Chapter Twenty-Six
VIOLET
“Holy shit, Violet! You’re wearing a skirt!”
I startle at Emmie’s sudden proclamation, nearly dousing the skirt in this morning’s energizing Get It, Girl brew.
“Emmie, jeez!” I dry off my tea-splattered hands and step out from behind the counter. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. How do I look?”
Dropping a box of scones on the closest table, she walks a circle around me twice, taking in my transformed appearance—wild curls tamed into a sleek twist at the base of my neck, my breezy jeans-and-tee style swapped for a borrowed navy pinstriped blazer and skirt courtesy of Darla, a pair of Aunt Jos’s pantyhose that are absolutely squeezing the life from my limbs, and ankle-breaking heels from Olivy that I spent two hours traipsing around in last night—first, to practice. Second, for Devlin, in a slightly different context, the after-effects of which I’m still feeling on my inner thighs.
Which haven’t even recovered from the night before the heels. Or the night before that. Or any of the nights we’ve been setting on fire together since Halloween.
Not that I’m going to think about that right now.
Focus, Violet. Focus!
After what feels like a decade, Emmie finally comes around to face me again, her grin stretching wide. “Brandt fucking Remington, third of his boring-ass name, won’t even know what hit him.”
“Unless I actually hit him, which is a distinct possibility.”
“And a well-deserved one at that, but not one we’re going to entertain until after the grant money is sitting in your bank account. And when that happens—when, not if—I’ll be locked and loaded with another dozen powdered donuts to pelt at his stupid smug face, for old times’ sake. Deal? Deal.” She whips out a tube of lipstick and gives me an unsolicited touch-up. “You could use some color, though. Maybe blush. Do you have—”
“Yes.” I pat my purse, where I just dumped in all the old makeup from my nightstand. I hardly ever wear it, but there’s bound to be at least a few useful jars or tubes of something colorful in there. “I’ll do it on the ride over—Devlin’s driving. I know it’s a short walk, but between the heels and the hair, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”
“Plus,” Devlin says, popping out of the kitchen with a to-go cup of the Welcome brew he loves so much, “it gives me a chance to feel you up across the console, and who on earth would pass up an opportunity like that?”
He winks at me, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint I’ve come to know and love, his hair still kind of messed up from having my hands in it all night.
All week.
Since Halloween, we’ve only left the bedroom to work at the café, order food, shower, and prep for my pitch meeting with the grant committee. And three out of four of those tasks are easily accomplished naked, so when it comes down to it, no. We haven’t really left the bedroom much at all.
Goddess, he’s just so amazing. The way he touches me, the things he does with his mouth, the words he whispers in my ear…
My thighs clench at the memories. Conditioned response at this point.
Sometimes, when he’s looking at me like he is now—the eyes, the raised brow, the barely perceptible smirk that tells me he’s got some filthy, sexy comment perched on the tip of his tongue—I wonder what it would be like if he stayed. If our time together didn’t have that pesky expiration date.
But there’s no more room in my life for impossible dreams. So for now, I’ll take Aunt Joslyn’s advice and enjoy every moment, for however long it lasts.
And also have some really, really hot freaking sex.
“Speak of the Devil.” Emmie grins at me. Then, “Oh, I almost forgot!” She reaches into her bra and pulls out three crystals. “Citrine, green aventurine, and pyrite. For abundance and opportunity, and a little luck too.” She shoves them into my bra, still warm, then says confidently, “You’ve got this, Vi. You’re going to do great. And don’t worry about K&C. I’ve got everything in order here, and Darla said she’s on standby if I need backup.”
I lean in for a hug. “I’ll be back to set you free before the Sweet-N-Savories afternoon rush.”
“Take your time. We’ve got you covered.”
“Thanks again, Em.”
Other than Olivy, my family doesn’t know just how desperately I need the grant. They just think it’s a great opportunity for me to upgrade the shop, so I’m letting them roll with it. Devlin still thinks I should tell them what’s going on, but after today, I’m hoping I won’t need to.
It will all work out.
It has to.
“Oh!” I turn back to Emmie. “There’s a clipboard hanging on the back wall with some of the most common blends. Cinnamon and vanilla can be added to just about any of the black teas, although I’ve been experimenting a bit with nutmeg and it—”
“Violet, my love, my sweet sister, my favorite tea witch and all-around badass? Don’t take this the wrong way, but…” Emmie ties on an apron and shoves me toward the door. “Make like a tea… and get the fuck out of here. You’ve got committee stiffs to impress!”
“Any questions so far?” I ask brightly, my colored pie charts beaming down from the big screen at the head of the conference table as I walk the length of it, making eye contact with each of the six committee members.
But ten minutes in, I can already tell.
The committee stiffs are most certainly not impressed.
Not by my rock-solid business plan or my ace spreadsheet game. Not by the binders Devlin and I meticulously assembled with enough sections and colored tabs to earn my Virgo-of-the-Month award a dozen times over. Not even by the basil- and vanilla-enhanced charm infusing me from today’s Get It, Girl brew.
I don’t understand. Devlin and I combed over the application together for days, crossing every t and dotting every i in triplicate. I’ve got all the required paperwork, the licenses, the appropriately business-boring outfit, and my tea-infused zest for life. But despite my efforts, I’ve yet to garner so much as a single smile or nod of encouragement from the lot of them.
Least of all from my stupid ex, who spent my introductory pitch scrolling through his phone, undoubtedly checking his investment portfolio.
Just like he used to do in bed.
“I’m surprised at the lack of a social media footprint,” the woman next to Brandt says—Elsie Cunningham, the new teen lit librarian at the high school, not that far out of high school herself. “I did some sleuthing before our meeting and couldn’t find much about the Kettle and Cup on any of the major apps.”
“Cauldron,” I say.
“Is that a new app? I haven’t heard of it, but—”
“No, the name of the café is Kettle and Cauldron, not cup.”
She sets down her phone, her glossy smile twisting into a frown. “I think you’re proving my point. You have no brand, no presence. A kitschy name will only get you so far. You need to get the word out about your business, or how will anyone know you exist?”
“I don’t have much time to be online. Most of my time is spent in the café, perfecting brews and interacting with my guests.” I tap my phone and the next slide appears—a clever bit of tech magic Olivy hooked up for me. “But the grant will help me invest in additional marketing and—”
“Have you thought of hiring an influencer to help promote your brand?” she presses. “Influencers are known to help juice the algos and increase reach across key demographics…”
She’s rambling on, speaking an entirely different language Devlin and Olivy would definitely understand, but all I hear is the sound of a giant toilet flushing my dreams down the drain.
“Thank you, Miss Cunningham,” I say. “That’s a great suggestion—I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’d love to tell you more about my specialty blends, and the cozy experience we offer our patrons, including our very own Mayor Singh, who’s one of Kettle and Cauldron’s most loyal customers.” I tap to a photo we shot yesterday featuring the mayor holding up her teacup to the camera, a huge smile on her face. The photo opp was her idea. She thought it would help.
Unfortunately, she’s not on the committee, and judging from the looks on their faces, I’m pretty sure she just lost their vote in the next election, too.
“Miss Pepperdine,” Brandt says stiffly, as if he didn’t spend the better part of last year assaulting my left labia like a scratch-off lotto ticket while asking me repeatedly if I was, quote-unquote, almost there. “Your passion for tea is admirable, but passion is not collateral. Not for the kind of financing we’re looking to invest.”
I want to ask him what kind of financing would allow me to use passion as collateral, and by the way, do you even know what passion is, and furthermore, you’re lucky my witchy zone of genius is magical tea instead of ex-hexes, or you’d wake up tomorrow with a worm in place of that glorified cocktail weenie currently dangling between your legs…
Also, I’m 99% sure he just likes throwing out words like “collateral” because he thinks it makes him sound smart and impressive. This is a grant presentation, not a loan application.
Swallowing back my annoyance, I tap to the next slide and say, “I understand your trepidation, but if you’ll take a look at my projected revenue forecast, page three, section six, you’ll see some of the ways in which the grant can help the business thrive into next year and beyond. I think you’ll all agree—”
“Next year is not this year.” Brandt taps a manicured finger against the still-unopened binder before him. “Let me be frank, Miss Pepperdine. Your application wasn’t as outstanding as some of the other businesses we’re considering. Not by a long shot.”
Dread drops in my gut like a hot rock. He’s icing me out. Just like I thought he would.
“I agreed to attend this presentation as a courtesy to you,” he continues, “given our previous… association, and the fact that you are a valued member of our community. But you’re asking this committee to pass up on other viable business applications and invest a sizable amount of money in a business that after two years running has yet to turn a profit. A business that’s still very much in debt with no clear-cut path to solvency.”
The others nod their agreement—Miss Cunningham, who’s now smiling at something on her phone, only half paying attention to my slides. Former Police Commissioner Wembly, who’s only on the committee because his wife got tired of him moping around at home after retirement and forced him to join something. The mayor’s assistant Margo Kip, a closeted vampire who’s been gunning for her boss’s job for the last three years. And a middle-aged witch whose name is a mystery, even among magical circles, because she allegedly only speaks to animals.
So. Not great odds here, with Brandt manning the ship.
“The grant is the path to solvency.” I fight to keep my frustration in check as I tap to another slide. “As I’ve outlined here, with multiple levels of Roman numbers and bullet points, this grant will allow me to pay off the café’s debts while providing additional capital to invest in a new employee or two, lease better equipment, and expand our offerings to include—”
Bzzz. Bzzz bzzzzz.
“—a new lunch menu and late-night café service on weekends, to start.”
Bzzzz.
All heads turn to my empty chair, and the purse I draped over it, from which the strange, insistent buzzing emanates.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
“Do you… need to get that?” Brandt asks, clearly annoyed. Then, showcasing his mastery of air quotes, “It might be your new… friend.”
It’s not. Devlin is right out in the hall waiting for me, and he’d never call me during this meeting. No way. Besides, I could’ve sworn I silenced my phone on the way here, right after I touched up my lipstick. I know I did.
And… hello. I’ve got my phone in hand, using it to control my slides. So what the hell is—
Bzzzz! BzzzZZZ! BZZZZ!
I strain to listen again. So familiar, yet so…
Oh, goddess. No. No no no no no!
Realization crashes down on me like a ton of bricks. My makeup bag… Goddess, I was running late this morning. Wasn’t even paying attention when I grabbed the stuff out of the nightstand. Just scooped and dropped, claw-game style. Blushes and eyeshadows I probably got from Jos’s old stage makeup kits back when I still lived at the house. Mascara one of my sisters left in my bathroom. Lipstick from who knows where. And apparently—desperate for more attention than he’s been getting at home since Devlin’s tongue took center stage—Mr. Wiggles.
And today, he definitely wants his truth to be heard.
BZZZZ!
“It’s… my phone,” I mutter, forcing a smile. “Sorry about that. As I was saying, the—”
“But you’re holding your phone,” the keenly observant Mr. Wembly says.
“Am I? I mean, I am! I meant my other phone. My… emergency one. Just ignore it.”
Bzzz bzzz bzzzz….
“If it’s an emergency phone, shouldn’t you answer it?” Miss Cunningham wants to know. “It might be… an emergency?”
“Please continue with the slides, Miss Pepperdine.” Brandt gets up from his chair and heads for my purse. “I’ll just get that and silence the—”
“No!” I practically leap across the table to stop him, and in my not-so-athletic haste, I launch two of the three crystals from Emmie out of my bra and clear across the table. They spin to a mortifying stop right in front of the nameless witch, who just looks at me and winks.
The social-media-loving librarian snaps a picture. Me, sprawled halfway across the table. The crystals. The spectacle.
Buzzzzzzzz bzzz bzzz bzzz buzzzzzz! goes Mr. Wiggles.
I call up my magic, willing it to cut the power. To short-circuit the damn thing. To dampen the sound, at the very least, but it’s no use. I’m too frazzled to concentrate on even the simplest spells.
Meanwhile, back inside my purse, mortification HQ, Mr. Wiggles suddenly downshifts like a pickup truck cresting a steep hill, growling and grinding, dropping into a gear I’ve never even heard before, pressing his pulsating pink-headed glory against the side of my handbag. Repeatedly. I mean, he is absolutely winning at life in there, which on a normal night in my bed I would encourage, but right now in front of all the committee members, including my ex…
Buzzzzzzzz. Bzzzz bzzzz.
I stare up at the ceiling. Really, universe? Really?
“Whoever that caller is,” Margo the bloodsucker says, a knowing twinkle in her eye, “they sure are persistent!”
I fake a smile right back at her and soldier on, directing attention to my next slide—a description of some of the healing properties of the herbs and spices I use in my blends, leaving out the magical stuff, of course—but it’s no use.
I’ve lost them.
Damn it. I gave up my overalls and cute T-shirts for a power suit and pantyhose, for the love of the goddess. I’m wearing heels! And lipstick! I deserve a fighting chance!
Two seconds from hurling the bag out the window, along with my whole disastrous self, I clear my throat and raise my voice to be heard over the grand finale buzzing on behind me. “In conclusion, with generous funding from the Keep the Bay Beautiful for Business grant, Kettle and Cauldron can expand our café offerings, boost the local economy by creating new jobs, and continue to play an important part in keeping the Bay… um… really beautiful. Thank you for your time and—”
Bzzzzzzzzzz bzzzzzz bzzZZZZZZ!
Okay, that’s it. Sentient Mr. Wiggles is totally fucking with me, and I’m done. All out of chill, I grab the purse from the chair, swing it over my shoulder like an axe, and smash it onto the conference table.
Three times.
The buzzing slows to a muted whine, then grinds to a halt.
Silence descends.
Sadly, my precious emotional support vibrator is no more.
But the tears for our fallen comrades will have to wait.
Forcing a great big smile, I click off my presentation, beam at the wild-eyed committee, and say, “Any further questions?”