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“What do I care if I’m not?” he said, voice harsh. “It’s such silliness.”

She looked at his awful judgy face and flinched, then chastised herself. She hated that she cared about his opinion almost as much as she hated the opinion itself. She needed to stop caring. She detested him.

“Stop bothering me,” she said. “I’m trying to work.”

“Technically, this place is mine.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Inheritance wise.”

“This place is absolutely not yours. Inheritance!” she huffed. “Charles isn’t dead. He’s going to be absolutely fine under my care, so there’s no need for you to be here. Or for you to assume that any of this”—she flourished her hand—“will ever be yours.”

She wanted to do something violent and illegal. Her hands clenched into fists. He must have seen the murder in her gaze because he started back.

“I only came out for this, anyway,” he said, stealing a cookie from the tray on the counter. His shoulders were relaxed as he gave her a smug half grin, his blue eyes glittering with amusement when he saw her irritated expression.

He strode back to the office, his movements easy. She glared at his broad shoulders, and, as if knowing, he snuck a glance at her, smirking.

Lucy counted to ten in her head. Slightly calmer, she redirected her thoughts to Anna. Yes, there was the warmth returning to her, the magic of a book finding its true reader.

In moments like those, Lucy felt almost as important as her parents—as if she were making a real difference in the world—even if she knew she wasn’t.

Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. On the exhale, she opened her eyes and focused on where she was: the rows and rows of books, so many of which she loved; the sweet aroma of baked goods around her; the bouquets of flowers sitting in multicolored vintage glass bottles; the pottery pieces on the tables; the books.

She always came back to the books. Lucy walked around the store, picking up an old romance novel she had read twelve times and loved dearly. She flipped to one of her favorite passages—Chapter 21!—and began to read.

Sure enough, she felt lighter, the magic of the book seeping through her. Her heart felt full, as if she were revisiting old friends. She giggled and swooned.

Time passed without further turmoil. Grayson stayed in the office. She had no idea what he was doing in there, but a little while later, she did put her ear to the door to listen, curiosity getting the better of her. It sounded as though he were moving papers around, organizing things.

He was welcome to it. As long as he stayed out of her way.

Lucy flitted around the store, fixing and reshelving and reading, all the while breathing in the soothing scent of paper and ink.

After a few hours, Grayson emerged from the office, his posture absolutely atrocious, as if he’d been hunched over the desk the entire time. He stretched his back, and she watched the muscles in his shoulders move, mesmerized by the shape of his arms, like that of a statue. Her cheeks grew warm.

Lucy was behind the counter then, and he approached cautiously. “I’m going out to grab lunch,” he informed her. He paused, clenching his jaw, and added, “Do you want anything?”

She would have given him a point for politeness if he hadn’t looked like he was being held at gunpoint.

“Nope,” she said, reaching down into her bag to pull out a sandwich. “I’m all set.”

He looked at the sandwich, face twisting. She narrowed her eyes and pulled the sandwich from its wrapper.

“You really shouldn’t be eating at the front counter,” he said. Usually, she did eat in the office—but who was he to admonish her?!

“I’ve been working here for eight years, and I’ve been a manager for two and a half,” she said, before taking an aggressive bite out of her chicken parmesan sandwich. Tomato sauce squirted out the back and onto her fingers. She chewed enthusiastically, fingers shining with garlic butter as he watched with mounting horror. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“In Charles’s absence, I take his stead as his grandson, it only makes sense …”

He kept talking, but she had stopped listening. That was it! He was so vexing!

Concentrating, Lucy twirled her foot under the counter. She watched as Grayson trailed off, distracted by the wall behind Lucy’s head, where she was making the paint’s color darken. A moment later, she stopped her magic, and the paint returned to normal, so quick Grayson would wonder if he had imagined it.

He stopped, blinking, then looked at her, eyebrows furrowed.

“Weren’t you leaving to get food?” she asked, batting her lashes at him. He shook his head, resetting himself.

“Yes, right.” And he gave her one more confused look before leaving.

She felt a little guilty about hexing him like that, but he would be fine. It was a harmless little spell, after all. She hadn’t made him do anything—she didn’t have the power to do that, or she could have simply made him stop talking.