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After that, she demanded not to be touched by anyone. Except me. It’s been five years, and I’ve fended off the Roberts from putting Babette’s anxiety and trauma into the history books. But I know it’s only a matter of time until it’s written in stone.
Babette Brambilla was cursed at eighteen. Unable to touch a living soul again.
“Here.” I place a couple cookies on a napkin and slide it across the bar.
Her face lights up. “Yes. Thank you, OB.” She takes a deep sniff and just as she goes to bite, her phone pings.
Carefully, I pile the rest of the cookies in a round stationary box for Zoey. I watch Babette’s smile grow as she reads her phone.
“Good news?” I ask, hoping for some.
She nods. “Seagull95 just bought another windchime on my Etsy shop.”
My brows rise. “That’s the fifth one this month. You said the PO Box is local?”
“Yeah, it’s in the post office right down the street. It has to be someone from high school. Seagull, you know? Mistpoint High’s mascot.” She scrolls on her phone. “It’s probably just Naya. Maybe she’s hoping that I’ll be smitten over some secret admirer.”
Her friends are a bit pushy to get her to date, so I could see Naya playing that cruel game. Or this could be a stranger she befriended. One who remembers her more than she remembers them.
“Be careful,” I warn.
“It could just be a family member,” Babette theorizes. “Supporting my art.”
“Then why would they stay anonymous?”
“Our family likes their secrets.”
I consider this with the tilt of my head. “True.”
Her eyes flit to mine and they soften considerably. “I wish you could tell me the whole story about your curse.”
“Babette—”
“In time, I mean,” she says quickly. “Take your time, OB. But I’m here if you ever want to talk about what happened. Whatever that is. I’ll listen.”
“I’ll laugh,” I tease.
Her lips rise before she pops the whole cookie into her mouth, chewing with chipmunk cheeks and a smile.
I haven’t even told Amelia everything that happened.
I’m not ready.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
CHAPTER 8
Zoey Durand
“Your cover is blown. Everyone knows you’re back in town.” October delivers this news with a round box of freshly made Italian bowtie cookies. My absolute freaking favorites.
Have I dreamed about these bad boys for the past six years? Yes.
Have I thought about asking October to mail me some? Double yes.
Did I chicken out ten or twenty times and hang up the phone? Undoubtedly and stupidly yes.
So gazing longingly at them, smelling them, and hopefully mere minutes from tasting them—my stomach is a grumbling, beautiful mess and October’s news isn’t as devastating.
“I wasn’t exactly hiding my arrival.” I stand quickly from the squeaky cot. “Just why I’m here.”
She seems hesitant. Like she knows she should ship me back to Chicago with the box of cookies. (Shit, I hope these aren’t goodbye cookies.) But she’s making no move to throw me out of the shed.
My limbs ache from sleeping on the rickety cot, but it’s much better than the alternative. Outside. On the freezing ground. At least a space heater and sleeping bag kept me warm.
Though I do wish October would have stayed. Back in high school, there were nights we’d spend at the end of the fishing pier, cuddled up under a blanket. Our bodies heating and warming and surviving together.
We never did date in high school.
But we weren’t exactly just friends either.
October is commanding. Just standing there at the shed’s door with her soul-eating gaze and I’m in charge posture. Maybe that’s why I expect her to command me to leave again. Or maybe she planned to drop off the food and make a quick exit. She hasn’t moved further inside.
She clutches the box of cookies closer to her chest. And I notice a frown tugging her lips.
“I survived the night,” I say with a lighthearted smile on my way to her.
She’s lost in a thought, and I’m grateful when she finally shares. “You really want people to know you’re back?”
“Not exactly, but I always figured it’d be hard to hide. Anyway, I came up with a good cover story, so people won’t ask me too many questions. Are those for me?” I point to the uncovered box.
Her gaze doesn’t soften, but she does hand me the cookies. “They’re probably cold by now. And if they’re too soggy, let me know. I can alter the recipe on the next batch—”
“Hush.” I put my finger to her lips. “I’m sure they’re perfect.”
Her eyes grow wide. I can tell October is caging breath. My finger still on her soft, pink lips.
My chest suddenly tightens, and I swiftly drop my hand. “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that.” Liar. I totally know why I did. Her lips are all I can think about.
“You wanted to touch me,” October just says it. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” With a relaxed, casual hand, she brushes her brown hair over her shoulder.
