Chapter 10
Maggie
I was elbow-deep in a vat of rosemary-lemon base, muttering at the thermometer because the temperature refused to cooperate when my phone buzzed on the workbench.
Bram's name lit up the screen.
My stomach did an entirely undignified flip.
We'd been texting since Sunday night, good morning check-ins, random observations about his day at SuperMart, my complaints about stubborn soap recipes.
Easy stuff. Safe stuff. Nothing that required me to acknowledge that I'd woken up three days ago with his knot still locked inside me and my entire worldview slightly rearranged.
I wiped my hands on my apron and picked up the phone.
Are you free Friday night?
I stared at the screen. Typed back: Define free.
Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Dinner. A real one. Not emergency soup.
My heart kicked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with the physical labor of soap-making and everything to do with the fact that Bram, quiet, careful, "useful not wanted" Bram, was asking me on an actual date.
Like... a date date? I typed because apparently, I'd regressed to middle school.
Yes.
One word. No elaboration.
I chewed my lip, then typed: Where?
The Captain's Table. 7 PM.
Oh God.
The Captain's Table was the nicest restaurant in Seaview. White tablecloths, candlelight, reservations-required nice. The kind of place where tourists went for anniversaries and locals went when they were trying to impress someone.
Or propose.
Not that he was proposing. Obviously. We'd had sex once. Okay, multiple times in one night, but still. This was just dinner. A fancy dinner. In public. In Seaview. Where everyone knew me as "the weird soap witch who used to be a cop" and no one knew him yet.
This was a statement.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could make an excuse. Claim I had orders to fill, a migraine coming on, a sudden aversion to tablecloths.
Instead, I typed: Pick me up at 6:45?
The response was immediate: I'll be there.
I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode. Then I looked down at myself: ancient yoga pants speckled with lavender oil, an oversized sweater that used to be black but had faded to a grayish suggestion, hair piled on top of my head with a clip that was barely holding on.
"Oh no," I whispered to the empty workshop.
I had approximately forty-eight hours to figure out how to look like a woman who went on dates to fancy restaurants, and my wardrobe consisted entirely of soap-making clothes, more yoga pants, and one funeral dress I'd worn to my great-aunt's service six years ago.
I did what any rational woman would do.
I called my sister.
She picked up on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"Why do you assume something's wrong?"
"Because you only call me during work hours when you're panicking. Did the barghest ghost you?"
"No. Worse." I took a breath. "He asked me on a date. To The Captain's Table. Friday night."
Silence. Then: "OH MY GOD."
"Don't—"
"He's COURTING you!" She was shrieking now, and I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "This is amazing! This is… wait. Why do you sound like someone died?"
"Because I have nothing to wear."
Another beat of silence. Then, with the gravity of a war general: "You need to go shopping."
"I can't just—"
"Maggie. You have a date with a hot barghest who can tie you to a bed with his—"
"Do NOT finish that sentence."
"—and you're going to The Captain's Table, which means everyone in Seaview is going to see you two together. This is your debut as a couple. You need to look devastating."
I pressed my palm to my forehead. "I make soap. In my backyard. I haven't been to a nice restaurant in... I don't even know. And I definitely don't own anything I can wear to a fancy restaurant."
"Then you're going shopping tomorrow. No arguments."
"I can't—"
"Maggie." Her voice softened. "You like him. Really like him."
My throat tightened. "Yeah. I really like him."
"Then make sure he swallows his tongue when he sees you."
By Wednesday morning, I told myself I was just going into town for supplies. Maybe some new molds. Possibly a dress, if I happened to pass the boutique.
I happened to pass the boutique.
Mrs. Carroll's shop sat between the bakery and the salon, its window display a chaotic mix of tourist-bait witchy tees and genuinely nice clothing tucked in the back. I'd bought exactly three things here in five years: a winter coat, a scarf, and a pair of jeans that actually fit.
The bell chimed when I pushed through the door.
Mrs. Carroll looked up from the register, and her entire face lit up. "Maggie! Perfect timing. I just got a shipment of fall dresses that would look gorgeous on you."
I blinked. "How did you—"
"Small town, honey." She was already moving toward the back, pulling hangers with the efficiency of a woman on a mission. "Plus, Bram called yesterday to make reservations at The Captain's Table for Friday night. Table for two. Seven o'clock."
Heat flooded my face. "Of course he did."
"Don't be embarrassed! It's romantic." She held up a burgundy sheath dress. "What do you think?"
"I think I look like I'm going to a funeral."
"Fair." She tossed it aside and pulled out a forest green wrap dress. "This one?"
I took it reluctantly, holding it up against myself in the mirror. It was pretty, long-sleeved for October weather, with a neckline that showed collarbones without being obscene.
"Try it on," Mrs. Carroll ordered, shoving me toward the changing room before I could protest.
The dress fit. That was the problem. It actually fit—hugged my hips, draped nicely over my stomach, made my waist look like something other than a vague suggestion between my ribs and thighs. The color brought out the warmth in my skin, made my freckles look intentional instead of accidental.
I looked like someone who went on dates.
"Let me see," Mrs. Carroll called from outside the curtain.
I stepped out, arms crossed defensively over my chest.
Her eyes went soft. "Oh, honey. That's the one."
"It's too much."
"It's perfect." She circled me, adjusting the sleeves, tugging the hem. "You look beautiful."
The bell over the door chimed. I turned, expecting another customer.
Instead, three women filed in like a tactical unit: the bakery owner and—oh God—Mrs. Kelvin, who ran the salon next door, along with another woman in a matching smock.
"We heard Maggie was shopping for a dress," the bakery owner announced, holding up a to-go cup. "Brought coffee."
I stared. "How did you—"
"Small town," they chorused.
Mrs. Kelvin circled me critically. "Turn."
I turned, feeling like livestock at auction.
"The dress is good," she declared. "But those curls need help. When's the last time you deep-conditioned?"
"I... don't know?"
She tsked. "Come by tomorrow. Eleven AM. We'll fix it."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." The other woman stepped forward, examining my hands. "And these cuticles are a tragedy. After your hair, I'll do your nails."
"I work with lye," I protested weakly. "My hands are always—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly. "Eleven AM."
I looked at Mrs. Carroll for help. She just grinned. "Welcome to Seaview, honey. We take care of our own."
My throat tightened. "I've lived here for five years."
"Yes," Mrs. Carroll said gently. "But you've been hiding for five years. Now you're letting someone see you. That matters."
The bakery owner pressed the coffee into my hands. "Drink. You look like you need it."
I took a sip. Perfect temperature, perfect sweetness. Of course it was.
"So," the fingernail woman said, leaning against the counter. "Tell us about him. The barghest."
"Bram," I said warily. "What do you want to know?"
"Is he nice?" Mrs. Kelvin asked.
"Very."
"Good in bed?" the bakery owner added, grinning.
"I'm not answering that."
They all laughed.
"That's a yes," the manicurist declared.
Mrs. Carroll squeezed my shoulder. "We're happy for you, Maggie. Really. You deserve this."
I looked at their faces, women I'd bought bread from, waved to in passing, nodded at during town meetings. Women who'd kept a polite distance while I built my walls and my soap business and my carefully isolated life.
Now they were here, helping me tear those walls down.
"Thank you," I managed.
"Don't thank us yet," Mrs. Kelvin said. "Wait until you see what I do with those curls."
Thursday at eleven, I walked into the salon like a condemned woman approaching the gallows.
Mrs. Kelvin took one look at my hair and sighed. "Sit."
For the next hour, she worked magic. Deep conditioning treatment, some kind of curl cream that smelled like coconuts, careful scrunching and shaping.
She talked the whole time—about her daughter in college, about the upcoming Halloween festival, about how Bram had helped her carry her groceries last week when she'd parked too far from the store.
It hadn't occurred to me that it wasn't just me who made emergency trips to the nearby, larger town. That everyone in town would know who he was, if not his name.
"He didn't have to," she said, working the product through my hair. "I didn't even ask. He just saw me struggling and came over. Polite as anything."
"That sounds like him," I said.
"You could do worse than a man who notices when someone needs help." She met my eyes in the mirror. "We all judged him when he first arrived. The horns, the tail. It's hard not to stare, you know?"
"I know."
"But he's been nothing but courteous. Never complains. Works hard. Keeps to himself." She paused. "We should've been kinder. Made him feel more welcome."
"You can start now," I said quietly.
She nodded. "We will."
When she finished, my curls actually looked like curls instead of a frizzy approximation. They framed my face, bounced when I moved, and caught the light.
I barely recognized myself.
"Now go see Brenda," Mrs. Kelvin pointed to the back corner. "And Maggie? You look lovely."
Brenda sat me down, filed my nails into neat ovals, pushed back my cuticles, and painted them with a clear gloss when I declined any color.
"I'll chip these in two days making soap," I said.
"That's fine. You just need them for tomorrow." She smiled.
By the time I left, the sun was starting to set, painting Seaview's harbor in shades of orange and pink. I walked back to my house with my hair bouncing, my nails glossy, feeling like a stranger in my own skin.
A stranger who was going on a date.
A real one.
Friday arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.
I woke up early, couldn't eat breakfast, and spent an hour making soap just to calm my nerves. The workshop smelled like rosemary and anxiety. My hands shook while I poured molds.
At five PM, I forced myself to stop working and go inside.
At five-thirty, I showered and shaved my legs, which I realized halfway through I hadn't done in two weeks. Did he care? Did I care? Why was I overthinking leg hair?
At six, I started on makeup. I didn't usually wear much, some mascara, maybe lip gloss if I remembered. But tonight felt different. Tonight required effort.
Foundation to even out my freckles. Wait, no—I liked my freckles. Just a little, then. Mascara that made my lashes look longer. Eyeliner that I smudged twice and had to redo. Lipstick in a berry shade that felt bold but not ridiculous.
By six-fifteen, I was staring at myself in the mirror, half-dressed in my bra and the yoga pants I'd worn all day, trying to work up the courage to put on the dress.
The green dress hung on the back of my bathroom door, perfect and terrifying.
What if I was trying too hard? What if he expected yoga-pants Maggie, not dress-up Maggie? What if I looked like I was going to prom instead of dinner?
My phone buzzed on the counter.
On my way. See you soon.
My stomach flipped.
No more time for second-guessing.
I pulled on the dress. It slid over my hips like it had been made for me, settling into place with a whisper of fabric. I zipped up the side, adjusted the neckline, and smoothed the skirt.
Then I looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back was me, but also not me. My curls framed my face the way Mrs. Kelvin had styled them, bouncing and glossy. My skin glowed under the subtle makeup. The dress hugged every curve I usually tried to hide under oversized sweatshirts.
I looked... good.
Better than good.
I looked like a woman who deserved to be taken to dinner at The Captain's Table.
The doorbell rang at exactly 6:45.
I took a breath. Another. Smoothed the dress one more time. Grabbed a small purse I'd borrowed from my sister because I didn't own anything that wasn't a canvas tote bag.
I walked to the door.
Opened it.
Bram stood on my porch in a dark button-down shirt and slacks, his horns catching the early evening light. His tail was tucked neatly behind him, and he held a small pot of basil.
He looked... nervous. And impossibly handsome.
His eyes met mine.
Then traveled down.
Then back up.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You look..." He couldn't seem to finish the sentence.
I felt heat crawl up my neck. "Too much?"
"No." The word came out rough. He swallowed hard and tried again. "You look perfect."
My heart did something complicated and dangerous behind my ribs.
He held out the plant. "This is for you."
I took the pot, our fingers brushing. That spark again, electric and inevitable.
"Thank you," I managed, trying hard not to tear up over him thinking to bring me a plant instead of already dead flowers.
I turned back into the house, legs shaky, and found a place for the little plant among my herbs. When I came back to the door, he was still standing there, looking at me like I'd rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.
"Ready?" he asked.
I grabbed my borrowed purse, stepped onto the porch, and locked the door behind me.
"Ready," I said.
He offered his arm.
I took it.
And together, we walked toward his car and whatever came next.