Chapter 9
Maggie
By the time I got home from the apothecary, I’d shaken off most of the shame-circle tea room vibes. Mostly. The biddy’s dagger-eyes still lingered, but Bram’s last text, Hexes are welcome, if they come with kisses, was enough to make me laugh out loud as I unlocked my door.
The house smelled faintly of last night: wine, sweat, sex, and the rosemary soap I’d unmolded yesterday. It was comforting and a little overwhelming, like living in the middle of my own contradictions.
I scrubbed the kitchen down first. Counters, pots, the faint ring left on the butcher block from the wine glass he’d nudged out of the way.
Then I tied my curls up and got back to work.
Orders didn’t fill themselves, even if I was sleep-deprived and sore in ways that made sitting down feel like a second job.
The workshop out back was warm and fragrant, afternoon light streaming through the windows. Racks were lined with bars wrapped in paper, labeled in my cramped handwriting. Some still needed curing, some needed to be cut, some were already boxed up, ready for shipping.
I stacked them carefully, muttering under my breath about how half the town wanted “witchy” soap but would side-eye me for being too witchy in the flesh.
My phone buzzed on the workbench.
What are you doing?
I smiled, thumbs smudged with lavender dust. Cutting soap. You?
A pause. Walking the store. Tail hates when kids knock over the toy aisle.
I snorted. Bet it does. Does Tail file incident reports too?
Tail writes better reports than I do.
I giggled, shook my head, and went back to cutting neat squares.
By noon, I’d packaged a dozen orders for shipping, my little e-trike trailer stacked high with brown boxes tied in twine. The ride into town was bumpy but brisk, the October wind sharp on my cheeks.
The streets were crowded with fall tourists, leaf-peepers with expensive cameras, pumpkin-pickers dragging kids toward the farm stands, and a handful of out-of-towners gawking at Seaview's witchy window displays like they’d stumbled into a theme park.
I waved to Mrs. Whitaker at her boutique when I dropped a stack of soap off for her “spiritual cleansing” basket displays, then pedaled on to the post office. The clerk barely looked at me as I stacked my boxes, muttered my thanks, and rode off again.
By midafternoon, I was back at the workshop, printing labels and wrapping the last of the day’s orders. My hands moved automatically, but my eyes kept darting to the phone, waiting for the next buzz.
It always came.
What does the rosemary one smell like?
Like rosemary. And lemon. And salt air.
Like you, then.
I pressed my palm to my burning face. “Oh my God,” I whispered, laughing into the quiet.
The day slipped by faster than usual, work broken up by his blunt, oddly funny texts. By the time I carried the last box back into the house and kicked off my shoes, the sun was gone, the sea air cooler, the moon sharp against the dark.
I curled up on the couch with a blanket and a reheated bowl of soup, phone in my hand.
What are you doing? I typed.
The dots blinked, then: Watching a movie.
Which one?
A pause. The Thing.
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled soup on my blanket. Wait. You’re watching The Thing? With Kurt Russell?
Yes.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, fumbling for the remote. My streaming service pulled it up in seconds, the little blue play button taunting me.
Don’t start without me, I texted. Let’s watch it together.
His reply was immediate. Three… two… one.
I hit play, and suddenly we were in the same movie, in different houses. His texts came steady as the film rolled.
Why are the humans so stupid?
Why is there no soap in the Arctic?
That dog is suspicious.
I texted back with giggles muffled into my blanket. Suspicious? That’s your professional opinion?
I'm never wrong.
When the first jump scare hit, I yelped and nearly launched my bowl, which had graduated from soup to popcorn, across the room. My phone buzzed a second later.
Tail says you jumped higher than the humans.
Shut up, I typed, cheeks flaming.
Tail likes when you jump.
I pressed the phone to my chest, laughing helplessly.
By the time the credits rolled, my soup was cold, my blanket tangled, and my cheeks ached from smiling.
Good movie, he texted finally. Better with you.
My breath caught. I stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed back: Agreed.
The dots blinked once, twice, then disappeared.
I waited. Five seconds. Ten. Finally, his last message came through.
Sleep well, witch.
I curled tighter in my blanket, phone pressed to my chest, and whispered into the quiet, “You too, Bram.”
* * *
I woke at three in the morning with my bladder staging a full-scale revolt. Wine and too much soup had apparently formed an alliance against my sleep schedule.
Grumbling, I shoved the quilt back and padded barefoot across the cold floorboards, cursing quietly when my hip twinged.
The bathroom light was too bright, so I did my business in a sleepy half-daze, head tipped against the cool wall. My phone buzzed where I’d set it on the counter.
I frowned. Nobody texted me at three a.m. except my sister when she was drunk, and I was not in the mood for “guess which bartender I’m making bad choices with now.”
I washed my hands, picked up the phone, and squinted at the screen.
Bram.
One message. No dots, no preamble, just his blunt honesty staring back at me.
I don’t want it to be just once.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid, phone clutched in my hand, heart slamming like I’d just sprinted the length of Seaview’s pier.
My first thought: Holy hell, he texted that at three a.m.? My second thought: Holy hell, I'm grinning like a lovesick idiot in my bathroom at three a.m.
The mirror across from me caught my reflection, curls feral, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. Not the face of a woman who’d planned on keeping things casual.
I typed, deleted, re-typed. Finally, I sent:
Go back to sleep, Bram.
Almost immediately, three dots appeared.
Can’t.
My chest tightened. I chewed my lip, then thumbed out: Tail keeping you awake?
His reply came fast: You are.
Heat crawled up my throat. I pressed the phone to my chest and laughed, too softly for anyone but the ghosts of my house to hear.
When I finally crawled back into bed, quilt tugged up to my chin, my phone still glowed faintly in my hand.
Me too, I typed, before I could talk myself out of it.
Then I shoved the phone under my pillow, heart hammering, and lay there in the dark, smiling like a fool at nothing and everything until sleep finally dragged me under.