But there’s no easy way to ask. I can’t just blurt out:Hey, do you have any magical tendencies in your family? A history of casting spells and hexing the neighbors, perhaps?
No. It’s more likely that he has no idea that’s why he’s here. Like Lucy’s family, who had no clue they had a witchy lineage. And yet . . . somehow, he’s tapping into the magic—messing with it or amplifying it, depending on how you look at it.
That theory doesn’t work either, though. I don’t care how much magic he has in his veins; there’s no way he could have countered my charms and spells by accident. It’s possible that he’s been causing it to flare (though I have no idea how), but there’s no way he could have thrown out a counter-charm to the flying brooms without knowing it.
As we continue down the trail, I spot Patrick and Rosie bickering in the distance. Behind them is a whitewashed cottage, illuminated by fairy lights and hidden spotlights, vines climbing up the front until they’ve covered almost the entire wall. The two of them are dressed in classic cottagecore outfits, animatedly arguing and gesturing at a towering pyramid of outrageously large pumpkins.
From here, it’s hard to tell that the pumpkins are all styrofoam except for one: the largest, of which they’ll start carving here shortly.
Oliver raises a brow as we pass Tilly, who stirs an oversized cauldron overflowing with puffs of dry ice smoke. “Does this town go all out for every holiday? Send a real-life Santa down the chimneys to deliver toys. Pad the entire town for National Bubble Wrap Day?”
A picture of Don trying to wiggle down a chimney in a red velvet costume trimmed in white fur pops into my head unbidden, and I chuckle. I have no doubt he would be the first to volunteer for such a job, even letting that bushy mustache grow into a full-on beard for the authenticity of it all.
Then I imagine Stacy wearing a bubble wrap hat and directing Luke on how to hang banners around the main square. She would lose her mind with each accidental pop, ranting about the deflated bubbles ruining the holiday’s aesthetic.
“National Bubble Wrap Day? That can’t be a thing.”
“Sure is. Look it up.”
“Well, either way, the answer is both yes and no. There are definitely some big festivals for the most random of things. We have a flower festival and a winter wonderland festival. The festivals are for the tourists. They get the largest budget, the most marketing, and really bring in a lot of money for the town.
“And then there are the classic small-town holiday events, like a Fourth of July parade and lighting of a Christmas tree, a week-long menorah lighting for Hanukkah, and so on and so forth. But those are just for the locals. Times for us all to come together as a community and celebrate each other. Halloween, however, is the biggest. It’s like our masterpiece.”
His eyebrows shoot up as he lets out a long whistle. “That’s a lot of celebrating. When does anyone have time for the normal day-to-day?”
I screw my face up into a faux expression of disbelief. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I find it hard to imagine people who like each other enough to spend so much time together. Where I grew up, you recognized the people in your class, maybe a few teachers or teammates, and that’s about it. Most of the people running our town events were strangers to me, and I grew up there.”
I snort. “Well, you’d better get used to it because that’s the peculiar place you’ve moved to. Here, you’ll be the odd one out if youdon’thave a personal relationship with the mayor or volunteer to haul a tree on Arbor Day. In fact, remind me to get you the sign-up sheet to deliver pre-dawn meals to those who observe Ramadan. I’m sure they’d love something from the bakery before a day of fasting.”
Oliver runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath that puffs out his cheeks. “I don’t know. Don isn’t really my type, but I guess I could arrange a dinner date or something.”
My face splits into a wide grin at the mental image of that. I can picture Don and Oliver, two larger-than-life men, sitting at a comically small table, trying to make small talk over salads. Now that’s something I would pay good money to witness.
Trying to swallow my chuckles, I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m sure Don will be disappointed to hear that.”
But then I start to think about what he said.Isn’t really my type.That makes me wonder, whatisOliver’s type? I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, giving him an appraising once-over.
My first thought is someone brave and worldly. The type of woman ready to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice, without a care as to where she’s going or how much has been planned. The kind of woman who would book the hotel while waiting for her bags at luggage claim because she didn’t know what part of Paris she’d be in the mood for until she got there. The kind of woman who would be as content trekking through the Swiss Alps as she would be lounging on a beach in Bali.
But . . . what if it isn’t women at all?
Oh, for the love of Halloween. I’ve been blushing over and flirting with this man, and I don’t even know if he’s straight. He held my hand before, but what if he only went along with it as a friendly gesture because I grabbed his hand first? I thought he’dbeen flirting back, but what if that’s how he is? Some people are like that. They’re so overly friendly and attractive that your mind assumes everything they say is flirty when, in reality, they don’t like you any better than their cousin.
The moment I saw him, I automatically compared him to the men in my books. The ones who would burn the world down for the women they loved and worshipped their wives like goddesses. The ones who whispered dirty things like, “beg for it,” and growled threats like, “touch her, and you forfeit your own life.” I hadn’t even stopped to question it.
Heat creeps up my neck and my entire body goes hot with embarrassment as I pull the sleeves of my jacket down over my hands. Before I can stop myself, the question comes tumbling out, completely unbidden. “What is your type?”
The words are more akin to a squeak than a nonchalant inquiry, and his knowing smile makes me want to squirm.
He shrugs, his lantern swinging by his side and occasionally bumping his leg, sending random scatters of orange rays flickering across the dirt path. “Hard to say. I could count the number of relationships I’ve had on one hand.”
My brows furrow. “Really? But you’re so . . .”Attractive,I almost blurt; the word on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I say, “Well-traveled. I’d think by now you’d have a pretty good idea of the kind of person you’re attracted to.”
“That’s exactly why, actually. I’ve moved around so much that I’ve never been stable enough for relationships. By the time I start getting even remotely serious with a woman, I start to get that itch under my skin that it’s time to run. To see the next place. Relationships are fun until roots start to form. I’m not against setting down somewhere; I think buying the bakery proves that, but I needed it to be with the right person, in the right place.”
I let out a silent sigh of relief when he sayswoman,and I feel a little less foolish knowing I’ve been flirting with a guy who might actually be attracted to me.
