From the front of our group, Stacy knocks her knuckles against that blasted clipboard, which I’m beginning to hate, to get our attention. “Okay, everyone! It’s time to move on to our wild cards.”
As a group, we start to shuffle forward. I glare at each of the three busybodies in turn. “Not. A. Word. Any of you.”
Mike locks his lips and throws away the key. Don looks around him as if he has no idea what I’m talking about at all. And Simra smiles in a way that is probably intended to look innocent but comes off as anything but.
Inwardly, I groan, but there’s nothing more I can do. I just have to get through this tasting without the magic going wild, turning the Frankenstein cake into a monster, or an overbearing neighbor embarrassing me. All I need is a solid minute or two of pure, normal, uneventful bliss.
That’s all.
I sigh. I might as well be asking for snow in July . . .
Don approaches Oliver’s table, hand outstretched. “Good to see you staying out of trouble, Mr. Blackwood. I’m glad you were able to join us as we discussed. I was worried you’d be too . . .” Don’s eyes narrow, the last word a clear accusation. “Busy.”
Oliver grabs Don’s hand, giving it a good, hard shake the way guys do. “Of course. Holidays like this are so important for bringing the community together. What kind of local would I be if I didn’t get involved?”
Though he tries to hide it, I catch the almost imperceptible sarcasm glaze over his words and can’t stop the smirk that curls my lip. He’s using our conversation from yesterday to his advantage, and I can see right through it. Something I make clear when his eyes flick to mine, and I give a minute shake of my head. The guilty little lick of his lips and small breath of a laugh tell me I’m not wrong.
And yet . . . I can’t look away. There’s something so endearing about the way he’s charmed my fellow townspeople. In a few days, he’s already developed a fan club of people watching his every move. I can already picture him signing up for decoratingcommittees at Christmas and setting up his own booth at the Witch’s Market next year.
“I’m so glad you were able to join us for our cook-off,” Stacy starts, her smile strained as she studies her clipboard and adds under her breath, “even if it was last-minute.”
Oliver’s neck strains with guilt, looking like a scorned child, and I have to hide a smile behind my hand.
“That’s on me, Miss Stacy,” Don interjects, jumping to Oliver’s defense. “I made an exception for our newest neighbor to help him start his business off on the right foot. Don’t take it out on the poor boy.”
Stacy takes a deep breath before plastering on the fakest patient smile I’ve ever seen. “Of course. Anyway”—she turns her attention back to Oliver, making a point of giving Don the cold shoulder—“please tell our esteemed group of judges what you’ve made for us today.”
Oliver tries and fails to hide a laugh at the two’s bickering as he rubs his hands together and looks down at the dishes laid out before him.
“Today I have fall-themed oyster baklava bites. Please, don’t be fooled by the name, the oyster part refers to its shape and shape alone.” I can’t help but giggle at the sighs of relief from at least two or three of my fellow judges. “Now, as you all probably know, a traditional baklava is primarily made of phyllo dough layered with sweetly spiced nuts and drenched in a honey syrup. This particular baklava is still made with phyllo dough, but instead of pistachios, I’ve used a combination of pecans and walnuts, spiced with a mix of ginger, cloves, and cinnamon. And instead of a traditional honey syrup, I’ve used a homemade pumpkin spice maple syrup honey mix. Fall in a bite. Please enjoy.”
As a group, we all step up to the table, eagerly taking a perfectly bite-sized piece of baklava. Oliver’s gaze never leavesme as I approach the table, and there’s something intimate about the way he watches me bite into my piece. The moment the baklava hits my tongue, my taste buds come alive, and I have to close my eyes to take in all the distinct layers.
The first layers of phyllo are crispy, giving way to dense layers of still slightly crunchy nuts and a thick bottom layer that’s been soaked in the pumpkin spice syrup. It’s so sweet that this one bite feels almost sinful, but there are undertones of brown butter that add depth to the nutty layers. Then there’s something . . . else. Something tingling across my tongue that I almost miss. It takes me a second to identify what it is that has me sucking sticky remnants of syrup off my fingers, and the moment I figure it out, my eyes fly open.
I whirl on Oliver, only to find him already watching me closely. Our gazes lock, the corner of his lip lifting in a knowing smirk. I feel as though I’ve been caught in a lie, laying my deepest darkest secrets bare for him to see.
Magic.He used magic to enhance his flavors, giving them an almost addictive quality. And the look on his face says that he can see that very realization written across my face, as easy to read as a large-print book.
For days, I’ve been wondering how much Oliver knows about magic and the witchy heritage of Ashwood Haven. Now, there’s no denying it. Oliver is a witch, able to tap into Ashwood Haven’s deep well of magic.
All around me, my fellow judges start to swoon, uttering accolades and moaning about placing future orders as soon as possible. I know without question that Oliver will be this year’s esteemed wild card champion.
Which also means he’ll be receiving the same prize as all the other category winners: A cash prize and a ticket to tomorrow night’s movie fest asmyVIP guest.
The realization sinks like a rock in my stomach, and I wonder if he understands what exactly it is that’s happening . . . how many people he’s put in danger.
I really suck at this whole total avoidance thing.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I make my usual trek from my house to Moonlit Pages. Instead of opening the door for Lucy, though, I march straight across the street to the bakery. She’s close on my heel as I stomp along the brick road, dry leaves crunching underfoot, and approach the glass door with my hands fisted deep in my jacket pockets.
“Hey, hi! Where are you going?” Lucy rushes after me, trying to get my attention as she pulls her jacket’s sleeves down over her hands and burrows her chin into the checkered fuzz. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s basically freezing, and you have the keys to the nice warm store. This might not be the best moment to bring it up again, but if you gave me back my keys, this wouldn’t exactly be a problem. I know you didn’t approve of me and Grandma trying to summon a poltergeist, but?—”
I cut her a glare that puts an abrupt end to her early morning rambling and pound the side of my fist against the wooden frame of the bakery door as if it’s offended me. Lucy stares with wide eyes, glancing between me and the door as it rattles on its hinges.
“Did something happen last night?” she asks carefully, drawing out the words.
