Chapter 14
Gwyn could not believe she was lying in her bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about kissing Llewellyn Freaking Penhallow.
And yet.
Outside, the sun had just come up, filling her bedroom with a cozy warm light. It was one of her favorite times of day, sunrise. The world always seemed so quiet, which meant her mind got to be a little quiet, too.
But this morning, it was a full-on marching band of noise in her head.
A marching band that comprised howler monkeys and toddlers and banshees and—
Groaning, Gwyn covered her face with her hands. Great, now the bastard had even taken this from her, the one peaceful part of her day, all because he had the nerve to be that good at kissing despite . . . despite . . . well, everything about him.
Vivi had to be wrong was the thing. That book had to be wrong, and once she was done at the store this evening, Gwyn was going to prove it to herself. She’d make the strongest cup of tea known to man, maybe find a pair of her mom’s reading glasses just to make sure the universe knew she was really serious right now, and devote some serious time to researching love spells. And then she’d prove that that kiss had been the result of magic and nothing more.
She gave a firm nod. “Right,” she said out loud to her empty bedroom.
But the problem was, as soon as she started thinking about how to prove the kiss was a magical fluke, she started thinking about the kiss itself again, and that’s how she lost another ten minutes to glowering at the ceiling while thinking about how she’d made out with a man who probably wore sweater vests.
“Kiss?”
Startling, Gwyn glanced down at the bed where Sir Purrcival had just managed to rouse himself, lazily making his way up to her. “Kiss?” he said again, bumping against her.
Gwyn sat up, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head even as she gave him a dark look.
“You’re not funny,” she told him, but he only blinked his eyes slowly before yawning and curling up in the warm spot in the bed Gwyn had just vacated.
Her clothes from last night were still draped on the overstuffed velvet chair near the window, the pink shimmery stuff sparkling in the sunlight, and with a grimace, Gwyn picked up the bundle and tossed it into her hamper and then, after a beat, went ahead and shoved the clothes to the very bottom of the pile.
Out of sight, out of mind.
If only it would be that easy to get rid of Wells Penhallow.
The only way out is through, Gwyn told herself grimly as she opened the door of the Coffee Cauldron an hour later.
The familiar and comforting smell of roasting coffee wafted over her as she made her way to the counter. It was crowded this morning, as it always was around this time. That was fine, though. The longer she could put off the inevitable, the better.
But the Coffee Cauldron worked with just the littlest bit of magic running through it—every employee was a witch at the college—which meant that before she knew it, Gwyn was at the register, facing a smiling Sam.
“The usual?” Sam asked, and Gwyn nodded before leaning in and lowering her voice to ask, “Does Wells Penhallow come in very often?”
“Um, our archenemy? Sometimes?”
“Do you by any chance know what he usually orders?”
Sam looked baffled, glancing around her. “Okay, are you gonna like . . . put some kind of spell in his coffee, Glinda? Because that seems very uncool, I gotta say.”
“No!” Gwyn said, maybe just a little too loudly given that Sam actually flinched.
Shaking her hair back off her shoulders, Gwyn made herself smile and say, “I just need a peace offering.”
Sam, thank the Goddess, didn’t question that. She just shrugged and said, “He usually gets a plain black coffee.”
“Of course he does,” Gwyn muttered, then sighed and handed over her debit card. “One of those, then, and my usual.”
Gwyn didn’t actually have a usual, she just liked saying that, and Sam liked making up various concoctions she thought could be Gwyn’s usual. Today’s was some kind of lavender tea situation with vanilla and cardamom, and Gwyn took a restorative sip of it as she headed out of the Coffee Cauldron and made her way to Penhallow’s.
It was still fairly early, the streets quiet, the sky that perfect shade of blue she associated with this time of year. There was just the barest chill in the air—by the afternoon, she knew she’d have to ditch the black cardigan she’d thrown on over her Crystals&Cats&Wands&Brooms T-shirt—but fall was officially here, and Gwyn took a deep breath, psyching herself up as she stepped into Penhallow’s.
Wells was behind the counter as usual, looking over some kind of ledger similar to the one he’d shown her last night, and when he looked up and saw her standing there, she could swear his ears went a little red.
That made her feel better. If he was as embarrassed as she was, the playing field was level at least.
Clearing his throat, Wells came around the counter. He was wearing a navy button-down today with dark-wash jeans and, Gwyn was very relieved to see, an actual sweater vest.
That sweater vest was better than any cold shower. She was going to buy him extra ones. Maybe something in polka dots.
Standing up a little straighter, Gwyn thrust the paper cup of coffee at him. “I got this for you,” she said.
He didn’t take it. “Is it poisoned?”
“Yes, I finally decided the only way to handle a mild retail feud was with some murder. Well done, Esquire.”
The tiniest hint of a smile flickered at the corner of Wells’s mouth as he reached out and took his drink.
“I asked them for the most boring thing they had, and it turns out that was your usual,” Gwyn told him as he took a sip.
“Nothing boring about a well-made black coffee,” he said, then nodded at her cup.
“I suppose yours is filled with glitter and the tears of unicorns.”
“They were out of unicorn tears this morning. Had to use Splenda instead.”
That made him smile outright, and Gwyn was forced to admit that he actually had a very nice smile. It probably hurt his face given that all those muscles had to be way more accustomed to scowling, but still.
“So why are you bringing me an unpoisoned cup of boring coffee this morning?” Wells asked, and Gwyn took a deep breath.
“Peace offering,” she replied, and his eyebrows rose.
“Hmm.”
Thunking her cup down on the counter beside her, Gwyn folded her arms over her chest and gave herself a mental shake.
You are Gwynnevere Fucking Jones, she reminded herself. You are a grown-ass woman who is not going to be embarrassed that she kissed a guy, come on.
“Look,” she said to Wells. “Last night was a momentary lapse of sanity brought on by a stupid love spell that had no business being in this store.”
Wells frowned over his cup, but he didn’t interrupt her, so Gwyn barreled on.
“But the thing is, we wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the stupid love spell had we not also been in this stupid fight over the stores. So I am proposing a truce.”
Wells put his own cup down and faced her, mimicking her pose. And if that stretched his stupid, completely unsexy vest over the surprisingly broad chest Gwyn was now unfortunately much more familiar with, she only let her eyes drop from his face for a teensy moment.
“I am . . . amenable to this,” he said. “What are the terms?”
“One.” Gwyn lifted a finger. “You never say ‘amenable’ again, and maybe start practicing phrases from the twenty-first century, like ‘that sounds good!’ or something similar. Two.” Another finger. “You stay on your side of the street and I stay on mine. I will run my business, you run yours, and—”
“Never the twain shall meet, understood.”
“You really did not listen to point one at all, did you?”
Ignoring that, Wells quirked an eyebrow at her. “Is there a point three, or have we exhausted this already exhausting conversation?”
“That’s pretty much it,” Gwyn said, then held out her hand. “Agreed?”
Wells looked down at her hand, and Gwyn suddenly realized that shaking hands was touching, and given all the touching she and Wells had done last night, maybe even something as safe as a handshake was not the best of ideas.
Maybe he was thinking something similar because he cleared his throat again, and when Gwyn glanced up at him, she realized he was . . . well, not blushing, exactly. But there was a definite flush climbing up his throat, and she had a very visceral memory of wanting to put her mouth there last night, right at the hollow between his collarbones, and—
His palm pressed against hers, her fingers automatically closing around it, and then, thank the Goddess, the moment was over and her hand was safe.
“So are we friends now?” Wells asked, flexing his fingers against his side. “Colleagues? Compatriots?”
“We’re . . . neighbors,” she decided. “Congenial business owners sharing a space.”
Wells nodded at that. “Works for me.”
“And,” Gwyn added, pointing at him, “as your neighbor and fellow business owner, I need to know that you got rid of that box of spells.”
The strangest expression flickered across Wells’s face for a second, and Gwyn frowned.
“You got rid of it, right?”
“Of course,” he answered, then paused again, like there was something more he wanted to say. Whatever it was, he clearly decided against it because he shook his head and said, “All taken care of, never to be an issue again. Witch’s oath.”
That wasn’t an actual thing, but Gwyn would take it.
“Good. So. I’ll . . . see you when I see you, Esquire.”
He gave her a funny little salute in return that made her roll her eyes even as she chuckled, relief sweeping through her.
This was over, then. A weird magical blip, something she could brush off and forget. By this time next week, she probably wouldn’t even remember that kiss.