Kiss and Spell

“I don’t know, but we should think about it, and we should definitely keep it a secret for now until we’ve figured it out.”



“Maybe we should use our powers to fight evil,” I suggested.



“What evil? We already vanquished the lousy coffee the old-fashioned way. That alone should earn us a medal.”



“Mild-mannered booksellers by day, magical superheroes by night,” I quipped, trying to sound like a movie trailer announcer.



We finished our cocoa in thoughtful silence, then he said, “It’s getting late, and we have a busy day ahead. I’ll walk you home.”



I started to protest that he didn’t have to, but I wanted him to. I tried to tell myself that it was only practical, but safety was the last thing on my mind. There was no sign of the magic that had happened there when we left the store. I felt like I’d left a magical world and had returned to reality, except the reality didn’t seem all that real to me either. There was a surreal quality to everything, and I felt more than ever like I’d stepped into a movie. Even the music was there, and I knew it wasn’t from the store’s sound system.



I was sure that Florence would say this was still more proof that I was staying with Mr. Wrong, my comfort-zone man, when I could have magic—literal magic, in this case—with Owen. And yet I felt weird, like I was doing something wrong, as I walked home with him, close enough to touch, but not holding hands or making any actual contact, except the occasional moment when our sleeves brushed.



We reached my front steps and paused there. “Thanks for walking me home,” I said and started to turn to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”



He caught my arm and said in a rough whisper, “Katie.” I turned, waiting for what else he might say, but he just stood there, like he couldn’t find the words.



I wanted to kiss him, more than anything, but I reminded myself that we’d have plenty of time for that. I didn’t want any nagging guilt to mar this perfect evening. I leaned back, away from him, and repeated, “See you tomorrow,” before turning and running up the steps. I forced myself not to look back because I didn’t think my resolve would hold if I saw him standing there.



The soundtrack playing in my head swelled dramatically, and the music made me want to cry.



Chapter Eight



It was with decidedly mixed feelings that I headed to work the next morning. I both dreaded and anticipated seeing Owen again. I hadn’t thought it possible to hold such contradictory views simultaneously, and doing so made me feel like my head was in imminent danger of exploding. I wasn’t even sure it had been real. There was a dreamlike quality about my memories of running around the store, doing magic. What if I had dreamed it? I decided not to say anything to Owen unless he said something to me first. I didn’t even try to do magic on my own, but I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of finding out that I couldn’t or that I could.



When I got to the store, I slipped upstairs to the coffee shop, hoping to delay the encounter with Owen as long as possible so I’d have a better chance of having my head on straight. I was tying on my apron when Florence arrived. “My, but someone’s glowing,” she said, raising an eyebrow and smirking.



“Am I?” I blurted, raising my hands to cheeks that suddenly felt like they were on fire. Then I hurried to add, “I just put on a little more makeup than usual, and that had me running late, so I hurried to get here. You know, a brisk walk on a crisp, cool morning is just the thing to put color in your cheeks.” And then I realized I’d overexplained so badly that it was obvious I was hiding something.



“Uh huh,” Florence said, grinning as she leaned against the counter. “What, exactly, happened here after everyone else left?”



“Nothing! We hid the clues and had some cocoa and then he walked me home.” I knew she was talking about romantic stuff, so I didn’t feel bad leaving out the part about doing magic together. “Not so much as a kiss on the cheek.”



“Disappointed by that, were we?”



“No, it was my decision. I have a boyfriend.” A split second too late, I realized that had probably been the wrong thing to say. “Not that it even came up at all. He didn’t make a move. I just didn’t make a move because of that.”



“Mmm-hh,” she said, nodding. “So you were thinking of making a move until you remembered your boyfriend.”



“No! That’s not what I meant!” Rather than dig myself in deeper, I went to work making coffee and arranging the bakery case. “And why are you so invested in this, anyway? If you’re so keen on him, you make a move.”