“That’s for the judgy lion face,” she muttered.
Glimmer’s scales shifted to amused green.
The sentient potion burbled in what sounded like laughter.
Junie dropped into one of the velvet consultation chairs and buried her face in her hands. Her skin still tingled where his sleeve had brushed her arm. Her heartbeat still hadn’t fully slowed.
Whatever was happening was more than the surge. More than professional friction. More than attraction to a man who was everything she should find annoying.
She didn’t know what it was. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
But she had a sinking feeling that the universe didn’t much care what she wanted.
The ley line hummed beneath her feet, bright and insistent, as if agreeing.
SEVEN
JUNIE
They came bearing wine, snacks, and zero respect for personal boundaries.
Junie had barely finished closing the shop when the first knock came.
Dahlia stood on her back doorstep with a basket of pastries and the kind of smile that meant she wasn’t leaving until she’d extracted every detail of Junie’s humiliation. Behind her, Cassia’s wild dark curls were visible over her shoulder, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance suggested the storm witch’s emotions were already running high.
“We brought provisions.” Dahlia lifted the basket. “And emotional support.”
“I don’t need emotional support.”
“Sweetie.” Cassia pushed past Dahlia into the shop. “You ruined a lion alpha’s suit in front of the entire town and then yelled at him about fabric. You absolutely need emotional support.”
“I didn’t yell. I… expressed my opinion firmly.”
“Loudly.” Cassia dropped onto the couch that Junie hadn’t offered. “With hand gestures. And profanity.”
“There was no profanity.”
“Implied profanity, then. Your facial expressions were doing plenty of swearing.”
“You called him an idiot with more money than sense.” Narla’s calm voice came from behind the others. The candle witch carried herself with her usual serene grace, silver-streaked dark hair pulled back from her face, her presence both unassuming and impossible to ignore. In her hands, she carried a small box that clinked softly—glasses, because Narla was always prepared for any social emergency. “Mrs. Watters told Mrs. Patterson, who told the seagulls, who told everyone.”
“The seagulls are gossips.”
“The seagulls are accurate,” Narla corrected.
Junie groaned. When the friend group decided you needed an intervention, resistance was futile.
Her apartment above the shop was not designed for entertaining. Books covered every horizontal surface—half-read novels, ancient brewing texts, a dog-eared romance that Dahlia had lent her three months ago that she kept meaning to return. Failed experiments occupied most of her kitchen counter, including a crystallized substance that might once have been a clarity tonic and was now growing its own ecosystem. The living room featured exactly one couch, two chairs she’d rescued from an estate sale, and approximately seventeen throw pillows Dahlia had given her over the years because “your space needs softness, Junie.”
The pillows were the softest thing about her. She preferred it that way.
Cassia surveyed the chaos with the air of a general assessing a battlefield. “When did you last clean?”
“Define ‘clean.’”
“That’s what I thought.” The storm witch started gathering books into piles, her movements efficient and slightly aggressive. A small storm petrel—Gust, her familiar—swoopedin through the open window and began rearranging Junie’s mail with judgmental precision.
Dahlia claimed the kitchen, somehow producing clean glasses and a cheeseboard from the depths of her basket. Her familiar, Marzipan, leaped onto the counter and immediately began supervising.
