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He furrowed his brows. It wasn’t a big deal, yes, but then why was she so … wounded? He hated seeing her like this—it made his heart hurt. And he didn’t like that, either.

“You’re acting strange,” he said, agitated.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, in that same distant tone. She left the storeroom, heading to the register, and he followed.

“Lucy,” he said, but she didn’t seem to hear. “Lucinda,” he hissed.

That seemed to get her. She glared, eyes sparking, and a thrill shot through him, followed by relief.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

He smiled. “Ah, there’s the wretched woman I’ve come to know and adore.”

She rolled her eyes at him, scowling, which meant things were once again normal.

He went behind the register to make himself a cup of tea, brushing shoulders with her while he did so. She made an irritated sound, shoving past him, and he smiled to himself. Taking his tea to the lounge chair, he sat down and got comfortable.

It was only when he took his first sip that he realized: The tea was frigid despite having just been made.

Grayson choked, disgusted.

By then, he was adept at recognizing her magical hand; he looked over at her with horror. “Is nothing sacred?”

Finally, she flashed him her wicked little smile.

And all of a sudden, the shitty tea was worth it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lucy

Late November brought in a chill, and a few mornings later, there was frost on the grass when Lucy was leaving home. She hurried to Crawley Books earlier than usual. The holiday season was the busiest for all the small businesses on Main Street, and there was much to be done.

After parking, she stepped out of her car, and the freezing wind bit her skin. With a yelp, Lucy buried her nose in the soft fabric of her scarf, glad she was wearing fleece-lined tights under her pleated midi skirt and a sweater under her coat. Using magic to carry her things, she hurried into the bookstore.

She immediately warmed upon entering, only to freeze again when she saw Grayson.

He looked fantastic, sitting there in a teal-blue sweater and gray trousers, gold-rimmed glasses on his elegant nose. With his refined features, he looked like he belonged in a period drama, which as a realization was quite devastating for her since she happened to love period dramas.

And the way he’d behaved a few days ago had been as chivalrous as any lord or duke. When Lucy had frozen up thanks to a rude customer, Grayson had told the man to get the fuck out—something she hadn’t been in the headspace to appreciate then but that she’d thought about numerous times since.

She hadn’t expected him to be so … protective of her. It made her feel all sorts of strange that she did not welcome, and so when she walked in and saw him, she promptly headed straight for the office to hang up her things, ignoring him entirely.

Once she was settled, she did, however, go say hello to Charles, who was napping peacefully on the daybed, white tufts of hair askew. She kissed his cheek gently, and he stirred but didn’t wake. With a smile, she went to the storeroom.

It was Tuesday, so she set up the new releases. Grayson had already readied the tables and chairs, turned the lights on, and vacuumed, so he wasn’t entirely useless.

The minutes flew by and soon enough, they were open. While there were some days without any sales at all, the fall—as well as the beginning of summer—was one of their most lucrative times, and she dealt with a steady stream of customers throughout the morning.

Even before the early rush slowed, Lucy was conscious of Grayson gravitating toward her, watching her. It frustrated her to no end and was only made worse by how great he smelled, cedar and leather mingled with ink and paper taunting her every time he walked past.

Why was he still here? She needed him gone yesterday, and no number of petty hexes seemed to be dissuading him. He had only gotten more and more comfortable, appearing to have no intention of leaving, which was the last thing she wanted.

He was too distracting.

She couldn’t think when he was around.

Even now he was standing with his sleeves rolled up, leaning against a bookshelf, reading. Insufferable! She glared.