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“What the actual fuck,” she seethed. He closed his laptop, setting it aside, and stood up, towering over her.

“I tidied up a bit,” he said, voice practical and calm. “No need to get so high-strung about it, Lucinda.”

Behind the austere facade, she saw his eyes glint. He knew exactly what he had done.

“This is war,” she said, glaring up at him.

“Well, thank god you’re dressed for it,” he said dryly. His gaze slowly went down her body, taking in her outfit. She was wearing a matching loungewear set with moccasins.

His eyes lingered on her choice of shoes, his eyebrows rising.

“What?” she barked. Those blue eyes lifted to meet hers. He opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head, thinking better of it.

“Nothing,” he replied. He walked away, and irritation scratched through her.

“If you have something to say, just say it.”

He turned back to her, his gaze straying to her feet. “You’re wearing slippers,” he said simply.

“THEY’RE CALLED MOCCASINS!” she shouted, kicking them off and throwing them at him. He ducked, the shoes narrowly missing his head, and gave her a horrified look.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have violent tendencies?” he asked. She wanted to scream, but they were opening soon, and she still needed to set up the baked goods and see what books needed to be restocked.

Grabbing her shoes and slipping them on, she stormed away from him, busying herself with getting the store ready to open as she muttered angry gibberish under her breath. After preparing all the baked goods in the display counter, she went to make sure the tables were ready.

There were several small wooden tables, each with different finishes and accompanying chairs, though Lucy usually arranged them so the chairs were mismatched with the table, to give it a more whimsical look, as if they were in an enchanted forest. Nature wasn’t consistent.

To her chagrin, Grayson had already put the chairs down and arranged them so that the chairs matched their respective tables. She shot a glare his way, but he was already on his laptop, reading and typing something.

After putting candles and vases of dried flowers in the centers of the tables, Lucy went to set up the flowers in the flower-shop portion of the store, taking out the dead and old flowers that were no longer sellable. She held on to some of the ones in good condition to keep as dried bunches and saved some whole petals to press for bookmarks later.

With each movement, she could feel him watching her. She whipped her head in his direction, giving him a withering look. He startled, though clearly not enough to be deterred from speaking to her.

“It’s mid-November,” he said. Why does he think it is okay to talk to me? “How do you have flowers in bloom?”

“Magic,” she said in her best are-you-stupid? voice. His eyes narrowed.

“They make a mess,” he said, being incendiary on purpose. “What if someone’s allergic?”

She stopped what she was doing to shake her head at him. “Who hates flowers? You really are heartless, you know that?”

He arched a brow and said nothing, dismissing her to go back to whatever it was he was reading on his laptop. Lucy didn’t have time for this.

She used magic to dust as she checked that all the shelves were appropriately stocked, reorganizing some misplaced books customers had left. With a wave of her hand, all the packages they had received opened, and the garbage tucked itself neatly into the can in the back office. She started adding the new books to the inventory list.

Finally, at ten, she set the sign on the front door from Closed to open and went to sit down behind the counter. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of the molasses cakes sitting in the display. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t had breakfast.

Lucy was always horrified at the person she was before she had breakfast. She quickly set a slice of pumpernickel bread in the toaster. She couldn’t be in a sour mood when customers came in, and today was Saturday, their busiest day.

The store was open Tuesday–Sunday, and the weekend was always the most rushed. On weekdays they opened at eleven, but on the weekend, they opened at ten; they closed at seven every day.

Lucy made herself a butter pecan latte as she waited for her bread to toast. She should have picked up a bagel this morning; she deserved it. A Long Island bagel could remedy anything.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t leave now; she didn’t trust Grayson to handle affairs without her there. Instead, Lucy settled for an apple fritter, sinking her teeth into the spiced and sugared dough. The toaster dinged, her bread popping out.

Grayson looked over at her. If he made a comment about her food consumption, she was going to actually blow a fuse. He must have seen the vicious expression on her face because his mouth snapped shut.

She remembered what Bia had said last night about research. Lucy had spent an hour on the internet looking up everything she could about Grayson Crawley, but hardly anything came up except for things related to his career as a professor and the university he worked at.