Chapter 4
JAMIE
ONE WEEK LATER
Once again, I’m up before the sun clears the peaks. Just like yesterday and every day before that.
For thirteen days, I’ve watched the valley transform from gray to red and gold through a wall of glass.
This view of the changing leaves is the main selling point for living on this side of the mountain.
It’s gorgeous and meant to be shared with someone.
Colorado has never been my state of choice, even though Patterson is obsessed.
I’m hoping my brother is right, and I’ll find myself in the mountain air.
If not, being here for the next month and a half will be my personal hell.
I go downstairs and push a button on the espresso machine to brew a double shot.
I add a splash of milk and take my time drinking it, contemplating how I went from having the time of my life over the summer to now hiding out like a fugitive in the fall.
Escaping to Pine Haven was promised to be uneventful, and it’s stayed true to that.
It’s a slow life here. No one is in a hurry to get anywhere or do anything.
For someone who is constantly on the go and hasn’t slowed down in …
well, fucking ever, it’s a difficult transition.
Even though Patterson and I are similar, we aren’t exactly the same. He prefers to be alone, and I prefer to be the life of the party. Being forced into a shell is a punishment. Maybe that’s the point?
I finish my espresso and catch myself turning the glass and looking at the bottom like it’ll show my future. The leftover crema tells me nothing. I rinse the glass and make a list of things I’m not thinking about today. Blaire Witch goes at the very fucking top.
A week ago, when our knees touched under that little table, a jolt went straight through me.
She didn’t pull back, and neither did I.
Our gazes locked, and I felt like we’d met before, even though I’d never seen her in my life.
The last time I had been this intrigued by a woman, I ended up on the front page of one of the trusted gossip blogs, LuxLeaks.
The anonymous blogger writes about the rich and famous, and to this day, no one knows who’s behind it.
But they clocked my intrigue with Kendall.
Funny that my brother had ended up marrying her. That’s a hockey situation.
My phone vibrates on the counter, and I glance down. It’s one of my many exes who still reaches out to hook up even though I’ve not seen her in over a year.
What can I say? I’m addictive.
I send her a return text.
Jamie
Sorry, babe. I’m currently unavailable.
I’m hoping she reads between the lines. Either she’ll assume I’m not in the city or I’m in a relationship.
I’ve used the same response for both. If I don’t confirm, she’ll spread it around her friend group that I’m seeing someone.
Before the weekend, New York City will know.
It is the official death of my social life until November.
Trena
It’s times like this I wish you were available.
Jamie
Sorry to disappoint.
Trena
Did you finally meet someone?
I think maybe that will be the end of the messages, but then her bubble returns.
Trena
What’s your recent record with a woman? Thirty days?
Jamie
Are you keeping track of my relationships?
This is why casual doesn’t work. This is why I haven’t hooked up with anyone in years, even if the paps present me as some fuckboy. They’re determined to paint a certain narrative, and I make it easy for them.
Trena
Everyone knows you fall fast and move on even faster.
I hate that she’s right. Usually, by the thirty-day mark, I’m over whoever my fling is for the month. No one has been able to keep my interest in five years.
By noon, I’m going stir-crazy in the glass house, and I need some fresh air and food.
I grab my keys and leave. The road out of the private community winds down the mountain through forests of fluttering orange leaves.
I roll the windows down and enjoy the sixty-degree weather.
Once I’m at the bottom, I take a right and follow the scenic route that leads straight into the small town that has everything a person would ever need throughout the year.
Since Xander Ski Resort expanded, there are shops to rent bikes and skis in town, with shuttles that take tourists to the resorts at the top of the mountain.
Too bad I plan to be gone before the first snow falls. But the last thing I need is to be stranded in Pine Haven until January. That would be awful.
I park in front of the grocery store and count seven wooden crates full of big, bright orange pumpkins.
It’s not officially autumn yet, but these people started decorating on September 1.
I get out and walk toward the automatic door that slides open for me.
Classical music plays overhead. The teenager standing behind the counter doesn’t look up from his phone, but he still greets me. I nod and grab a small plastic basket.
The store is small, and it takes me no time to grab a thick steak at the back. I move down the coffee and tea aisle, throwing a bag of dark roast from Cozy Coffee inside. It’s a small coffee shop across the mountain, where my friend Nick Banks lives.
I’m picking through the produce when I spot her dark hair and small waist. She’s wearing an orange-and-black plaid pleated skirt, boots, and a leather jacket.
The buckles jingle when she walks. Her cart’s loaded with vegetables and what looks like half the herb aisle.
I search around for my escape plan. Just as I figure it out, her head turns toward me, like I summoned her gaze.
Instead of walking away, I go toward her.
“Jamie.” She says it like she expected to see me but was hoping she wouldn’t.
“Blaire.”
While there’s no witch’s hat today, she is wearing black cat earrings.
“Are you available later?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “For? If you’re asking me out, the answer is—”
“I wasn’t asking you out.” I take a step closer. “But trust me, if I wanted you, I’d have you. Unfortunately for all womankind, I’m on a dating sabbatical at the moment.”
“Why couldn’t you share that with me last week? When we were alone?” She grabs a fistful of mint and tosses a bundle of thyme into the cart. Now she’s avoiding my existence.
“Can you break a curse?” I ask, only half-joking.
Her brows knit together. “Usually.”
I glance around the empty aisle. “I’d like you to break mine.”
Part of me wants to see how determined she is to prove herself. If she takes her craft seriously, she’ll help me.
She sighs. “Didn’t you have enough?”
“I love torture,” I say, shooting her a wink. “What are your prices for this service?”
“Private sessions are usually fifteen hundred dollars an hour,” she says.
I scoff. “That’s robbery. I’m clearly in the wrong business.”
“But for you, it’s three thousand dollars per hour.”
“Unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head.
“That’s the starting point for my time, Jamie. Depending on the situation, it goes up from there.” She lingers. “You have negative energy that I don’t like. It needs to be cleansed.”
I look at her and scoff. “Did you just tell me I stink?”
“Energetically? Yes. Actually, make it five thousand dollars.” She works a few ginger roots loose and bags them.
She doesn’t know I have more money than she could burn through in ten lifetimes. It’s Cross money that’s been passed down for generations, just like the curse that is very real. “Five thousand dollars an hour?”
“That’s the price.”
She believes she’s officially run me off, like she’s been trying to do. The little smirk is cute, and I let her gloat in it for a few seconds as I pretend to contemplate my response.
“Hmm.” I grab a few tomatoes. “Can I book you for ten hours?”
The avocado slips out of her hand and rolls across the floor. She stops it with her boot and then bends over to pick it up.
“I assume I can wire the money to you?”
She glares at me. “You’re joking.”
“I believe you’re the one who said this wasn’t a joke. Fifty thousand dollars. Consider it done.”
Her brown eyes soften, and she studies my face with the same expression she had when she read my grounds. “Who are you?”
“A miracle.”
I can’t tell her the truth. Oh, hi. I’m Jameson Cross, billionaire trust-fund baby, ex-hockey star. Slut of New York. That would go over splendidly.
I want her to form her opinion of me without the outside noise.
“Spoken like a true curse,” she mutters.
“Speaking of, I have one of those I’d like removed. If you can’t, maybe you can refer me to a friend.”
She grabs two more avocados and a couple of yellow onions. “I can. I’m not sure if I want to.”
Someone rounds the endcap and speaks to Blaire. She smiles sweetly, taking a step away from me.
A moment later, she’s unzipping her shoulder bag and handing me a business card with gold lettering across the top that says Charmed Cauldron. Under it is her name, along with payment information for wire transfers, like this is normal.
“Generational witch. Nice touch.” I tap it against my fingers.
“When this is over, I want you to promise to leave a glowing, detailed review for my shop.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“It will.” She says it like it’s already written in the stars.
“You have a deal,” I say.
I hold out my hand, knowing I have absolutely nothing to lose. And truthfully, I want to see what happens.
Do I think she can break this curse? I don’t know.
Do I want to watch her try? Fuck yes.
We shake on it. Her grip is strong, but her fingers are cold.
“Meet me at the shop tomorrow night at seven o’clock. And don’t be late. If you are, I will leave and charge you for one hour of time.” She continues placing things in her basket.
“You’ll sign an NDA if we’re spending this much time together,” I tell her as we reach the end of the row.
“Why would I need to do that?” She stops to browse the shelves of wine.
“I can never be too careful,” I admit, reaching for the last bottle on the shelf at the same time she does. A black cat arches its back across the label that says Little Black Cat Wine.
“That one’s mine,” she says, though she doesn’t take it. “It’s my favorite. They can never keep it in stock.”
“After you.” I hold the bottle out to her.
She pushes it back toward me. “Try it. Then tell me your thoughts.”
I set it in my basket. “Thanks.”
“When we’re together, you’ll give me your undivided attention. You get out of it what you put in.”
“Understood.”
Our arms accidentally brush together, and she moves away from me.
“And stay out of my space,” she whispers.
“Will it upset your boyfriend?”
“No. I have boundaries with my clients.” She keeps her armor up.
“So, there is a boyfriend?”
“My relationship status is none of your business. Anyway, see you tomorrow.” She turns her cart toward the registers. “Oh, come on.”
I’m two steps behind her when a woman cuts in front of her.
The woman is in her sixties, thin, wearing a wool coat buttoned to the chin, though it’s not cold outside. “Blaire Wardwell. Wow, so it is true. You are taking it over.”
“Hi, Maren,” Blaire says sweetly, but her shoulders slightly tense.
“For forty-five years, I watched Flora ruin perfectly good marriages, and now you’re going to pick up right where she left off.” The woman’s lips purse.
“Please don’t disrespect my aunt,” Blaire says with confidence in her tone. “She was an honest woman.”
Maren’s cold blue eyes lock me into place. “Walk away from it before she ruins your life.”
This woman means and believes every word she’s saying. I don’t want to cause a scene, but I open my mouth anyway because what’s right is right and what’s wrong is fucking wrong. This isn’t okay.
Maren takes a deep breath and slides her credit card into the machine. “The Wardwells are nothing but trouble and have been for centuries. They’re witches.”
“This isn’t 1692,” I say. “You’re being extremely rude and disrespectful.”
The woman scoffs and grabs her bags. She’s out the door, escaping into the autumn afternoon without another word.
Blaire looks at me and smiles. It’s the first one I’ve earned. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know, but you deserve better.”
She tucks her lips into her mouth and finishes unloading her cart.
The kid rings her items while also somehow scrolling on his phone. I’ve got my card out before he finishes giving her the total.
“You’re not paying for this.” She unzips her purse and tries to push my hand away.
I tap the reader before she can stop me. The teenager is oblivious to anything that’s happening.
“Stop being nice to me, Jamie. It’s bad for business.”
“I think what you meant to say was, thank you.”
She slides the receipt out of the kid’s hand, then glances back at me. “Stop it.”
“Make me.”