Mindlessly, I follow where she leads me until I’m settled in a reserved spot on the street curb. It’s not until she races away to deal with who-knows-what that I take my first easy breath of thenight. I’m not necessarily alone, surrounded by parade watchers, but no one is paying attention to me and I can exist in my own little bubble for a while. I sigh through my nose and let my jitters run free, shaking out my shoulders as if that will get rid of the lingering feeling of so many eyes on me.
From down the street, a float covered in glittering strands of orange and purple turns the corner and starts crawling its way down the main artery of town. I can hardly hear anything over the cheering crowd, people clapping as the float rolls closer.
Closing my eyes, I drown out the people as if they are white noise in the background and toe the corner of the curb. Despite my efforts, I end up dwelling on all the words I intended to say and forgot.
Grandma would have done it better. She would have strutted across that stage as if it had been constructed just for her, and, magic or no, she would have charmed everyone into thinking she ran the town single-handedly. Not only would she have given a better speech, but she wouldn’t have needed notes to do it. She would have gotten up there and spoken from the heart about town tradition and the long lines of families that have spent more generations than they can document right here in Ashwood Haven. She would have . . .
A familiar deep voice breaks through my inner downward spiral, close enough that his breath brushes against my ear. “You did great.”
Startled, I turn to find Oliver standing behind my shoulder and wonder how he got so close without me noticing. I definitely would have noticed him if he’d been here when Stacy brought me over. He’s a head taller than anyone else in the crowd near us; his broad shoulders shrouded in a dark peacoat, blocking the view of several people. Even if I hadn’t seen him initially, I would have felt him and the way the air buzzes with frantic energy between us.
I scan the faces around us, searching for upset patrons to give an apologetic look to, but I come up short. People have had these spots claimed all day to get the best view of the parade. Yet, here he is, standing with the toes of his shoes right on the edge of the sidewalk, and not a single person seems bothered—as if he materialized out of nowhere.
I swallow and automatically start rubbing the hem of my sweater between my fingers, the yarn rolling back and forth, hidden beneath the sleeve of my jacket.
“Thank you,” I choke out, doing my best to sound polite and trying not to stare at those steel blue eyes. “I’m glad to see you got a good spot. The parade is a crowd favorite.”
I turn my attention back to the street, the first float finally crawling by.
It’s tiered, like a wedding cake, with Don standing at the very top dressed as a circus ringmaster. On each of the other tiers are dancers and gymnasts performing various routines and stunts that garner whoops and hollers from the onlookers. Don makes a show of the whole thing, soaking in every drop of attention he’s getting. He gestures with his top hat and cane, pointing to the most impressive act of the moment and giving all the performers outrageous names.
“I am curious why you gave the speech instead of Don. He’s the one who welcomed me to town; it seems like something he would do.”
Oliver’s words brush against my neck, and when I look back over my shoulder, I expect him to be looming close, too close. Only, I find him keeping as respectful of a distance as he can in such a crowded area. From here, I shouldn’t be able to hear such quiet words, and yet, the ghost of his breath lingers, heating my cheeks.
I dip my chin to hide the creeping blush, chalking up the goose bumps rising along my arms to the cool night air, despite my coat. “I’m the festival sponsor and host.”
Oliver tips his head to the side in thought. “What does that mean exactly?”
I clear my throat, trying to focus more on the upcoming float where little ballerinas bounce around in witches’ costumes on broomsticks than on the man whose voice seems to be caressing my ear. “Every year, one of the businesses in town sponsors the festival. They help coordinate events, fund prizes, and choose a person, usually the owner, to act as host. It rotates. This year it’s Moonlit Pages’s turn, and in a few years, it will be your turn.”
I glance up at the burly man towering over me, and a smirk pulls at the corner of his lip, revealing that dimple that makes my heart flutter. “Trust me, no one wants to hear me try and give a speech.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” I reply, the words sticking to my tongue as his eyes study mine. It’s a kind and polite reassurance that has no right feeling as intimate as it does. The crowd around me melts away, turning to nothing but a drone in the background, and I’m suddenly very aware of what that achingly familiar feeling is that’s been building between us.
The magic steeped into every crack and crevice of Ashwood Haven crackles across my skin, pulling at something deep in my chest and knocking the breath from my lungs.
As if my eyes know exactly where to go, my attention is drawn back to the parade. The little ballerinas have gone from barely coordinated dancing to . . . flying. With each little skip and hop on their broomsticks, they hover a little longer, until one of them lingers too long and the jump turns into a hover. In a single skip, she’s leaped nearly five feet, hanging in the air like a cartoon character.
My heart leaps up through my throat as the dance teacher watches the already tenuous focus of the group completely dissolve. One by one, each ballerina notices they can suddenly hop further than a kangaroo and, like any child would, start to test their limits. Quickly, the dance routine turns into an all-out contest to see who can get the highest.
Before I can think through the decision, I dart into the street, beelining for the dancers-turned-birds because not only do I recognize those brooms, I supplied them. They’re frommyshop. They are always a best seller in our toy section: Charmed broomsticks that make the kids’ hops go a little further for a bit more fun. But now, that innocent charm seems to have grown into a full-on flying spell that has one little girl floating three feet off the ground.
Spectators lining the sidewalk start to notice the flying ballerinas, and their excited chatter turns to worried whispers. Several people rush into the street, pulling giggling witches from their broomsticks. Quicker than a rumor spreads through a small town, the whispers become a roar of gasps and cries.
Sprinting as fast as I can, I reach the highest girl and pull her from the hovering broom, expecting it to fall back to the ground with a clatter the way it’s supposed to once it’s lost its rider. Instead, it stays put midair, as if it’s been hung by a string from the stars above.
Mind spinning, I do the only thing I can think of in a moment of panic and stutter through the incantation backward. It takes more tries than I care to admit, but finally the broom falls to the bricks with a crash.
“Stop! Girls! Feet on the ground!” the dance teacher shrieks, racing around, trying to control all the little jumping beans.
Before I can celebrate my little victory, I spot another ballerina starting to spin like a tornado down the street. Herblack and purple witch’s hat goes flying into the crowd, her blonde hair whipping in circles as she screeches with delight.
Adrenaline pumping, the concerned shouts of onlookers get drowned out by the sound of my pounding heart. I race after her, willing her to hold on tight as I try to catch her before she can crash into a vintage trash truck hauling pumpkins. With each passing second, though, I realize my chances of reaching her in time dwindle. She’s spinning too fast, and my legs don’t move quickly enough. The best I can hope for is to catch the whirling witch before she hits the street.
Moments from colliding with the truck bed at the velocity of a washing machine, Oliver swoops in like the love interest of a cheesy rom-com. With a heartbeat to spare, he snatches the girl off the spinning broom and into the safety of his arms.
“I got ya!” He balances her in his arms, draped over his forearm like a towel on a clothes line, before setting her gently on her feet. The words to the inverted incantation are on the tip of my tongue when the broom clatters to the ground all on its own.
