Hexes & Honeysuckle (Wisteria Cove #3)

Chapter 1

Rowan

DON’T STOP BELIEVIN’ BY JOURNEY

The Rusty Anchor is buzzing tonight, and locals call out and wave as I claim a stool at the bar and wait for Finn. Boots scuff the old plank floors of the bar that’s older than dirt, the jukebox plays an upbeat rock song, and the air smells like fried food, ocean salt, and spilled beer.

While I wait, I open my dating app and start scrolling, pretending it’s not the saddest hobby known to womankind.

It’s like shopping for shoes that look great in the picture but turn out to pinch, squeak, or are uncomfortable as hell once you try them on.

One guy’s holding a fish and giving a thumbs up.

Always the fish. Not even an impressive fish.

And sometimes we can use the term “fish” metaphorically.

Sometimes it’s not a fish and I really wish it was a fish.

Swipe left. Another one says he’s “fluent in sarcasm” and “looking for a partner in crime.” Left again.

I sigh and wonder if maybe I should just marry my air fryer.

At least it’s consistent and knows how to heat things up.

I hover my thumb over the next when a warm voice leans in from behind me. “Ohhh, hard pass on that one?”

I glance over my shoulder. Finn Bennett stands there, tall and broad, grin bright enough to light up the bar.

He looks fresh, like he just stepped out of the shower and is here to torture the world.

The problem with Finn is he doesn’t even understand how good-looking he is.

He’s just Finn. The human equivalent of a golden retriever, who is rugged and lovable.

Dark blond hair that curls damp under a backward ball cap.

Blue eyes soft and amused. White T-shirt clinging to his hard wall of muscular chest. Worn denim jeans that are probably doing the Lord’s work for that perfect ass and scuffed up brown work boots that are also oddly doing things for me.

He looks like a walking-talking blue collar hottie calendar model without even trying.

And he’s my best friend. The real kind. The kind who has been in my life since we were kids.

We grew up together in a way that made him part of my daily rhythm.

Coffee together on slow mornings. Fixing things around the shop when I get overwhelmed.

Showing up for every birthday, every heartbreak, every small disaster I pretend I can handle alone. He knows me better than anyone.

I shouldn’t be thinking he looks hot, but I secretly always have. It’s the thought that rises in my chest before I can stop it, warm and dangerous, like a spell I never meant to cast.

He slides onto the stool beside me and scoots closer, putting his elbows on the bar and leaning toward my phone. “That guy’s a winner.”

I say dryly, “That was you, Finn.”

The words leave my mouth, but my heart races.

Because his profile, smile, and his broad shoulders filling the frame are so natural, like he took the picture without thinking twice.

And it hits me in a way I don’t expect. A tiny pinch right under my ribs.

Finn is on a dating app and out there meeting people, maybe kissing them, maybe touching them in the ways I pretend I never think about.

I shouldn’t care, because we’re best friends. But the thought of him laughing with someone else over drinks or waking up tangled in someone else’s sheets sends a wash of heat through my chest. I look at him, my throat tight, the joke drying on my tongue.

I say nothing about any of that, but the feeling remains.

“I know.” He shrugs, but his mouth fights a smile.

I glance at the time and set my phone down. “Why are you so late? Did you finally meet someone and she’s not happy that your best friend’s a woman?” Insert biggest fear here.

“I had a client run late for an estimate,” he says as he raises two fingers at the bar. “Mack, can we get a couple of beers and two of the specials?”

We have dinner together here every Thursday night and always order the special.

We catch up and he tells me about his week, and I tell him about mine.

It’s not like we don’t talk every day, but I do look forward to these dinners.

I won’t call them dates, but they are what they are. Dinner dates between friends. Friends.

Mack, who is in his late fifties with a gray beard and shaggy hair, has practically been pouring drinks at The Rusty Anchor since the dawn of the Wisteria Cove sea shanties. He gives us a look that lands somewhere between fond and nosy. “How’s my favorite couple?”

I roll my eyes playfully. Not this again. “Knock it off, Mack, or I’ll curse your jukebox to only play Taylor Swift on repeat from now until Christmas.”

He scoffs, looking offended. “But I like Taylor Swift.”

I hold up my hands. “Hey, I do too. But we’ll see how you like it when All Too Well, the ten-minute version, plays on repeat for the next six months straight.”

Mack rolls his eyes as he puts our orders in and grabs two frosty glasses from the cooler.

Finn grins and says to Mack, “She almost swiped right. So close. Maybe next time.”

“Don’t encourage him, Finn,” I mutter grumpily as I swirl a cardboard coaster in circles with my finger.

Mack snorts and places beers in front of us. “If I had to place a bet, I’d say you’ll be married before the end of the year. Send me my invitation and I’ll bring the kegs.”

I flick a peanut at Mack, and he cackles before wandering off toward the game playing on one of the big TVs on the wall behind the bar. Finn lifts his glass and clinks it against mine like this is some kind of quiet celebration between us.

With us, it is always like there is this invisible pull that drags us right back to the same place.

No matter how far life scatters us, we shift toward each other without thinking.

No one knows me the way Finn does. He has known every version of me, from the quiet kid hiding behind stacks of library books to the woman trying to build a life that sometimes feels too big for her own hands.

Maybe that is why I have never let myself look too closely at what I feel around him.

Because it has always been there. Soft, quiet, and dangerous.

A little spark under the surface that I pretend not to see between us.

We made this unspoken agreement years ago. Best friends only. Safe territory. No crossing lines that could break what we have. And I have stayed inside that boundary like it is a spell I cast on myself.

But sitting here now, watching the way he looks at me, I feel that pull in my chest again. Stronger than I want to admit. His smile is lazy and warm and something a little wilder, like he knows exactly what he does to me even if I refuse to say it out loud.

And for one breath, I let myself feel it. All of it. The bond, the history, the quiet ache I have spent years pretending I do not carry.

“So,” I say, resting my chin on my hand, “how’s your dating life, Contractor Ken?”

Finn is a general contractor and basically a genius at fixing or building anything.

I joke he has a tool belt around his waist most of the time as a permanent accessory.

But the truth is that he’s good at what he does.

I call him Contractor Ken to give him shit because he looks like he could be a Ken doll.

The blue-collar hottie Ken version. I gotta keep my friend humble, and he does the same to me.

“Actually,” he says, eyes locked on mine like he is trying to read me, “I have a date tomorrow.”

The words land softer than they should, but something tightens in my chest anyway.

Finn doesn’t date a lot. Not seriously. So, hearing it out loud sends a strange little pinch through me, sharp enough that I feel it in my throat.

I tell myself it’s fine and I don’t care.

I try not to think about him getting dressed for someone else or smiling at someone else the way he smiles at me.

“Do you now?” I arch a brow, forcing a teasing tone. “Look at you finally swiping right.”

He laughs, warm and easy. I smile back, but there is a quiet ache under it. A small twist of something I don’t examine too closely, because if I do, I might have to admit what it really is.

“I’m a catch, Rowan. What can I say?” he says as his eyes meet mine and he winks.

“Well, I actually have a date tomorrow, too.” I take a sip of my beer and wipe the foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. Classy.

What I don’t say is that I matched with someone who isn’t really a serious date at all. But Finn doesn’t need to know that.

But every time I try to picture myself on a date with someone or if there’ll be chemistry or anything past the first drink, my brain drifts right back to Finn.

To the way he listens to me like I’m the only one in the room.

Or to how safe he always makes me feel. To how easy it is to be around him and just be myself.

I had swiped right anyway. Because I should be dating. Because I should be trying. Because I refuse to let myself sit here and wait for someone who isn’t mine.

But even now, saying it out loud, I can feel how halfhearted it is. A tiny part of me wonders if I’m doing this to distract myself from the way Finn makes me feel. I ignore that thought and take another drink.

We share a look that’s tender and warm between us. I clear the air and say, “Want to compare notes afterwards over lunch the next day?”

“Sure.” He leans back as if planning time with me is the most natural thing in the world. Then it hits me that I’m looking forward to lunch with Finn more than looking forward to the date.

“Where are you going on your date?” I ask him curiously, trying to get back to the discussion and not let my mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

“I don’t know yet.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure it out.”

I scoff. “You have to put some effort into these and plan something, Finn.”

He leans in and says, “Where would you like to go if you were my date?”