Something in the air shifts. A static charge erupts around us, making the hair on my arms stand on end. The odd energy leaves an achingly familiar taste in the back of my throat; something I’ve experienced before, but never to this extent.
Suddenly, a quiet rattling from one of the nearby shelves catches my attention. It’s subtle at first, like someone trying to loosen a sticky doorknob, but it escalates into a full-on quaking within seconds.
I drop his hand and dart around the end of a nearby shelf, Oliver on my heel, searching for the source of the shaking.
In the middle of the romance section, a paperback is inching its way off its shelf. I lunge for it, snatching it before Oliver notices it moving on its own.
The bookshop’s magical tendencies and the depth of Ashwood Haven’s witchy heritage aren’t exactly a secret, but they also aren’t advertised either. It’s a history accepted by locals but brushed away from the prying eyes of tourists and newcomers.
Grandma wasn’t subtle about charming her way into an easier life as the only still-practicing witch in town, with shelves that never collected dust and brooms that occasionally swept on their own after hours. She started teaching me the ways of my ancestors at a young age, with little opposition from Dad, who neither embraced nor denied our heritage.
When Grandma learned that Lucy came from a long-forgotten line of witches, she started including her in our lessons as well. Her number one lesson? Never be ashamed of our lineage, but always be thoughtful about who we share it with.
I cradle the paperback in the crook of my elbow, clutching it tight. It’s still shaking, jerking in my grip with a concerning intensity. I scowl down at it and hiss at it to stop before turning to beam at Oliver, my forced smile returning.
“What was that?” His wintery gaze searches the empty space on the shelf for answers and runs thick fingers through his golden locks again. A line forms between his brows when he finds nothing but a blank wall behind the books instead of a person pulling a prank.
A nervous giggle bubbles out of me, and I can only hope it doesn’t sound as jittery as I feel. “Just a precarious book. You know how customers are. They’ll leave things anywhere, even on the edge of a shelf.”
He side-eyes me warily, not fully convinced by my explanation. “That thing sounded violent, not loose.”
I shrug, a wooden grin still stiff against my cheeks, when I spot another book starting to slide forward out of the corner of my eye. This time, it’s right above his head.
Without thinking, I lunge forward and throw up a hand to hold the book in place, only to end up stepping right back into his personal bubble. Chest to chest, we’re far closer than two strangers have any right to be, and an odd mixture of confusion and delight has him arching an eyebrow at me. His gaze bounces between the book I’m barely holding back and the minuscule space between us, but he doesn’t step back. The longer we stand like this, the more insistent the book becomes, lurching against my fingertips.
“Do you need some help?” An amused chuckle shadows his question, and I wonder if he notices the way the air around us is once again prickling.
He starts to reach up in an attempt to help and a wordless squeak escapes me.
Oliver pauses, perplexed, and then slowly lowers his hand once again. “Or not?”
I giggle nervously again, trying not to show how much I’m struggling to fight the adamant book. It’s so high that I struggle to hold it in place with my fingertips, and my wrist is starting to ache.
“I don’t know if Don mentioned it, but we also have a coffee bar.” The words come out in a rush of breath that does little to hide the goose bumps that start to pepper my skin.
“Oh?” He smirks as if I’ve invited him on a date.
I’d be pleased by his apparent interest if I weren’t so preoccupied with the murderous romance novel I’m fighting. I’ve spent the last few years so focused on Grandma and Moonlit Pages that a love life hasn’t even been on the table. Not that it was going that great before. Right now, though, I have bigger problems at hand.
“Uh-huh, it’s run by my friend. Lucy!” I yell her name, my voice cracking around the letters in a desperate plea, trying to sound casual and failing.
Lucy’s head pops out from around the end of the aisle, and her keen eyes are quick to assess the situation.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Oliver, Lucy. Lucy, this is the new bakery owner, Oliver.” I race through introductions, gritting my teeth into a pained smile. My shoulders and triceps are burning, and along with everything else running through my head, I make a mental note to spend more time at the gym. I would totally be the first to die in whatever fantasy world Oliver stepped out of if I can’t even fight back a 300-page paperback. “Could you treat him to one of your signature drinks? Please?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lucy jumps into action, taking the hint.
“Of course!” She coos, threading an arm through the elbow Oliver didn’t offer and guiding him away. “So nice to meet you. Quick question: will you be selling apple fritters?”
“Uh . . .” Oliver glances back at me one last time as if he’s still trying to figure out what just happened. For a brief moment, I’m swept away in his steely gaze, almost forgetting to fight the insistent book at my fingertips. But in the next heartbeat, he’s turning his attention to the whirlwind on his arm. “Of course. It would be a pretty depressing bakery without them.”
Lucy gives him an approving nod. “Oh, good, we can be friends.”
I sigh with relief when the two turn the corner and let the book launch itself off the shelf. I manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor, and I fall back against the shelving unit, shaking the ache out of my arm. At least my hand-eye coordination isn’t too bad.
I give myself one heavy breath to collect myself before turning to reshelve the naughty books in my arms.
