Chapter 7
seven
brIDGET
I’ve seen just about every major holiday in this town since October, and it’s the first time I’m wondering who decorates this place.
Is there a whole team of people? Do they have meetings? How much money do they spend on all of this?
Or are there fairies that take joy in all of this? Is this another extension of what the sweet but nosy fairy godmothers do when they’re not trying to match couples up or whatever else it is that they do?
I avoided town on the way in so no one could tell my sisters I was here early, which seems like a waste at this point. Within minutes of setting foot into The Magic Crumb, they’ll know. I probably should’ve texted them, but I’ve been a little preoccupied with all the weirdness of the last roughly fifteen hours.
In the bright morning light, there’s no missing the abundance of green, white, and orange everywhere. Literally everywhere . Enchanted Hollow doesn’t seem to miss a beat when it comes to celebrating the culture of its inhabitants, and that has its own kind of magic.
Garlands wrap around lamp posts and oversized shamrocks have replaced the heart banners that stretched across the brick streets of downtown the last time I was here. They’ve even dyed the fountain green. I swing into a parking spot where a folded chalkboard outside a shop reads ‘May the discounts rise up to meet you’.
“Is it always like this?” Weston asks as we step outside my car.
I step up onto the sidewalk and sigh. “It feels more over the top than it did when I lived here.”
“You lived here before?”
It’s a new piece of information to him, but I wasn’t really thinking when I said it. I mean, it’s true, and I’m not ashamed of it. But I am a little surprised it came out so easily to him.
“We moved when I was in high school. I was pretty preoccupied with social circles and all that.”
I hang back for a minute, curious to see how well Weston knows his way around. Unsurprisingly, he starts toward The Magic Crumb, so I follow suit. He only pauses once to step around me and walk along the outside of the sidewalk, keeping me closest to the buildings.
Who is this guy ?
“High school. And who was Bridget—” he pauses.
It takes me a minute to realize why. I’ve never actually introduced myself and that’s unlike me. The man has rubbed me wrong since the day I met him, but that doesn’t give me the right to be rude. I puff out my cheeks.
“Mitchell. Bridget Mitchell.” I reach out and touch his arm, to signal for him to stop walking. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe more than once.”
His smile hitches up in the corner and the high school version of me that had a crush on the football captain sighs contentedly.
“I think I may have said something like that to you at least once.”
“Holly and Cade’s wedding wasn’t exactly one of my better days.” I shrug. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s true.”
His smile widens. “And St. Brigid’s Eve?”
I want to pop off a canned customer service answer because it’s still raw and painful. But there are two things stopping me. Weston stepped in unprompted yesterday on the call with Andrew, and there wasn’t anything in it for him. Huge reason to be at least a little more honest with him. And we’re about to go eat breakfast with my future brother-in-law and this could be tricky.
“Things hadn’t ended with Andrew yet, but I knew they were coming.”
“So you were stressed about the wedding, then.” His chin dips in understanding. “But not about planning it.”
We start forward again, and I try to focus on the details of the hand painted shop windows as we walk. Someone has a serious talent in this town. One shop has a whole scene in a forest, with a leprechaun peeking out of his door in a tree trunk, clovers peeking out of the grass and will-o’-the-wisps hovering in the air.
“No. My twin sister, Laila, is planning her wedding.”
He clears his throat. “The dress appointment?”
Is he always this attentive? That was one conversation like… six weeks ago. Andrew couldn’t remember plans I put into his calendars.
“How do you know it wasn’t mine?”
His elbow brushes mine playfully. “Just a gut feeling.”
“I’m used to planning weddings,” I say, pushing ahead. We’re not far from Holden’s bakery, and this isn’t something I want to talk about there. “I mean, it’s my job. Or it was. Ella got married at Christmas, then Laila got engaged at New Year’s, and it’s just me now.”
“The third musketeer.” He chuckles.
I stop and gaze up at him, taking note of the little laugh crinkles around his eyes. “How do you do that?”
“What?” He stops beside me, a step ahead.
“You’re so perceptive. I say one thing, and you’re reading between the lines almost immediately.”
It’s a little unnerving if I’m being honest. I’d expect this from Laila since we’ve been by each other's sides our whole lives, or Ella from all the hours we’ve worked together and our relationship as adults. But I’ve never experienced a man paying such close attention to what I do and what I don’t say.
“Football players get a bad rap, you know.” His gaze holds steady on mine, and I think I could disappear in his eyes. “But I take my job very seriously. I’ve gotta pay attention to everything that’s going on. Every play. I know what play Cade called, but I’ve also got to think ahead to what he might do if something changes. If a player goes a different direction, if a hole opens up. Do I need to block? Or do I need to be ready to catch it instead?”
I’ve never really given a thought to a football player’s IQ level, but I’ve also never taken the time to appreciate how the game actually works. Friday Night Lights was just something you did when living in a small Texas town like this, and I enjoyed the energy of them. The way the whole town would come together for the Phoenixes and the stadium would be almost alive with that energy.
It was an experience.
“Being good at your job doesn’t always translate to how you interact with people.” I swallow. “You could be a hall-of-famer on the field and still oblivious to the people in your life.”
And there’s that look again. That unyielding ‘I see you, Bridget’ way he sees me. The way he’s seen me every time we’ve run into each other.
“We’re stuck together in that house for the time being, Spitfire.” He says softly. “So I think it would be best for both of us if you leave your preconceived notions and experience with horrible people here. At the wishing well. Somewhere else.”
I try to let out a laugh because his symbolistic suggestion feels dumb. But it dies on my tongue, because it’s clear he’s serious.
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“It is. You stop comparing me to your jerk of an ex-fiancé?—”
“I’m not?—”
He takes a step toward me and I can’t finish the sentence.
“You are. I’m sure it’s a fine line, and I respect that. But if nothing else, remember that house seems to sense how we are around each other. And if you want the rest of your stay to be a pleasant one, we both should be a little nicer to each other.”
He’s right. On all counts.
I don’t want to say anything, so I simply nod and start walking back toward The Magic Crumb. He quietly falls into step beside me, and I realize I’m deeper in over my head than I want to admit.
Holden’s bakery looms ahead, a charming old brick building that stands out against all the white Austin stone that’s most common in Texas downtown areas. In the huge bay window in the front, food takes up the entire display, little stands labeling the fresh baked goods. Trays of braided houska bread sit next to Irish soda bread. The frosting on the pecan cinnamon rolls glistens in the sunlight, and he’s got a rainbow of macaroons for a pop of color. Clover garlands are tucked around the bottom of the stacked trays, creating an even cozier atmosphere against the warm woods.
Not to steal credit from Holden’s brilliance, but I sense Laila’s hand here.
There’s a hand painted sign above the door, an elegant script with a swirl of magic in the background that looks like flour. The daily specials are handwritten on a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk, hoping to lure festival goers inside to grab a bite.
“What’s a faerie apple tart?” Weston asks, as he opens the door for me.
My heart skips a couple of beats at the gesture as I step across the threshold, and I hope it’s not written all over my face.
“Ah, that speciality is inspired by Irish folklore. But you’ve got to be careful with that one.”
Weston bumps into my back since I’ve stopped right inside the door, and he grips my forearm to prevent me from toppling forward. I know that voice. And if he’s here, I should probably be a little worried.
Sebastian Gold.