“Honey.”
It’s not often I find things I’m attracted to more than the smell of baking bread, but I’m losing that battle now. Losing it bad. My core buzzes with the memory of his mouth on me, his hands under my thighs—
I lean back against my pickup, trying to escape his thyme smell. It’s stronger now. As ifhe’sstronger, but not just as a Warlock. Happier? Does the Warlockdohappy?
“I have the best shot if I’m working in my own kitchen, on my own stove.” A shitty stove compared with his. But I don’t say that. “There’s no reason for me to stay.”
His mouth purses. “No, I suppose there isn’t.”
My arms itch to surround him, but I don’t trust myself to let him go. Everything about this feels sour. Fitting, since my Farewitch magic can rot good things from the inside out. This man’s already lost his parents, and Lazlo, who might not have been truly here but whowas real in all the ways that mattered. He can’t watch me crumble. He can’t lose me, too.
Governess Zeen appears and saves me from the intensity of his gaze.
She’s carrying a couple of my bags I was about to go back inside for. “What?” she snaps at my flabbergasted look. “You have too much stuff. You’d never leave in time.”
And if I don’t leave now, I’m really going to cry. “Thank you, Letha.”
“We’re not that close yet, dear.Ms. Zeenis sufficient.”
“Right. Sorry.” But right before I hop into my pickup, she gives me a stilted hug and I feel like I’ve earned a rare Girl Scout badge for my apron.
The Warlock remains next to Ms. Zeen, arms crossed and face hard, the Manor a hulking, gloomy shadow behind him. When I looked up at Knight Manor for the first time, I wondered what kind of darkness a humble farmhouse could hide. What secrets. A lot, apparently.
The Dodge hums as I put it in drive. I roll down my window to holler at the Warlock one last time. “Come visit the shop, yeah? Or at least promise me you’ll leave the house once in a while.”
“I go outside—”
“Thefrontyard.”
The Warlock’s lips twitch. “No promises.”
My useless heart shudders. “I…” What can I tell him that will change anything? Whatwouldn’tchange anything? Or everything? “Happy birthday.”
Driving away, I watch Ms. Zeen and the Warlock in the crooked rearview mirror until I make a turn and they vanish from view.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
FRIDAY, JULY 1
ONE WEEK LATER
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Like the traditional Southern apple stack cake, there are some recipes best made with other folks, where the magic happens because it happens together.
The Apothakery is hollering.
I sold out of biscuits by nine, apple butter by ten, and cornbread by eleven. There’s a rush on our newest menu item, huckleberry sonker icebox cake—fitting for the start of a typical Southern July—and with the holiday weekend coming up and kids out of school, the other favorites today are lemon elderberry turnovers and Fluffernutters.
Since the solstice, the Apothakery’s never been busier. It doesn’t just open, itwakes up.
With Arna Jean officially managing the business side of the shop, I can spend my free hours doubling down on my research to find a cure for my mom. I admit, the noise of bustling customers, coffee percolating—it’s a soundtrack I’ve missed. Just like the hand-chalked signs, Momaw Frost’s favorite yellow everywhere I look. And yet.
Something about the shop doesn’t fully taste like home anymore.Even my apartment upstairs feels more like a way station. Less permanent than the room I had at the Manor.
Taking a much-needed deep breath, I shake the farmhouse from my thoughts just as I catch a whiff of perfume under the nutty smell of browned butter and molasses muffins.
