Chapter Ten
VIOLET
The sun has barely graced us when I sneak downstairs and confirm that last night was not, in fact, a lemonito-induced nightmare.
Gone are yesterday’s first-world-witch problems of finding the Devil card lounging on my counter. This morning, the actual Devil is lounging on the couch, stretched out in all his gleaming, bare-chested glory, blanket wrapped around his lower half in a way that has me thinking very bad thoughts.
Or it would be… If my brain wasn’t hijacked by the second most impossible sight of the morning.
Grumpy. The cat who hates people. Especially men-people. Yet there he is, sleeping on top of all that glorious bare-chestedness, the Devil’s hand resting casually on his back, both of them sound asleep, all cozied up like they’ve been snuggle buddies for a century.
I try not to let this bother me.
I also try not to notice how adorable they look, peacefully snoozing in front of the fading embers of last night’s fire, the faint smell of my magic lingering.
Wow. I really did it. I summoned the Devil last night. And now he’s here, half-naked on my couch. Petting my cat, which is sadly not a euphemism.
I take a silent step forward, then another, ogling the specimen as I might a newly discovered herb for my tea recipes. Messy black hair just begging to be touched. Perfect amount of dark stubble along his jawline. The long, lean lines of his body, a work of art against the purple velvet. The firm ridges of rock-hard abs and those sexy-as-sin v-muscles disappearing beneath the blanket like a forbidden invitation.
Memories of last night flicker through my mind—the Devil darting out to catch me when I tripped over the stools, those powerful arms lifting me to safety, the scent of him nearly overwhelming, like fire and black pepper and the darkest dark chocolate.
My hand drifts forward, reaching for him without any conscious effort on my part. It’s by sheer willpower that I don’t accidentally-on-purpose yank off that blanket and blame it on the cat.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I force myself to do an about-face, tiptoe into the café kitchen, and put on the kettle. Tea time—best way to start the day.
I head back out to my wall of ingredients, eager to make my selections for my morning brew, but something seems… off. I glance around at the gleaming counter, and that’s when it hits me.
This place was a disaster zone last night. Stools toppled, candle wax spilled across the counter, half-emptied mugs from our earlier Witch-N-Bitch all over the place. I was so exhausted after the ordeal, I barely remember getting home from the liquor store, depositing the Devil on the couch, and dragging myself up to bed, muttering something about cleaning up the evidence in the morning.
But now, there is no evidence. He cleaned everything up.
Ignoring the warmth spreading through my chest, and possibly spreading lower, I select my ingredients from the wall—green tea, holy basil for clarity and attention, peppermint to chase off the lingering brain fog, and a dash of black pepper to boost my personal power.
Focus and direction, that’s what we need today. No more fuzzy-headed, booze-addled-brain calling the shots around here. And that goes for you, too, libido. No one south of the border gets a say, got it?
No response. We’ll take that as a yes.
I’ve just started to grind the pepper when she appears in my empty teacup—another Tarot card. Queen of Swords this time, a woman who knows what she wants, cuts to the chase, and takes no shit. She sits upon her throne, sword held high, shoulders squared. Like, approach me if you must, but don’t even think about giving me any shit.
Her appearance makes me smile. It’s just the power boost I need, and the perfect magic to bless my new brew—Make Good Choices, You Stupid Bitch.
For my guest, I craft a variant of my traditional Welcome to Wayward Bay blend. Black tea with vanilla, cardamom, and cinnamon topped with a few shavings of dark chocolate.
Each blend gets its own individual serving pot, assembled on a tea tray with cups and saucers and a selection of pastries and fresh berries. I have no idea what the Devil eats or whether he even likes tea, but I’ve already kidnapped and bound him, so it’s not like I can make a worse impression, right?
You’ve got this, the Queen of Swords whispers in my mind, then vanishes.
Back in the fireplace area, the Devil is still sleeping on the couch like some kind of sex god who miraculously fell out of the skies and landed in my shop, the morning light pouring through the windows and gilding him in a golden sheen that makes him look even more otherworldly than he already is.
An accidental sigh escapes my lips, and Grumpy’s head pops up. He catches me watching him, his stone-cold hater reputation ruined, and leaps away without so much as another glance. The movement disturbs the sleeping Devil, who twitches and yawns, rolls onto his side, and slowly blinks awake.
I watch in quiet admiration as he sits up and stretches, the blanket falling away to reveal the sweatpants he borrowed from Maleek, every movement sending a zing of awareness right through me. It’s a miracle I can even stand still, that the cups and saucers aren’t rattling on the try.
It feels like hours before he finally gets his bearings and glances up. I hold my breath and smile, hoping for one in return, or maybe a nod, some tiny acknowledgment that tells me he’s not going to smite me where I stand.
But he just watches me, calm and steady. Intense. A million thoughts run through his eyes, all of them veiled, and my goddess, he’s got adorable morning face. That slightly rumpled hair, pillow marks lining his cheek, eyes the rich, red-brown color of a cup of Earl Grey.
My thighs involuntarily clench. Aesthetically speaking, the man—Devil—whatever—is pure perfection. I bet he doesn’t even have morning breath.
He does, however, have morning wood—a thing I’ve only just now realized after the briefest glance downward—and holy Hell. For the first time in my mostly battery-operated sex life, I’m starting to understand the hype over gray sweatpants.
“Something I can help you with this morning, Mushroom?” he asks, his smooth voice and sexy British accent like warm honey.
Honey I would love to have poured all over my naked boobs and licked off—
I shove the tea tray at him as if that alone can hide the beast between his legs or my embarrassment at getting caught staring at it.
“I made tea!”
I announce it with the same awestricken amazement I imagine Prometheus employed when he brought fire to the mortals, but the Devil doesn’t seem bothered by my misplaced exuberance or the unabashed ogling—I mean observing.
In fact, the bastard is grinning at me. Grinning! With his adorably rumpled hair and adorably morninged morning face and that firm, firm, firm body.
“In that case…” He takes the tray and sets it on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Good morning, Violet Pepperdine.”
He knows my full name?
“Good morning Mister… Um… Devil Man!” I reply. “Hello! The black kettle with the poppy design is yours, so help yourself!”
“Do you always speak in exclamation points?”
“No! Only when I’m nervous! Not that I’m nervous. Mostly. I’ve just… never had an overnight guest.”
He arches a sexy dark brow, a look that makes everything south of my bellybutton melt.
“In the café!” I rush to explain, awkward laughter bubbling out of me like a cauldron spell gone wild. “Obviously I’ve had overnight guests in my apartment. Tons of them. I’m a pro!”
Good goddess, somebody hold me back before I die of a self-inflicted mortification wound…
The Devil doesn’t say anything to that, just pours himself a cup of tea, his eyes dancing with a humor and lightness I didn’t think was possible for him. Especially not after all the brooding and sarcasm last night.
Confused by the contrast, I reach out to sense his energy—nothing invasive on my part, just a light perusal to see if I’m walking into a death trap. His energy is powerful and intense, but I’m not picking up anything negative or malicious. He’s definitely guarded, though. And bewildered, which I guess is to be expected.
For now, I’m safe.
Anticipation has me in a tight hold as he lifts the cup and saucer, draws the teacup to his face, and inhales. The steam curls around his parted mouth, but before he can even take his first sip, the words are spilling out of me like an unstoppable river of pure babble.
“Welcome to Wayward Bay,” I say. “That’s the name of the blend. And also, yes, welcome. I never got to say it last night. Just to your friend. I think maybe you and I got off on the wrong foot, which is entirely my fault, obviously. I don’t blame you for being upset. I just… summoning you really was unintentional, and I’m so, so sorry. For what it’s worth, I never, ever sip and spell. I don’t even like drinking all that much, to be honest. And I recognize that magic is a responsibility as much as it is a privilege and I don’t take that lightly—I never have. I was having a super bad day yesterday—the worst in a long time, actually—and my sisters came over to cheer me up, and I over-indulged. Not that a bad day is an excuse, of course, but I thought you deserved the explanation. As well as my assurances that I’ll do everything I can to figure this out and break the spell A.S.A.P. so you can be on your way back home. And while I’m not interested in signing away my soul, if there’s anything I can help you with in the future, I’m totally here for you. Just… please say something. Anything. Even if it’s just that you’re going to smite me.”
The Devil says nothing. Just closes his eyes and finally takes a sip of the tea. Sighs. Takes another sip. Sets the cup and saucer down without so much as a clink.
“Devlin,” he finally says, opening his eyes. Unreadable, as ever.
“Does that mean you like it? I’ve got lots of other kinds. I can make you whatever you want. Black, green, herbal, hot cider… Pretty much anything but coffee.”
“Coffee? I should think not.” His mouth curves into a soft smile. “Devlin is my name, Mushroom. The one I go by nowadays, and I’ve grown rather fond of it. So you can call me that. Although ‘Mr. Devil Man’ has a certain ring to it.”
“Devlin.”
It comes out more breathy than I mean it to, and while I register a slight uptick of smug satisfaction in his energy, he has the grace not to tease me about it.
“Despite the drunken summoning,” he says, “the non-consensual binding and ensuing non-consensual imprisonment, the appalling lack of free WiFi in this establishment, and the ceaseless pre-caffeine morning chatter…” He reaches again for his teacup and saucer, shakes his dark head, then takes another delicate sip. When he meets my eyes again, his smiles grows even brighter, a pulse of warmth emanating through his energy. “Any witch who brews a cuppa this good can’t be all bad.”
“Really? You like it?” I’m bouncing on my toes at the almost-praise. At the genuine smile he’s been keeping in reserve, finally making an appearance.
“I wouldn’t lie about something as important as tea.” Devlin sets the cup on the saucer, then crosses his legs and balances the saucer on his kneecap, somehow making the sweatpants look as classy as they do sexy. “I accept your apology for the summoning, however inconvenient it may be. Now sit down, pour yourself some of your lovely tea, and tell me why you were having such a bad day yesterday.”
His energy still feels genuine, just an honest curiosity, no traps detected, so I perch on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectful distance, lest some part of me brush against some part of him and spontaneously combust.
“The Kettle and Cauldron is on the verge of closing down.” I tell him about the back rent, the realtor nephew and his nastygram, Mean Beans, the whole chain of personal calamities that got me here. “And it’s totally my fault. I get that. There were plenty of times over the years where I saw the train coming, but I just couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, you know? I always assumed I’d figure it out—another credit card with a better rate, or a new tea blend to put this place on the map. But it was never enough. Nothing is ever enough. Now I’ve got a month to come up with a hundred grand, or I’m done. Nothing short of a heist can dig me out of this hole.”
It’s more than I’ve ever admitted to anyone, even to myself. Shame simmers inside, but it doesn’t boil over. Doesn’t send me into a spiral of despair.
For the first time in years, I actually feel... lighter. Hopeful, even.
What is it about sharing your deepest secrets with total strangers?
“Don’t despair,” Devlin says, the confidence in his voice putting me further at ease. “Believe it or not, I’m quite familiar with dodging oncoming trains.”
I let out a mock gasp. “Even the all-powerful Devil makes mistakes?”
“To hear my father tell it, the all-powerful Devil is the original mistake.”
His energy darkens, a tempest of anger swirling just behind the lighthearted jokes. But before I can ask what he meant, he reaches for a blueberry scone and says, “Speaking of which, I’m actually on a deadline as well—I’ve got a prior engagement in Los Angeles that I’m keen to get back to. So, the sooner we can wrap this up, the better for all parties.”
“Agreed, and I’m totally open to ideas. Other than the heist.”
“Yes, you and your pesky morals.” Devlin spreads a bit of clotted cream over the scone and takes a bite. “I suppose you’ll just have to rely on clever plotting from your new marketing consultant.”
“Marketing consultant?”
“Maleek was right—I do have a large social media presence. Large enough that some people may recognize me, even here. Sticking with the consultant cover story is a good idea.”
“I still can’t believe the Devil has a social media presence. What do you even do on there? Throw parties in Hell and post videos of your demon friends doing keg stands?”
“You’re… not that far off the mark. I’m an influencer.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
Devlin laughs, a sound I’m getting far too attached to. “You weren’t kidding with that MySpace comment, were you?”
“I’ve just never been into the whole social media thing. In high school, I didn’t even have my own phone or computer. Now, I barely know how to text. Drives my sisters crazy.”
“That settles it, then. You really do need a consultant, and voilà, here’s your man, eager to assess the shop’s potential and make a plan. A bit of pro-bono charity work for my empire of—”
“Devlin, no!” Panic launches me off the couch. If word got around that I accepted pro-bono work from a so-called social media star, my sisters and everyone else in this town would know something’s up. Namely, that I’m floundering. That I’m screwing up the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. “You are absolutely not telling anyone that I’m some influencer’s pet project.”
“Would you rather tell them you got plastered on rum slushies and drunk-summoned me in a fit of quiet desperation?”
“Magic mojito lemonitos, and no. I would not.” I sit back down and sip my tea, trying to soak up those Queen of Swords take-no-prisoners vibes. “I know I don’t have the right to ask. But I would very much appreciate it if we could just say I hired you, and leave it at that.”
It’s possibly the most direct request I’ve ever made in my life, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to say no. To tell me I’m in no position to be asking for favors, especially when he’s got his own business to run and his own life to lead and his own family dynamics to navigate, and getting kidnapped by a drunk witch was most definitely not on his bingo card.
But Devlin merely shrugs. “The only way to break the spell and escape our predicament is to work together to unlock your heart’s desire, so that’s what we’re going to do. Call it whatever you want. Fair enough?”
Relief has me feeling hopeful again. “So you’re… you’re really going to help me save the café?”
“Don’t act so surprised, Mushroom. Believe it or not, the Devil does know a little something about entertaining people.”
“I’m not in the entertainment business. I’m in the tea business.”
“What is tea,” he says with a dramatic wave of his hand, “if not entertainment for the tongue?”
“Oh, no. If that’s the best a world-class influencer can come up with, we may as well close up shop now.”
“Excuse me?” He shoots me a defensive glare. “It’s catchy, in its own way.”
“Like a bad rash.”
“Well, I suppose you would know, what with all the overnight guests you’ve harbored.” He makes a show of examining the cushions. “Should I have sanitized this before curling up naked last night?”
He says a whole bunch of other things too, but my newly Queen of Swords-sharpened, super-focused mind is now super focused on the ‘curling up naked’ part of the story, serving up red-hot images of the Devil sprawled out in his birthday suit, the firm ridges of his abs glistening by the firelight, the dark trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton to—
“…donned at first light,” he continues. “Didn’t want to alarm any passers-by. Or you, for that matter, though it seems I’ve failed in at least one of those endeavors. Are you all right?”
“Donned… what?” I blink away the images and try to focus on what he’s saying.
“The pants. I prefer sleeping in the nude, but wasn’t sure when you’d be awake or when your customers would come, so I—”
“Come?” I squeak.
He cocks his head, brow furrowed. “Violet? Do you need to have a lie-down?”
A lie-down with you, in the nude, during which at least one of us comes, yes, what a lovely idea…
“Nope!” I rocket back to my feet and stack all the empty dishes onto the tray. “I’m Good. Great! Just… eager to get…” …away from you before I do something even stupider than the drunk-summoning that brought you here… “…to work. New day, new ideas, the tea doesn’t make itself!”
“Excellent.” Devlin rubs his hands together, grinning as if he’s hatching some nefarious scheme that will undoubtedly end with my utter embarrassment and/or arrest. “So, when do we open for business?”
“We don’t open. I open. You go upstairs and entertain yourself in my apartment—quietly—whilst devising marketing plans. And we’re moving your sleeping quarters up there, too.”
“So we’re co-habitating now? Isn’t that a bit forward?”
“We’re putting you on the sofa sleeper to avoid any potential customer run-ins. And before you say a word, yes, you will be wearing pants.” I lift the tea tray, grateful to have something in my hands. Hands that might otherwise fondle those abs. “Any questions?”
“Just one.” He folds his arms over his chest, blocking my view. “Have you always been this boring?”
“Have you always been this obnoxious?”
“Hmm.” He considers the question. Seriously considers it. “I seem to recall a bout of politeness that lasted about fifteen minutes in the seventeen hundreds. It didn’t suit me.”
“Well, it suits you today.” I nod toward the stairs that lead up to the apartment. “Make yourself at home, eat whatever you want, and stay out of trouble. After I close up shop tonight, we’ll order a pizza and put our heads together on a marketing strategy. Sound like a plan?”
“It sounds like a death sentence, but fear not.” He gathers up his bourbon bottles and grins, wicked and tempting and definitely not helping my south-of-the-border wildfire situation at all. “I’m sure I can find some way to amuse myself.”