Chapter 7
SEVEN
SERENA
The confidence I had downstairs lasts until we reach my bedroom.
Then it abandons me. Completely. Which is ridiculous.
I’m a grown woman. I like myself. I like my body. I spent too many years picking myself apart because I thought I was supposed to look different to waste the rest of my life doing the same thing.
But knowing all of that and standing in front of a man you desperately want to see you naked are apparently two different things.
Especially when it’s been a while. A long while.
Welles closes the bedroom door behind us.
For the first time all night, I don’t know what to say. Maybe he sees it on my face.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t make a joke or give me some speech about how beautiful I am. He just comes to me.
His hands settle at my waist. His eyes meet mine. And he kisses me.
The nervousness doesn’t disappear all at once. It melts.
His mouth moves over mine without any of the urgency we had downstairs. He kisses me like we have nowhere else to be. Like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.
His hands move over my body, and there’s no hesitation in them.
No pause over the places I might have worried about once. No sense that he’s comparing the woman beneath his hands to some imaginary ideal.
He touches me like I’m a goddess. And he can’t stop worshipping me.
And when he pulls back to look at me, the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
One word. That’s all it takes. I feel like a queen. I kiss him again.
This time, I’m the one who reaches for him. Whatever uncertainty I carried upstairs gets lost somewhere between his mouth and mine.
Clothes disappear. We tumble onto my bed. And for once, I don’t think.
I feel.
His weight over me. The scrape of his stubble against my skin. The warmth of his hands. The softness of his mouth when everything else about him seems so big and solid and strong.
I run my palms over his shoulders, finally getting to touch the body I’ve been trying very hard not to stare at since he walked into my shop.
My fingers trace the tattoo on his arm He catches my hand and kisses my palm.
It’s such a small thing. It nearly undoes me.
“Welles.”
His eyes meet mine. There’s a question in them. I answer by pulling him back down to me.
After that, the world narrows. To him. To me.
To what little space is left between us.
And somewhere beneath it all is the candle.
The one we made together. Before coming upstairs, I’d grabbed and lit another from the same scent profile as the one we made. Now its fragrance fills my bedroom.
Absinthe. Dark cherry wood. Amber. Black honey. Vanilla. Clove.
I’ve smelled the blend dozens of times while developing it. It has never smelled like this.
Tonight, everything seems heightened. The sweetness of honey in the air. The warmth of clove. The dark richness of cherry wood.
The scent mixes with Welles. With us as he finally enters me, claiming my body just as savagely as he’s stolen my heart.
And I know with absolute certainty that I’ll never smell this candle again without remembering tonight.
His mouth finds mine. His hips set a pace. Mine lift to join him. Time becomes meaningless.
There are moments of urgency and moments when he slows everything down until I want to scream at him to hurry.
And when my body comes apart in the final burst of pleasure, I don’t hold back. I cry out his name, triggering his own release.
I’m tucked against his side beneath the blankets, my head resting on his chest.
His fingertips move lazily along my back. I listen to his heartbeat.
This might be the truly dangerous part. Because I could get used to this.
“You're very quiet,” he murmurs.
“I’m basking.”
“In what?”
I lift my head. “My own magnificence.”
He laughs. There it is again. That sound. I wouldn’t mind hearing that every day for forever.
I smile and settle back against him. “I like making you laugh.”
“Don't get used to it.”
“Too late.”
His fingers continue their slow path along my back. For a while, neither of us says anything.
Then he asks, “Do you always light candles in your bedroom?”
“Are you seriously conducting your investigation right now?”
“I'm curious.”
“I make candles, Welles.”
“So yes?”
“Yes. I light them everywhere.”
He grunts.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I lift my head again. “You have opinions.”
“I always have opinions.”
“I've noticed.”
His mouth curves. I yawn.
His hand moves up to my hair. “You're tired.”
“No.”
“You just yawned.”
“That was a sensual yawn.”
“Go to sleep, Serena.”
“I don't want to.”
“Why?”
Because when I wake up, this might feel different. I don't say that. Instead, I draw a lazy circle against his chest.
“I'm enjoying myself.”
“You can enjoy yourself tomorrow.”
My eyes are already closing. “Bossy.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Fine.”
I snuggle closer. For several seconds, neither of us moves.
Then Welles sighs. The mattress shifts. I make a noise of protest when his warmth disappears.
“Where are you going?”
“To prevent your house from burning down.”
My eyes crack open. He crosses the bedroom completely naked, heading straight for the candle burning on my dresser.
Even half asleep, I take a moment to appreciate the view.
He looks back. “Are you checking out my ass?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I just shrug. He shakes his head.
Then Fire Chief Welles Hawthorne leans toward the candle, closes his eyes as if he’s making a wish, and blows out the flame.
Darkness settles over the room.
A few seconds later, the mattress dips and his warmth returns.
He pulls me against him. “Now,” he murmurs against my hair, “go to sleep.”
A week later, there’s a fire burning in my backyard.
For once, I’m reasonably certain Chief Hawthorne would approve. The flames are contained inside a metal fire pit on the stone patio, there’s a bucket of water nearby, and nothing flammable is within reach.
I checked. Twice.
Apparently, sleeping with a fire chief changes a woman.
“Welcome, ladies, to Hexes for Exes.” Valerie lifts her cocktail glass in a toast.
The rest of us raise ours.
It’s girls’ night at Spellbound, although we closed the bar to the public an hour ago and moved the festivities out back. Valerie created a special cocktail for the occasion, while I supplied candles intended for letting go and new beginnings.
And, because we can never do anything halfway, there’s a handwritten sign propped beside the fire that reads: BURN, BABY, BURN.
Our instructions for the evening are simple.
Everyone brought something representing a relationship, date, crush, or romantic mistake they’re ready to leave behind. We’re going to toss them into the fire one by one.
Not because we actually believe burning a movie stub from a terrible first date will magically improve our love lives.
Probably.
But sometimes you have to make room for something new.
Jessie is holding a cocktail napkin from a restaurant where a man once spent an entire first date explaining cryptocurrency to her.
Pam brought an old photograph she assures us is a copy because, and I quote, “I’m ready to release the asshole, not destroy historical evidence.”
Valerie has refused to tell us what she brought.
And I have a small piece of paper folded inside my own pocket.
“So,” Jessie says with more than a hint of mischief in her gaze. “Tell us about the fire chief.”
Despite my best efforts, I instinctively smile. “What about him?”
“Rumor on the streets says he’s been sleeping over every night this week.”
“That sounds like a nasty rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor, it’s the truth,” Pam chimes in. “We heard it from your sister.”
I glare at Valerie. “Traitor.”
She raises her glass. “I regret nothing.”
Knowing when I’m beat, I admit that Welles and I have been seeing each other. Dinner. Breakfast. Slumber parties in between. He even watched my favorite fall movie with me about two sisters who are witches and fighting to break a centuries-old curse.
And he only made a few cracks about Valerie and me.
By the time I finish, the ladies are practically swooning. Even Jessie, who is dealing with her own disappointments in love after things went south with the search and rescue guy.
“Obviously this fire isn’t for the two of you.”
“No, not really.” Though I would like to extinguish a demon or two from our paths to clear the way for us.
Because, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize this isn’t a fantasy fling. I want a future with him. Whatever that future holds, I’d like it if we could be together.
But first things first: I have to let go of my fears of disappointing others. And I need him to let go of, well, his fears of not being everywhere all at once to save the day.
“All right.” Valerie gets to her feet. “Who wants to go first?”
Every hand points at Jessie.
“Rude.”
“You brought a cocktail napkin,” I remind her. “There’s clearly a story.”
She groans but stands.
“Fine. His name was Kevin.”
A chorus of boos immediately erupts.
“I haven't even told you what he did.”
“Doesn't matter,” Valerie says. “We're against Kevin.”
“Thank you for your support.”
Jessie holds up the napkin.
“Kevin spent two hours explaining cryptocurrency to me.”
“Burn it,” I say.
“I told him three times that I wasn't interested.”
“Burn it,” Pam repeats.
“He also corrected me when I pronounced the name of the wine I ordered.”
Valerie points toward the fire. “Why is it not burning yet?”
Laughing, Jessie steps closer.
I stop her before she can throw it in.
“Wait. You have to say what you're releasing.”
“Oh.” She considers that. “Men who think a date is an invitation to give me a TED Talk?”
We all cheer.
“Good enough.”
She tosses the napkin.
It catches almost immediately.
Jessie watches it curl into ash.
“To better dates,” I say, lifting my glass.
“And better men,” Pam adds.
“I'll drink to that.”
We do.
Pam goes next.
Then another friend.
Soon we're laughing and shouting encouragement while scraps of paper, old photographs, and reminders of terrible romantic decisions disappear into the flames.
It's silly.
It's also not.
Because every time someone names the thing she's ready to leave behind, something changes.
Maybe only in her.
But that's the kind of magic I believe in.
Eventually, my fingers find the folded paper in my pocket.
Valerie notices.
“Your turn.”
I pull it out.
“What did you bring?” Jessie asks.
“Nothing from an ex.”
I unfold the paper.
There are only five words written across it: Being afraid to disappoint others.
I spent most of my adult life making choices I could defend to other people.
The sensible job. The steady paycheck. The benefits. The retirement account.
Even when I started making candles again, I treated it like something I had to earn the right to enjoy.
Then I came here. I chose this.
And somehow, even after making the biggest leap of my life, part of me is still waiting for someone to tell me I've made a mistake.
My parents. My old coworkers. The people who laughed when I said I wanted to sell candles.
I look at the words again.
Not anymore.
“I release the need to live a life that makes sense to everyone else.”
The women around me grow quiet.
I smile. “And I choose the one that makes sense to me.”
I toss the paper into the fire. The corner catches first.
Then the flame races across the words until they're impossible to read. Valerie slips an arm around my waist. I lean into her.
For a moment, we watch the fire together. I think about Gran giving us this house. About the shop. About Welles.
About the way he holds me at night like he's surprised to find me there and has no intention of letting me go.
My chest squeezes.
There are some things I want to release. But there's something else I'm finally ready to admit I want to keep. Him.
Because, while I don’t need him to make my life good, he sure has made it wonderful.
Maybe the next bit of magic I need to work isn't about letting something go.
Maybe it's convincing one stubborn, grumpy fire chief that he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life waiting for the next thing to burn.