time, double-checking every jar before adding the correct willow ash. The mixture simmers peacefully, golden-pink light glowing faintly against my freckled skin. Better. Almost lovely.

I barely have time to breathe a sigh of relief before I hear footsteps creaking across the apothecary floor, followed by a voice calling through the door.

“Caroline? You in there, sweetheart?”

It’s June Finch—one half of my bosses. Although she’s only in her early thirties, she’s practically the mother-hen to half the town, and the reason I’ve mastered half of the potions I know. I wipe my hands on my apron and step out of the back room.

The front of Foxglove & Finch smells like lavender scones and clove tea. June’s back behind the counter, her brown hair tied up in its usual messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose. She’s packing herbs into brown-paper bundles with the efficiency of someone who could run this place in her sleep.

“How’s the potion coming?” she asks, not looking up.

“Almost done,” I say.

She gives me a knowing smile, the kind that makes me feel seen in ways I don’t always like. “Good. August just went to pick up the new apprentice from the bus station, and that means you’re on order duty.”

“Of course.” I smooth my apron, trying not to look flustered.

The bell over the front door jingles, and in walks Clive Harper, our delivery man and Willowbrook’s unofficial newswire. He’s tall, balding, and always smelling faintly of gasoline and peppermint gum. He leans against the counter like he’s settling in for an afternoon chat.

“Morning, ladies,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got your boxes.”

“Thank you, Clive,” I reply politely, stepping forward to sign for the delivery. He always stretches these interactions as long as possible, as though we’re starved for his company.

“How’s your mother doing, Caroline?” he asks, like he always does.

I school my face into a pleasant smile. “She’s well. Busy with her sewing.”

He nods as though this is breaking news. “Tell her I said hello.”

“I will.”

He leans a little closer. “Any word on when you’ll reopen the diner side? Folks are missing those potion lattes.”

I give a small shrug. “Soon, I think. I’ll let you know.”

I’ve missed the potion lattes, too.

Between June, August, and me, we’ve been too swamped to run the diner. That’s why it has been closed for the last month so we could focus on the apothecary side of the business. Hopefully with the new apprentice coming in, we’ll be able to reopen the diner side.

Satisfied with his morsel of gossip, he hefts the boxes onto the counter and tips his cap. “Ladies.”

I balance the boxes in my arms and carry them carefully toward the back, only for Thistle to dart across my path, tail high and smug. I stumble, nearly tripping, but manage to set the boxes down without disaster.

“Really?” I whisper to him. “Must you?”

He purrs.

When I stack the jars and bottles neatly onto their shelves, June’s voice drifts back from the counter. “Don’t forget to finish those potions. They’re already late.”

"On it," I call back. Thistle hops onto the counter beside me, curling his tail neatly around his paws.

I set the vial of love potion on the drying rack and watch the light shimmer inside it. One order down, a dozen more to go.

By the time I finish labeling the last potion, my shoulders ache, and the clock on the wall blinks 7:58. The rain hasn’t started yet, but the clouds outside the apothecary window have sunk low and heavy, pressing down on the rooftops like a warning.

June and August have already gone, leaving me to lock up. I douse the lamps, flip the sign to closed, and tuck Thistle into the crook of my arm.

The air outside smells like wet earth and ozone, the kind of thick, charged scent that promises a storm. A gust of wind picks up the aroma of rosemary from the herb beds and whips it around me.

I shiver and pull my jacket tighter. I’m halfway to the lamppost when a voice cuts through the dusk.

“Caroline!”

I blink and turn, and there she is—Amara Wilder, striding down the cobblestone walk like she owns it. Her long black hair tumbles loose over her shoulders, dark curls glinting with the first hint of rain.

Her skirts sway around her boots, each layer more dramatic than the last, and there’s jewelry on nearly every finger, silver flashing at her throat and wrists. She smells like wild jasmine and spiced wine, and even from a distance, the scent wraps around me, rich and intoxicating.

I let out a delighted squeal before I can stop myself and run straight into her arms. “When did you get back?”