10. Callum
Callum
I have no idea where Winifred is taking us, but at this point, I guess I’m just along for the ride. Even if she’s leading me straight into the pits of hell—which, knowing her, isn’t entirely out of the question.
As we make our way down the cobblestone sidewalk, half the town seems to know her.
People wave from shop doorways or step out to engage in polite chit-chat.
Walking beside her, I start noticing things I missed before.
She’s got one of those completely animated faces that gives everything away if you’re paying attention.
When she’s genuinely happy to see someone, her smile lights up her whole face and that deep little dimple pops out on her cheek.
But when it’s just a polite obligation? Her eyes narrow just a fraction, her shoulders tighten, and her lips curve up in a tight, practiced line that doesn’t reach her eyes at all.
“Freddie!” a cheerful voice calls out.
We slow down near a low stone wall where a satyr woman—goat legs, small curved horns, and all—is balancing a wooden tray fresh out of a nearby storefront.
She’s holding a batch of warm, golden pastries dusted in shimmering silver sugar, the air around her smelling intensely of roasted pecans and rich honey.
“Pippa, hey!” Winifred says, her genuine smile breaking out instantly, dimple and all.
Before Pippa can even speak, two tiny satyr children with little fuzzy legs come tearing around the corner, nearly taking out a display of flowers.
“Marigold! Clover!” Pippa shouts, her sharp tone instantly halting both kids in their tracks. She gives them a stern talking-to about running near the hot trays before turning back to us with a warm, slightly exhausted laugh.
She sets her gaze on the two of us, sliding a pair of the warm, golden pastries onto a square of butcher paper and handing one to each of us.
“Oh, Pippa, no, we can’t—” Winifred starts.
“I insist,” Pippa interrupts smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. She turns her brown eyes onto me, studying me with open curiosity. “And who might you be? We don’t get many unfamiliar faces around here. Where on earth did you come from, and how exactly did you stumble into our little town?”
Winifred snickers. “That’s the million-dollar question, Pips.”
I offer the satyr a polite nod. “Callum. And I’m originally from the Appalachians. I was actually heading out to Colorado, but…” I trail off, glancing down the strange, magical street before meeting her gaze again. “…I suddenly ended up here instead.”
Pippa’s smile softens with intrigue, though she doesn’t push for the details. “Well, it was wonderful to meet you, Callum.”
I give her a genuine smile in return. “Likewise, Pippa.”
“I hope we’ll be seeing you around for a while,” she adds with a little nod, giving us a final wave as she turns back toward her bakery, Marigold and Clover trailing closely behind her hooves.
I look down at the warm, sweet-smelling pastry sitting in my hand, raising an eyebrow. “What is this, exactly?”
“It’s no fun if I just tell you,” Winifred says with a grin. “Suck it up and try it, loverboy.”
I inspect the silver sugar dusting the top. “Is there crushed scarab powder in this? Dragon scale shavings? Ground-up mandrake root?”
Winifred rolls her eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Don’t be a baby.”
She breaks off a generous corner of her own pastry and tosses it down to the sidewalk. Jett catches the piece in midair with a lunge of his jaws, purring loudly as he saunters along beside us, happily chewing.
I figure if the cat isn’t turning his nose up at it, it’s probably safe.
I turn my head to watch as Winifred takes an unhurried bite out of hers. My eyes instantly track to her face, locking onto those perfectly plump, pink lips as she chews.
And then she lets out a throat-deep sound that is way too pornographic for a public sidewalk, and it hits me like a physical punch. My dick instantly reacts, hardening so fast against the denim of my jeans that my breath actually catches in my throat. Damn it.
Heat flares straight down my core, and I suddenly need to readjust my pants in the worst way possible, but there’s no way in hell I can do it right now without being embarrassingly obvious.
Winifred looks over at me as she wipes a stray speck of silver sugar from the corner of her lip. “Your turn.”
I slide my hand deeper into my jacket pocket—doing my absolute best to mask the sudden tension in my jeans—and take a skeptical bite of the pastry.
My mouth instantly waters. It’s warm, flaky, and perfect.
The center is filled with a rich, spiced maple and pecan cream that’s insanely sweet, but it’s balanced out by a flaky, buttery crust and a subtle hit of something salty dusting the top.
It’s easily one of the single best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.
Winifred watches my face in pure amusement as I chew, a triumphant grin spreading across her lips before she takes another bite of hers. “Rule number one around this place: never, ever question Pippa’s baking. Especially her Cinder-Puffs.”
I take another quick bite, chewing as we cross the street. “Duly noted. I’ll never doubt her or her Cinder-Puffs again.”
We finally pull up in front of a small, narrow storefront with a faded wooden sign hanging above the door that reads Spellspin Records.
In the front window, tucked between stacks of vintage vinyl, sits a framed poster of a raccoon wearing a western bandana, sitting at an upright piano, and… I lean in, squinting through the glass.
I squint at the poster, leaning in a fraction. “Is that raccoon smoking a Marlboro Light?”
“He works hard,” Winifred says simply, pushing the glass door open. “Anyway, welcome to my personal paradise!”
The shop is a quaint, bohemian dream. Shelves line every square inch of the walls, stuffed with records ranging from old jazz and classic rock to obscure local warlock indie bands.
There are racks of cassettes, milk crates overflowing with CDs, a few retro-style turntables, fancy Bluetooth speakers, and even a couple of acoustic guitars.
“This is my place of employment,” Winifred announces, gesturing toward the counter with her half-eaten pastry.
Behind the register sits a girl with neon-pink pigtails and a silver hoop through her nostril, entirely buried in a dog-eared issue of a vintage fashion magazine. She hasn’t so much as glanced up since the bell chimed.
Winifred taps two knuckles on the worn wooden counter next to her. “This is Margot. She’s an absolute ray of sunshine. Margot, this is Callum.”
Margot flips a page without breaking her stride. “Hey.”
I look over at Winifred, whose eyes are gleaming with satisfaction. “I told you.”
Before I can say anything, Jett trots past the counter, making a bee-line for a door tucked into the back corner of the shop. He vanishes up a set of creaky wooden stairs. Winifred follows right behind him, her boots thudding against the steps.
I pause at the bottom of the staircase, my hand resting on the banister.
I don’t actually know if I’m invited up to wherever she’s going, but when she pauses three steps up, turning her head to look down at me through her dark bangs and asks, “Are you coming or planning on staying there until Margot warms up to you?” I take the stairs two at a time right behind her.
We follow a grungy hallway on the second floor lined with peeling wallpaper and old concert flyers.
Winifred stops in front of a door at the very end.
She pulls a bronze key from her skirt pocket, jams it into the lock, and has to jangle and kick the bottom of the frame three times before the deadbolt finally gives in.
She pushes the door open, throwing her arms wide. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I step inside, scanning the living space, and my immediate thought is that it is very Winifred.
It’s cluttered and very alive. The living room has a worn velvet sofa, a vintage floral rug over dark hardwood floors, and a retro record player spinning softly in the corner next to crates of vinyl.
Framed posters of vintage horror movies and classic rock bands cover the brick walls alongside hanging pothos plants trailing down from the ceiling.
I walk further in, my eyes landing on an open pack of Dill Pickle Oreos sitting on her couch cushion.
I pick the package up by the corner, turning it toward her. “Dill pickle Oreos? Okay, you are fucking disgusting. Are you a serial killer?”
“Hey!” she says defensively, snatching the pack out of my hand and tossing it back onto the cushion. “It’s a perfectly delicate balance of salty and sweet!”
I turn around, scanning the rest of her living room, and my gaze stops on the wall right above her flatscreen TV. I squint, stepping a foot closer. “Is that…a cross…made entirely out of Diet Coke cans?”
Upon closer inspection, they aren’t just glued; someone literally drove small finishing nails right through the crushed red and silver aluminum, securing a dozen cans into a surprisingly sturdy crucifix.
Winifred draws out the word, “Yeaaahhh…” then purses her lips together. “I think I was really, really high when I made that.”
A bark of laughter bursts out of my chest before I can stop it. Winifred turns to look at me, breaking into a laugh of her own at my reaction, and the sound of it hits me unexpectedly hard. It’s radiant, like her.
I like it. I want to hear more of it, want to be the reason for it.
She takes another bite of her Cinder-Puff, leaning back against the arm of her sofa, letting out another one of those breathy, sounds of appreciation.
My dick twitches violently against my denim. Again. Jesus Christ.
I narrow my eyes at her, my jaw tightening as I struggle to maintain an ounce of composure. “Would you stop?”
Winifred opens her eyes, her dark brows arching high as a wave of amusement washes over her pretty features. “Why, Callum?” she asks in a teasing purr. “You don’t want all the customers downstairs to think we’re up here having wild, passionate sex?”