Chapter 8
eight
WESTON
I nudge Bridget forward with a hand on the small of her back, curious about her shift in demeanor. I’ve met this guy before, but now I’m wondering if there’s more to him than I thought.
He was nice when we talked back then, and he offered to let the owner of Wanderlust Refuge know about my change in travel plans. Which clearly didn’t happen.
I should probably have a conversation with him later about that.
There was probably a lapse in communication somewhere, and I’m not sure where else I can stay so Bridget can have the quiet trip she wanted, but I’ll worry about that after breakfast. I’m starving.
And the colliding scents of all the baked goods and strong coffee aren’t helping.
“Why? It’s just a pastry.”
Bridget jabs an elbow into my side, a clear sign that I’m wandering into dangerous territory. An unflattering grunt escapes before I stoop close to her ear. “I thought we called a ceasefire.”
She turns so our faces are inches away. I miss the fresh face from this morning, despite the fact that she’s still blindingly beautiful with makeup on. But this version of Bridget is someone she thinks people want to see.
I’m convinced there’s a playful girl beneath the surface that matches the one I saw over coffee, but something tells me she’s forgotten she exists. I recognize myself there, too.
Sometimes adulthood forces us to shove that inner kid aside for the sake of being ‘responsible’. Sometimes it’s other circumstances. Maybe on this path of finding ourselves again, we can strike a new balance.
I think that’s something we both need.
“He’s not the one to mess with,” she whispers.
Interesting.
“Or maybe you should embrace a little folklore,” Sebastian says.
His comment draws my gaze away from Bridget to back across the room where he’s watching us with a tilt of the head, a small upward curve on his lips. I can see how it probably looks to him, and I’m not sure I like the combination of her quiet warning and his demeanor.
But I’m not one to let a challenge go, and I’m not afraid of a little nudge. Or whatever we’re talking about here. We’re staying in an enchanted vacation rental for crying out loud.
“We’ll take one of the faerie apple tarts. That bread looks good, too,” I say, pointing toward some braided bread that’s lightly dusted with sugar and shaped like a shamrock. My stomach growls in appreciation. “And maybe one of the pecan cinnamon rolls.”
The dark-haired man behind the counter looks like a deer in headlights. His eyes volley between Bridget and I and once again, my question to answer ratio is obnoxiously uneven.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try a Wishing Well Scone? I made these exclusive for the week of The Shamrock Shuffle. They’re matcha-lavender with white chocolate chunks—good luck to anyone that eats them. Or I’ve got a tray of fresh kolaches?”
“No, we’ll still get the Faerie Tart. But can you also do a whole sampler of kolaches?”
Bridget is unusually quiet at this point. Spunk practically oozes out of her when we’re around each other.
I know I’m developing a bad habit of touching her without permission, but the entire room seems to be holding a collective breath while we’re standing here. It’s weird and I’m pretty used to being stared at.
So that should say something.
I lightly touch her back to hopefully encourage her to unfreeze.
“I think he’s ordered half the menu,” she says, with a laugh. It’s a little strained and I want to yank her into a dark corner and ask her to fill me in on whatever I’m missing. “Can I also get a Midnight Mischief Mocha? But without the whipped cream.”
My eyes scan the menu to see what that is. A dark chocolate, Irish whiskey-inspired mocha with sea salt and caramel. The whipped cream is mint flavored. I tuck this nugget of information away so I can ask her about it later.
“Make it two.”
“Holden, this is Weston,” Bridget says, gesturing to me.
Another puzzle piece slides into place. Holden, the future brother-in-law. That explains a little of her behavior, but I’m still seeing question marks when it comes to Sebastian, who’s still seated quietly by the window watching us.
This differs from my usual forays into town and the businesses here. There’s a vibe in the air, and I’m not sure I like it.
“Nice to meet you,” Holden says as he punches our coffee order in his terminal. “Go find a seat and I’ll bring everything to y’all, Bridget.”
“Thanks.” She nods before grabbing me by the elbow and steering me toward a small booth toward the back of the restaurant.
There aren’t many, since most of the seating consists of small wooden cafe tables. But I’m grateful for the privacy.
“This place is cool,” I say, glancing around at the wooden beams above, the scones on the walls, and the jars of fresh honey lining sturdy shelves a few feet away.
“It’s great.” She jerks me into the booth beside her. “We can’t eat the Faerie Tart.”
I stare at her, appalled. “Why?”
“If Sebastian is interested in whether or not we do, it’s a clear cut sign we need to do the exact opposite,” she says in a hushed whisper. “I’m going to talk really fast so keep up. Don’t make eye contact with him—stare at me. You know how I said that Holden and Laila had some experiences with the house? Well, that’s like.. half true.” She licks her lips as the words rattle out of her at an abnormal speed. “Laila made a wish at the farm about wishing the future was more clear or something like that and she woke up in a whole different life.”
The questions pile up faster than I can sort them out. “Like a multiverse?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, Doctor Strange. Like a Ghost of Christmas Future kind of thing.”
“Was it him?” I’m beyond intrigued. “Or the house?”
“Maybe both? We don’t know. She made the wish in front of him and he told her that it was sort of a glimpse into the future she could have if she’d make a decision about what she wanted.” She sighs.
“He told her this… in the multiverse.”
“You are fixated on the entirely wrong part of this conversation, Weston.”
That would solve so many problems as an adult, wouldn’t it? Decision paralysis wouldn’t even be a thing if we could see where the road might lead.
“Don’t even go there,” she says, like she can read my mind. “Magic comes with a price and it’s not worth the risk.”
“So you don’t ever make wishes? Knock on wood? Did you ever give horseshoes to brides on their wedding day?”
“You’re mixing up luck and magic. Let’s just say I have a healthy amount of respect for magic and I don’t believe in luck.” She shrugs.
This woman is an enigma.
“What if I spilled salt right now?” I grab the shaker and poise it over the table.
“I’d wipe it up and throw it away.”
My jaw drops. “But it’s bad luck. You’ve got to throw it over your shoulder.” I set the shaker down.
“I broke a mirror once. I just bought a new one.” She grins.
“Scandalous,” I mutter.
“I saw a black cat outside the house this morning.”
My stomach clenches. “Did it cross our path?”
“It was laying right in the driveway.”
I grip the table and glance back at the menu. “I’m going to go get one of those green scones he was talking about. We need all the luck we can get.”
Her head tips back in a laugh and while I love the sound, I’m a little worried now. She might not believe in luck, but I do and we’ve got enough weird going on without an extra help from her blatant disregard for superstitions.
I’m a little overwhelmed with the juxtaposition of all of this.
At that moment, Holden walks up with an overflowing tray of food. My eyes might’ve been larger than my stomach, but there’s only one pastry on that tray I’m interested in at the moment. And I can’t decide if it’s because I want to test a theory or shake things up.
Probably both.
“So about this Faerie Tart,” Holden says. “There’s something you might want to know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Apples are linked to love, wisdom and fate?—”
“You’ve already got my attention. This one doesn’t believe in luck,” I say, jerking my head toward Bridget. She jabs a finger in my side and I grin.
“But sharing it will entwine your paths by fate for the year ahead. It might be luck, it might be love, it might be mischief. The magic chooses.”
Well, we’ve already got mischief in spades, so we don’t really need more of that. I’m not looking for love, and I don’t think Bridget is either. But luck… I’ll never turn down a chance for more luck.
Especially with my career hanging in the balance.
“What if you eat it alone?” I ask.
Holden shifts, pondering the question. “People usually don’t. This is the kind of thing that brings people to Enchanted Hollow, you know? Searching in shops for ways to be happier. Find love.”
I’m about to get myself into trouble.
He’s itching for an answer to a question only Bridget and I can answer. I can practically feel her vibrating with the stress of how volatile this morning has been so she really won’t appreciate me complicating things further.
My mind bounces back to her quiet comment about not wanting to be matched by this town. I’m a novice when it comes to all of this, but maybe Sebastian will lose interest if he thinks we’re already together. Maybe whatever else is prone to shove people together can be outsmarted.
I’ve got no clue how it all works.
“What do you think happens?”
“Magic is tricky. Maybe it sets you on the path of self-discovery. Or maybe it sets you on a path to find the person you’re supposed to be with, whether they eat the tart or not.”
Self-discovery doesn’t sound all bad. I mean, that’s pretty much why I’m here anyway.
I turn to Bridget. “We’ve already got love, so maybe we can mix it up with some luck or mischief? Keep life interesting.”
There’s a beat where I wonder if she might actually hit me.
Her eyes widen and I know I’ve hit the point of no return. Her eyes are practically screaming: are you insane?
I just want to fully board this rollercoaster and see what happens. Sure, I want to know what life looks like beyond football but I also need to get out of my own head and so does she. Her need to know everything that comes next needs some shaking up.
She needs a Titanic moment where she experiences what freedom feels like, arms outstretched and wind in her air.
I scoot a little closer and lean into her, speaking quietly so Holden can’t hear. “Come on, Goldilocks. Live a little. This was your suggestion. Or are you scared?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but I know she’s not going to call me out in front of all these people. That would give people a less than stellar impression of her.
“I’m not scared.”
“Then, share a tart with me. Trust me and jump.”
She takes a deep breath, and I know I’ve got her. “You’re ridiculous,” she says on an exhale.
“Ridiculously charming.” I flash a smile at her and reach for the tart.
She crosses her arms with a huff, but she doesn’t look away. “We’re tempting fate, Weston.”
“I think he’s already got that covered,” Holden replies, offloading the rest of the food onto the table.
I tear off a piece of the flaky pastry, enamoured by the scent of cinnamon and apples. This could turn out to be nothing, but it could also turn out to be something. I came here looking for what my future holds, so how hard am I trying if I don’t go all in on something like this?
Sure, magic exists. But so does free will, and nothing is going to happen without the choices I make. The choices we make.
I extend a piece to Bridget.
All three of us are quiet as her eyes flick to the tart, to mine, then back to the tart. I’m not backing down on my challenge for her to step outside her comfort zone, and there’s no way she’s missing that.
As much as I want to see Bridget stop trying so hard to control everything in her life, and give in to the possibilities that are out of her control, I think she needs to see that more.
“It’s like celebrating an anniversary. We had apple pie the first time we met, remember?” I wink.
With a sigh, she plucks the tart out of my fingers. “If this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”
“I’d expect nothing less, Spitfire.”
I meet Sebastian’s eyes from across the room and he raises his coffee in our direction. He doesn’t seem that scary.
With a flourish, I drop the tart into my mouth.
When in Rome.