32
Tristan
The Foggy Witch hasn’t changed in about a hundred years.
It’s a two-story, standalone brick building that would look like a large colonial-era home if not for the dark green-and-gold signs bearing its name.
The pub itself has been around for two centuries, and it sits on a tree-lined avenue two blocks from Main Street.
I can’t count how many nights I spent here when I was alive.
I told Demi I wanted to take her out on a date. The fact that I’ve been inside her twice and I haven’t so much as bought her dinner yet has been irking me. Her eyes lit up when I suggested taking her out, and she’d told me she had the perfect spot.
“It looks exactly the same,” I muse, standing under a flickering gas lamp and admiring The Foggy Witch’s exterior from the sidewalk.
Its walls are covered in moss and vines, with black-painted brick peeking out in gleams between the foliage.
There’s one sign hanging over the door, and another at the edge of the property, swinging in the light breeze with a quiet creak.
The scent of fish and chips and the sound of live music flow out from the building like an invitation.
“I’m guessing you came here a lot back in the day?” Demi asks .
I nod. “When I wasn’t traveling, I was here almost every night.”
“I had a feeling.” She smiles, and it’s so warm that I nearly forget it’s autumn in New England.
God, Demi looks good tonight. Calf-length skirt that hugs her hips and thighs like it’s painted on.
A white tank top tucked in and adorned with layers of gold necklaces.
A fringed black leather jacket, her golden hair falling in a perfectly straightened streak over one shoulder.
I don’t know how she does it, wearing clothes that look like they’re from my era but somehow still fit into modern style. She transcends time.
I’m so lucky to be here with her, so lucky to have her on my arm.
When I hold my hand out to her, she takes it without hesitation.
“Shall we?” I ask.
Grinning, she nods. “We shall.”
Walking through the doors of The Foggy Witch feels like deja vu.
Suddenly, I’m transported back to the smoky nights of 1978.
The pub hasn’t changed at all—dark wood and low lighting; tiled ceilings and brown leather.
There’s a fire burning in the rocky hearth, surrounded by a handful of tables and chairs.
Booths sit in curved recesses along the walls.
The small stage in the corner hosts a band playing an Eagles cover while a handful of people stand swaying to the rhythm with drinks in hand.
Inside, it feels small and cozy, and because of that, it’s always given the illusion of being busier than it is.
The old owner, Shortie, who I’m sure is long gone by now, always said it helped to keep the faster-paced tourists away.
Shortie’s philosophy was that a pub like The Foggy Witch was supposed to help folks slow down and rest. That’s what taverns were for centuries ago, after all.
Holding Demi’s hand is a miracle I will never take for granted. I use it to lead her through the meandering crowd to an empty booth in the corner, far enough away from the bar to have a little privacy but close enough to the band to enjoy the music.
My old booth.
Before she sits down, I move behind her and lean down, my hands on her shoulders. “May I take your jacket?” I ask with my lips against the shell of her ear, dragging in a lungful of her scent through my nose.
She turns her head and gives me a smile that borders between coy and amused.
Demi nods, and I curve my fingers around her lapels, grazing the warm, soft skin underneath.
For my own pleasure, I move my hands slowly as I pull the leather down her arms, reveling in the sensation of my knuckles moving along the silk of her skin.
I hang her jacket on the wall hook and watch the graceful way she swerves her body as she slides into the booth and sits down.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, looking down at her, my hand wandering to touch a strand of her hair. Honestly, I can’t stop touching her. I want to be near her always. I never want her far enough away that I can’t take her in my arms.
“I’d love a drink.” She opens her small, tooled-leather purse and pulls out a credit card. “You can use my card to open a tab.”
Giving her a half-hearted scowl, I reach into my back pocket and take out my wallet, opening it to show her a stack of bills .
“Cash doesn’t work in these modern times of yours?”
Her eyes widen. They’re so blue I can hear the ocean when I look at her.
“You’ve been—” she looks around, lowers her voice, “dead for decades. Where did you get a fat stack of cash?”
‘There’s a safe in the house.”
“Where?!”
I grin and lean down, swiping my nose against hers.
“None of your business,” I reply, and before she can protest, I take her mouth in a soft kiss, and it sends electricity crackling down my spine. With effort, I pull myself away from her, and she makes a little whining noise that rings in my ears as I stride off toward the bar.
When the bartender greets me to take my order, that strange sense of deja vu hits me again.
He’s a stout man with kind eyes and a ruddy complexion, wearing a tweed newsboy cap and a pair of suspenders.
He has a thick mustache that hides most of his mouth beneath a round nose.
This man looks exactly like the old owner, Shortie, but about fifteen years younger—which is impossible, because Shortie was at least sixty years old in 1978.
This guy must be Shortie’s descendant, maybe even a grandson.
The thought has a dizzying effect, like time travel.
“What can I get for you?” The bartender asks, his voice as eerily similar to Shortie’s as his face.
I clear my throat and compose myself.
“I’ll take a Rob Roy and an Old Fashioned. Extra cherries on the side. ”
The bartender’s mouth splits into a smile beneath his bushy mustache. “I haven’t made a Rob Roy in a minute. That was my granddad’s favorite drink.”
I know. He’s the person who first served me one.
Shortie’s grandson hands me the drinks and a lowball glass full of cocktail cherries, and I head back to the table. I set the Old Fashioned and cherries in front of Demi, then fold my long limbs into the booth across from her.
She picks up a cherry by the stem and gives me a sly smile.
“What’s with the cherries?”
“Because you like Cherry Coke.”
“And what’s this?” She stirs her drink with the cocktail straw. Once, twice.
“An Old Fashioned. Because you’re into old things.”
“Old things like what?”
“Like your boyfriend.”
Demi rests her cheek in her hand and looks at me dreamily. I wish I had a camera to take her picture right now so I could capture that expression forever. Everything in my chest warms.
“My boyfriend, huh?”
“If you’ll have me.” I take a sip of my drink, and it tastes exactly the same as it did in the 70s.
She leans back in the booth, the dim lightning casting a shadow just right to highlight the soft buds of her nipples through her white tank top.
Demi sips her drink, raises her eyebrows in appreciation, and takes another sip.
Her knees press against mine under the table, and I think this might be a perfect moment.
“You’re right, I am into old things,” she says .
I raise my glass in salute.
“Like my old boyfriend.”
“I’m glad you’re into your old boyfriend.”
She smirks and licks a drip of her cocktail from the rim of her glass. I track the movement of her tongue, wishing it were in my mouth.
“Is it weird that you’re old enough to be my grandpa?”
I roll my eyes at the way she’s poking fun at me, but in truth, I’m completely disarmed by her.
“What would you do if I called you Pop-Pop in bed?” she asks, leaning in. I can see down her shirt now, and her eyes are downright glittering with mischief.
It takes all my strength not to laugh at her joke, and even more strength not to haul her across the table and kiss her so hard she forgets her name.
I keep a straight face when I say, “You could call me Daddy instead.”
Her mouth drops open in a shocked little “o.”
“Daddy, huh?” she purrs. The way the word sounds coming from her mouth makes my dick twitch. “You’re full of surprises, Tristan Beaumont.”
That may be true, but the reality is that she could call me whatever she wants; I’m just happy to be here with her. Happy she’s chosen me.
“What’s surprising?”
Demi pops a cherry into her mouth and pulls off the stem. I hyper fixate, thinking about her pretty lips and how that cherry might taste if she passed it into my mouth from hers with her tongue. How sweet her kiss might be if I leaned in right now .
“You’re more of a gentleman than any guy I’ve ever met. Nothing but respectful and kind since the minute I walked in the door.”
“I don’t think that’s being a gentleman as much as it is just having common decency.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But we lived together for weeks, and I couldn’t see you. You could have been anywhere, watching me, invading my privacy.”
“You drove me crazy enough walking around the house fully clothed. I think seeing you naked would have sent me to the afterlife at that point.”
“Fair,” she says with a laugh. “But now that you’ve seen me naked and lived to tell the tale, I feel like I’m seeing a different side of you.”
“What side is that?”
Demi grins. “The ‘spit in my mouth and call me Daddy’ side.”
This time, I can’t keep myself from laughing. It’s loud and full-bodied and makes my stomach cramp. Across the table, Demi giggles along with me, looking beautiful and happy. Perfect. I don’t remember the last time I felt so full.
“I do have a confession,” I say when the laughter finally dies down.
“Uh oh. Maybe I spoke too soon.” She takes a deep sip of her drink, cheeks a little rosy.
“There was one night that I maybe didn’t respect your privacy the way I should have.”
Her eyes are still glittering with mirth and mischief. “Tell me.”
“There was a thunderstorm. I was in the library, and I heard you in your bedroom. I thought maybe you were hurt or scared, so I went to check on you. ”
“Cute. Go on.”
“But you weren’t hurt or scared. You were—” I clear my throat, “grinding on a pillow in your sleep.”
“And you watched?”
I nod. “It was dark, and I couldn’t see much. But, yeah, I watched.”
Demi is quiet for a moment, and I start to worry that I crossed a boundary. Then a blush creeps up her chest and throat, and she bites her bottom lip.
“Why is that so hot?” she asks.
“You have no idea how much I wanted you that night. How much I’ve wanted you every night, every day, since I met you.”
“And now that you’ve had me, do you still want me like that?” She finishes her drink and sets the empty glass on the table. I take her hand.
“More,” I say honestly. “I want you even more.”
Demi St. James positively beams at me.
I finish my drink and head to the bar to get us both another round.
The band is playing a cover of Black Magic Woman and more people are crowding into The Foggy Witch.
It takes a few minutes for Shortie’s grandson to take my order because he’s juggling a full bar now.
I don’t mind the wait, I’m riding the high of being here, alive, with Demi—the exquisite miracle of having a night out with her, laughing with her, holding her hand.
When the bartender hands me our drinks, I turn back toward our booth.
I take a few steps before stopping in my tracks.
Demi isn’t alone at our table. She’s standing now, facing some guy who's standing entirely too close to her for my liking. The energy between them is tense. He’s swaying a little on his feet like he’s had too much to drink, and the look on Demi’s face is the polar opposite of what it was when I left her.
Gone is the easy smile and sparkling eyes, replaced by an expression of annoyance and discomfort.
There’s something familiar between them as well.
Rage awakens in my gut, darkening the edges of my vision.
I realize I know who he is without ever having seen him before, just by the way Demi’s body stands rigid and the way he keeps trying to invade her space.
I watch from across the pub as he takes another step closer to her, as he leans down, his nose almost touching her forehead.
Owen.