Chapter 9
Gwyn got to the store early the next morning. She was expecting a new shipment of teas, and she wanted to get it all unpacked as soon as it came in, mostly so she could decide which ones she wanted to take home to sample. In fact, her head was so full of Tea Thoughts that at first, she didn’t notice it.
It wasn’t until she had unlocked the door of Something Wicked and a glint flashed in her peripheral vision that she turned around and saw it.
And when she did, she still wasn’t quite sure she believed what she was seeing.
In fact, even when she’d crossed the street and was standing in front of the building, looking up at it, it didn’t seem real.
Yesterday, the storefront across from Something Wicked had been completely empty, the window covered with brown paper, the deep blue paint around the door peeling.
Today, the paint was fresh and crisp, a green so dark it was nearly black, and the window showcased a display of crystals and amulets on rich velvet in the same shade.
Over the door, there was a tasteful wooden sign featuring a raven wearing a crown, and painted in discreet cursive, three words.
Penhallow’s Magical Goods
“Oh, I think the fuck not,” Gwyn muttered under her breath and yanked open the door.
There was no cawing sound here, just the light ringing of a brass bell, and when Gwyn stepped into the shop—because that’s clearly what it was, Wells Penhallow had set up a shop right across from her shop—she was welcomed with a wave of sage, bay, and old leather.
Dim lights encased in stained glass shades cast a warm glow over everything, and even though it had been bright and sunny on the sidewalk, Gwyn suddenly felt like if she were to open the door right now, she’d see a gray and blustery day. That was the immediate feel, like you’d just stepped into the coziest spot in the entire world, and weren’t you lucky to be safe and warm inside?
She stood there for a moment, trying to get her bearings.
It was a spell. It had to be a spell, making whoever came into the shop suddenly grateful to be in there, wanting to lose themselves among the shelves of books and knickknacks, sink into one of the leather armchairs near the . . . fireplace?
That bastard literally had a crackling fire.
“Welcome to Penhallow’s, how may I—oh.”
Gwyn turned to see the bastard in question, his handsome face already going from Charming Shopkeeper to Grumpy Witch. It was really unfair that both were good looks on him, but that, Gwyn figured, was both the blessing and the curse of really good bone structure.
He looked less intimidating today, too, that stuffy waistcoat traded for a soft-looking gray sweater, his jeans the perfect amount of broken in, and if his hair wasn’t quite as floppy as Rhys’s, it was still swooping nicely over those blue eyes.
Not that she was noticing any of that.
“What is this?” she asked him now, and he leaned against the counter, linking his fingers with a sigh.
“Is there some new American word I’m unfamiliar with that means ‘a shop’? Because I was fairly certain that particular term meant the same thing in both our homelands.”
His brother would have delivered that line with a knowing sort of grin, but Wells just looked at her like he was already bored with this entire conversation, and given that Gwyn knew good and damn well that she was the least boring person in the world, that was particularly irritating.
Which had probably been his intent.
“Oh, I get the whole ‘it’s a shop’ thing. The issue is, it’s a shop right across the street from my shop, and it’s clearly selling the same kind of thing.”
Wells’s eyebrows shot up at that, and he made a show of looking around. “Is it? Did I purchase some plastic pumpkins somewhere and forget about it?”
Gwyn rolled her eyes, stalking closer to the counter, the heels of her boots rapping sharply on the hardwood floors. “You know what I mean. This is a witchy shop. I run a witchy shop. You are stepping on my turf.”
“Is this where we begin snapping our fingers and launch into a dance battle?”
Dammit, that’s actually kind of a good joke.
But Gwyn refused to give him the satisfaction of even the teeniest hint of a smile, placing her hands on her hips and lifting her chin. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of a dick move to come into town and immediately become the competition.”
Especially when she was barely getting by as it was these days. Not that she was going to tell him that. But Something Wicked’s books were definitely trending a little more red than black, and a place like this—cozy, posh, vaguely mysterious—was not going to help matters.
Straightening up, Wells crossed his arms over his chest. “I think this town can handle having more than one ‘witchy’ shop, Ms. Jones. Especially given that we’re going to be selling very different items to very different customers.”
“There are no different customers,” Gwyn argued. “Trust me. We get tourists and the occasional local looking for fancy bath salts. That’s it.”
“Bath salts, you say?” Wells cocked an eyebrow, then patted at his pockets. “I should write that down.”
Gwyn had never thought of herself as a violent woman, but maybe, just maaaaybe, this man needed a good crack upside the head with one of the very fancy leather grimoires on the counter behind him.
“Also,” she added, pointing one green-tipped finger at him, “I don’t sell actual magic shit in my store because it’s dangerous. No one coming for Halloween needs to accidentally pick up a . . . a Traveling Stone or a grimoire that actually works. That’s how you end up with zombies, Esquire. You want zombies?”
His brow wrinkled, the corners of his mouth turning down. “First off, do not call me that, and secondly, nothing in here is actual magic, either. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”
Gwyn looked around her. The books lining the shelves near the door certainly looked old, but when she put out some mental feelers, she didn’t get any sense of power coming off them. Likewise the jewelry in the front window and the wands lying in wooden boxes behind glass at the front counter.
“Just because these things aren’t made of plastic doesn’t mean they’re real artifacts,” he told her, moving back behind the counter to the old-fashioned black register. “I’m simply providing a slightly more . . . upscale experience.”
“I will upscale your experience,” Gwyn fired back, before frowning. “Okay, that didn’t make any sense, and while I slightly regret the words, I do not regret the emotion behind them. You could have opened . . . I don’t know. A tweed store. Some shop where they only sell overpriced pocket watches. Cravats R Us. Hell, didn’t you run a pub back in Wales? You could have done that! But no, you opened this, and you did it on purpose to be an asshole.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that not everything one does is in direct relation to you, Ms. Jones?”
When Gwyn didn’t bother to reply to that, Wells rolled his eyes, lifting one elegant hand. “One,” he said, ticking it off on his index finger, “I do not actually own any tweed. Or a pocket watch for that matter. Two, I have worn a cravat exactly one time in my life, and believe me when I say that is an experience ne’er to be repeated. And three, yes, I did run a pub and did not actually enjoy it very much.”
“Was it because you had to talk to people and therefore pretend to be a person yourself rather than an android who runs on tea and disdain?”
He scowled, which Gwyn took as a win.
“In any case,” Wells continued, “I’m running this shop because I think it’s something this town needs. Regardless of what it’s turned into, Graves Glen started out as a haven for witches and magic users, and it might be nice to preserve some of that history rather than cover it all in caramel and cinnamon and cartoon drawings of black cats.”
Gwyn hooted with laughter at that, slapping the counter hard enough to rattle a glass jar filled with black quills. “Okay. So this is about snobbery. Got it.”
“It’s about tradition,” he countered, and she turned away, giving him a little wave over one shoulder.
“Keep telling yourself that, Esquire. And let me know how many people want to spend . . . ” She paused by the door, checking the price on the back of one of the grimoires. “A hundred bucks on something they can get at Something Wicked for twenty.”
She tossed the grimoire back onto the table, already feeling a little . . . all right, maybe it wasn’t nice to say smug, but definitely a little better. This store was beautiful, yes, and it was fancy and sort of spooky, and he was sure to get lots of people in, but there was no way he was going to make that many sales. Not for this kind of thing.
Glancing back over her shoulder at Wells, Gwyn was already smiling.
But then . . .
He was, too.
“We’ll see, Ms. Jones,” he replied, and that smile widened just as Gwyn’s slipped off her face. “We’ll see.”