Chapter 1
That Time I Inherited an Owl, a Cottage, and a Tea Shop
Idiscovered my aunt died two months ago on what started as a very standard Saturday morning. I was eating blueberry granola, listening to my father tell me about his latest gnome hunt, when my mother walked into the room, face pale, and said, “Laverna’s passed away.”
There was a moment of stunned silence—we didn’t even know my great-aunt was sick.
But the truly shocking news came when Mom added, “And she’s left her fortune toKit.”
In case you’re wondering, I’m Kit. And that bit of news is why I’m currently sitting in a horse-drawn buggy next to a man named Hudson, with most of my belongings strapped to the luggage rack in the back.
And why are we in a buggy? Because cars aren’t allowed in the small town of Moss Hollow, Vermont—most likely because all the members of the town council are high fae. (And everyone knows how they are.)
“Is there a problem?” my driver asks, probably wondering why I haven’t hopped out even though he coaxed his horse to a stop a good minute ago.
Judging from the warm magic emanating from the man, he’s a shifter. It wouldn’t be polite to ask which type.
“No,” I answer absently, wondering if we accidentally drove into a fairy ring as I peer at the address on the iron plaque hanging from a post near the garden gate. I don’t remember the property, but sure enough, it matches the one on the deed paperwork I’ve pulled from the manila envelope in my lap.
Which means this gray stone cottage in front of us, with its wooden shakes instead of shingles; tall, arched windows with trim that bisects the glass panes like graph paper; and whimsical English garden planted with peonies, foxgloves, and fragrant roses…belongs to me.
Chester sends out a high-pitched, sonic-ping of a bark from the back, where Hudson has stowed him with my luggage.
Wincing, I lower myself to the hard-packed dirt lane and explain, “He’s never ridden in a horse-drawn carriage before.”
Hudson nods, a man of few words. His tan cargo shorts, blue T-shirt, and hiking boots are at odds with his antiquated mode of transportation. He’s a gruff sort of man in his late thirties. His face is pleasant instead of handsome, but his muscular frame and square jaw are certainly appealing—if you like the big and bulky, lives-in-the-gym type. Thankfully for both of us, I don’t, and therefore, I’m not in danger of subjecting him to my personal brand of awkward. Let’s just say I’m not at my best around men I find attractive.
I round the back as Hudson leaps from his side of the buggy, smiling when I see Chester. The dog’s wire crate is propped precariously atop the rest of my things, held in place with two bright yellow bungee cords. He begins to whine, his furry mahogany and white body vibrating when he realizes his freedom is nigh.
“What kind of dog is it?” Hudson frowns at Chester as my brilliant boy tries to lick the driver’s hands through the crate’s narrow bars.
“He’s a pomsky.”
“A what?” He sounds like he suspects I made up the breed on the spot.
“Half Siberian husky, half Pomeranian.”
He waits a beat, the large shifter flummoxed. “But…why?”
“Because they’re cute.” I open the crate door, snap a leash onto Chester’s collar, and set him on the ground. He trots forward, seventeen pounds of fluff and attitude. His plumed tail arches over his back, and his dainty paws dance instead of step. Immediately, he prances to the closest fence post and pees on it, ever the gentleman.
“Huh.” Hudson drags his eyes away from my dog to unload the rest of my luggage. There’s not a lot of it.
Shouldering a large duffel bag, I walk to the white, wooden gate, giving Chester a gentle tug to alert him we’re moving. The gate’s hinges squeak, and the bottom of the frame catches on a flagstone. After giving it a hard shove, I enter the property.
I pause when I’m surrounded by my late aunt’s flowers, hit with a heady dose of euphoria that only growing things can provide. My mood lifts, my trepidation of the unknown recedes, and a smile pulls at my lips.
I really love gardens.
When I open my eyes, I find Hudson watching me, a loopy grin on his face. After a moment, he shakes his head and clears his throat, the picture of a man who just got hit with an accidental dose of magic.
“Sorry,” I say.So much for making a good first impression.“That wasn’t intentional.”
Looking sheepish, he tugs a suitcase down the flagstone garden path. “You’re a spring pixie?”
“A summer, actually.” Summer pixies make people feel joy. Spring pixies make them feel desire. People mix up our seasons all the time.
“You’ll have to be careful around the tourists,” he warns. “I’m sure you read the town’s list of regulations?”
