Page 2

He loved the bookstore like it was his child. It had been years since he and his late wife, Sophie, had lost their only daughter, and they had poured all their time and energy into this place, making it a haven for customers like Lucy who wanted to return again and again. It was the kind of place where one never felt lonely or sad, but comforted and safe.

Most of the residents of Little Brook were regulars, friends even, though Lucy had been the only one lucky enough to turn her constant presence at Crawley Books into a job.

Finishing up her toast, Lucy wiped the crumbs from her cheeks with her stretched-out sweater sleeve and went to rearrange the table display in the front of the bookstore. The display was the first thing customers saw when they entered, and Lucy always gave it her particular attention.

Right now, it had titles perfect for an autumn evening spent at home while nestled in blankets and sipping a warm cup of tea. She had even paired some of the books with tea suggestions: the small-town British mysteries with a strong Yorkshire Gold; the Regency romances with a sophisticated Earl Grey; the cozy fantasies with a hearty cardamom chai.

She had very diligently taste tested every loose-leaf blend before making any of the pairings—for the shop, of course. She was nothing if not a dedicated employee.

Lucy noticed some of the romances were running thin, so she grabbed her coffee mug and went back to the storeroom to collect some more. The space was moderately sized and had filing cabinets along one wall, while cardboard boxes of stock practically hid the other three.

She quickly found the book she was looking for—a favorite of hers, which was why it kept running out. She recommended it to absolutely everyone. Piling a stack into her arms, she grabbed a few other novels she had noticed were running thin as well.

A noise sounded outside.

Lucy paused. That was weird. She had locked the door manually, and regardless, it was spelled to lock after her until eleven, when Crawley’s opened. (Not that Little Brook was a dangerous town, but just to be extra safe.) She was the only one with a key, save Charles.

She waited, listening, but when no other sound came, she shrugged, piling more books onto her stack. Balancing her coffee on the top so she wouldn’t have to make a second trip, she walked out, reading the backcover copy of the book, giggling at one of the trade reviews.

Which was why, when she glanced up, just inches from a tall figure right in front of her, she jolted so intensely that the contents of her hands went flying.

Instinctively, she lifted her hands, palms out and fingers spread, freezing everything mid-motion with her magic. Not the books! But they were unscathed. She released a breath, heart beating fast, realizing a moment too late that she shouldn’t have used her magic so cavalierly in front of a stranger. Uh-oh.

But there was more to worry about. Her coffee was suspended in the air like a frozen fountain, and behind the almost-wreckage, she saw a slender man who looked to be about thirty years old.

He wore a button-up white shirt and gray tie beneath a very nice navy blue sweater that looked expensive and soft, and which accented his broad shoulders and the lean muscles in his arms. A tweed blazer was hanging off one arm, and the look was completed with dark slacks on his long legs and fancy loafers on his feet.

Lucy’s gaze traveled up to his face, where blond hair fell over his forehead, brushing his brows. A bit of gold scruff covered his jaw, which looked sharp enough to maim, rivaled only by his cheekbones. Behind his thin-rimmed glasses, his eyes were ice blue and fringed with long lashes.

He was gorgeous, to say the least, but the effect was dulled by his lips (pouty, pink) turned down into a frown.

A hundred thoughts ran through Lucy’s head: Why is he so pretty? Who is he? How did he get in? Is he a burglar? Could a burglar be that pretty?

“You must be Lucinda,” he said, voice deep and cold as an abyss. He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Leave it to Charles to hire a bloody witch for the shop.”

Lucy registered his accent—Irish—before she registered his dis-dain. She liked the lilt but not the tone.

She was too stunned to say anything, though a part of her was relieved that he evidently knew about witches, so she hadn’t royally screwed up by doing magic in front of him.

Mouth open as she tried to think of a response and failed, Lucy stared. Her mind seemed to be struggling to form coherent thoughts, and aggravation ran through her. Lucy was hardly ever at a loss for words.

He knew who she was and that she was a witch. But who was he? Not a witch, she realized. She’d have sensed it. But he was certainly familiar with witches and their existence, a rare occurrence, which probably meant he was close to a witch.

He sidestepped the frozen fountain of coffee, glancing at her adorable sock mug like it was the strangest thing he had ever seen, a gesture that offended her deeply. As he moved around the books still hovering midair, she got a better look at him, and a tingle ran down her spine.

Good lord. Men shouldn’t be allowed to be that beautiful; it wasn’t right.

“Professor Grayson Crawley.” He held out a hand as if bound by manners but detesting the act. “Pleasure.”

Lucy reached out stupidly to shake his hand, and she realized two things too late.

The first: She and her magic were distracted. While the spell had not needed her words, it had needed her attention, and without it, the spell collapsed. Everything hovering in the air fell to the floor, books thwacking onto nearby tables and coffee splattering all over the man’s shoes. Lucy could only watch as her mug shattered on the hardwood floor.

The second: Grayson Crawley. She knew that name.

Charles’s grandson.

Oh god no.