Chapter 36
Gwyn figured being nearly ritually sacrificed gave a girl an excuse to sleep in, so it was nearly noon by the time she made her way to Something Wicked the next day. Elaine had told her not to bother going in at all, but staying home would’ve just made her feel restless, and that was no good.
What she needed was a return to normalcy, and nothing felt more normal to her than her store.
Downtown was fairly quiet given that it was a weekday afternoon, and she slid a glance at Penhallow’s as she unlocked her door.
The Open sign hung in the window.
So he was still here, then.
After Wells had disappeared last night, Rhys had gone after him, and when he’d come back to the cabin, he’d confirmed Wells was still there, in his house just up the mountain.
That was something, at least.
He’d come back for her, too. And according to Cait, he’d been working on some kind of reversal spell with his brother, so she’d been right. He hadn’t wanted to return to Graves Glen until he could fix things.
Which was just . . . so annoyingly Esquire.
And now he would undoubtedly stay away, assuming she didn’t want to see him, which was also annoyingly Esquire. He’d wait for her to make the first move, a gentleman to the last.
Well.
Gwyn was good at first moves.
Turning away from Something Wicked, she marched across the street to Penhallow’s, already planning what she’d say to him. How she’d missed him, but how it had hurt when he’d left, how this self-flagellation thing was not going to work for her, and how he didn’t get to decide if she should be angry at him or not.
The walk was a short one, but Gwyn had had plenty of time to work up a head of steam, and she flung open the door to Penhallow’s, the bell ringing loudly.
“Okay, so we are not doing this—” she started, and then every bit of the truly spectacular rant she’d composed in her head dissolved like a mist.
Wells was standing in front of the counter in long black robes. Formal witch’s robes, the kind she’d teased him about wearing.
Those were formal and traditional, but what was not was the hat he held in his hand, a dark blue pointy thing with silver stars printed on it, the sort of thing she sometimes sold in Something Wicked.
His eyes were bloodshot, and they widened to see her standing there, the two of them silent as they took each other in.
“You’re wearing robes,” Gwyn finally said, frowning, and Wells glanced down at himself, the pointy hat still in one hand.
“Yes. I . . . I realized I missed the Fall Festival, and we’d talked—well, we’d joked, I supposed—about me wearing robes, and Rhys said that a big gesture might be required, so I was going to come over to your store like this. The hat was . . . well, the hat was meant to be funny? And slightly humiliating, which I assumed you’d enjoy as mocking me does seem to be one of your great joys in life—not that I mind it—and oh! I, I also bought this.”
Reaching for the counter behind him, Wells pulled out a very familiar-looking velvet bag, and Gwyn felt her cheeks aching with the need to smile.
“So I was going to come over to your store in the robes and the mockable hat with the edible bath glitter, and after a groveling apology for my father being a monster, and for not believing that could be the case at first, and then also for fucking the fuck off without letting you know I was coming back—the apology portion was going to take up a fair amount of time, I can assure you—then I was going to offer you the Pixie Licks and deliver a witty and devastating riposte about how, while you might still be furious with me, if you ever needed an excuse to kiss me again, I could provide such a thing.”
He was breathing a little hard now, the tips of his ears scarlet, and Gwyn tried to school her face into a very solemn expression as Wells continued:
“Except that when I got the robes on, I realized I looked like a bit of a tit, and then it began to occur to me that a plan formulated when one has not slept in twenty-four hours and is running solely on tea and the bone-rattling relief of finding you alive and all right might not be the wisest of schemes. And then I began to think I’d never listened to Rhys in my life, so why was I taking his lead on this, one of the most important moments of my life as I try to win back the woman I love, and it was about three seconds after that epiphany that you walked in,” he finally finished, punctuating that amazing speech by throwing his pointy hat onto one of the wing-back chairs.
Gwyn blinked, and Wells stared at her, his chest heaving up and down, his fist propped on one hip, his hair a wreck, and, she noticed, he was wearing one black shoe and one navy one, and if she hadn’t already fallen in love with him sometime between the night he’d found Sir Purrcival and the moment she’d walked into this shop on the day of the Gathering and seen him frantically making cups of tea, those mismatched shoes would’ve done it.
“You are a disaster,” she told him. “Like, not just in this moment, but maybe on a fundamental level.”
Wells nodded. “I am. I hide it well on the whole, I think, but yes, Gwynnevere, absolute wreck of a man.”
Her heart beating hard, Gwyn moved a little closer. “And here I thought you were the responsible one.”
“A sham. A cover-up of immense proportions.”
Gwyn laughed even as she watched his eyes warm and darken the closer she came. “Is it weird that I’m kind of into this version of you? I can’t even call you Esquire when you’re like this.”
“You can call me anything you like,” he told her, and there was such naked longing in his face that her throat went tight.
“Wells, Esquire, That Dickhead Who Works Across the Street. Anything,” Wells went on, and Gwyn swallowed hard, letting one hand reach out and just barely brush against his, their fingers briefly tangling together.
“And if I wanted to call you mine?” she asked, her voice low, and Wells’s grip tightened on her hand.
“I’ll be that until I die.”
Lifting her head, Gwyn looked into his eyes. “So I guess you meant it, then. That bit about me being the woman you loved.”
Wells winced. “I did mention that in the middle of my completely unhinged rant, didn’t I? Fucked up both the apology and the declaration of love, well done, me.”
But Gwyn only shook her head. “No, this was better,” she said, and then grinned. “I mean, I want that groveling apology later because what girl doesn’t love a good grovel? I think I’ll even film it on my phone.”
Wells made a sound that might have been a laugh, and Gwyn took a deep breath, bringing their joined hands between them. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard someone say they’re in love with me. Even longer since I’ve said it back.”
Wells was very still now, watching her, and somehow that made saying something that had once been so hard for her as easy as breathing. “But I love you, Wells.”
His fingers flexed in hers, his throat working, and Gwyn reached up with her free hand to tug gently at his beard. “And this is what I want,” she told him. “Not big gestures. Just you. All of you. The disaster bits and the parts that say words like ‘henceforth.’”
“I have never said that,” he protested, and off her look amended, “to you.”
Still smiling, Gwyn ducked her head, kissing his knuckles. “I want the man who finds missing pets and makes me soup and may sound like he’s auditioning for Masterpiece Theatre but will also make love to me in the back of a pickup truck.”
His free hand came up to stroke her hair back from her face. “I want all of you, too,” he told her. “The powerful witch and the woman who loves nothing better than to take the piss out of me when I deserve it. The woman who inspires loyalty in talking cats and Baby Witches and everyone she meets because her heart is the only thing more impressive than her magic. I want you, Gwyn Jones.”
“Then that’s all that matters,” she said, sunlight in her veins, in her heart, flowing just as powerfully as her magic ever had.
His kiss was magic, too, slow and thorough, a promise and a declaration and an apology, and Gwyn accepted all of it, her arms coming around him, her body melting into his with the rightness of it all.
A sudden thumping noise had them breaking the kiss, looking toward the front window of the shop, and there were Sam, Cait, and Parker, their faces practically pressed against the glass as Parker thumped their fist next to the painted letters, Sam whooped, and Cait swooned.
“Heathens,” Wells grumbled, but he was smiling and Gwyn laughed even as she shooed them away with a wave.
“Love me, love my Baby Witches,” she said, and he looked back at her, smiling.
“The first part is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. The second may take some practice.”
“You better start now, then,” Gwyn replied. “I think those three will be a vital part of the Jones and Esquire Empire.”
Still smiling, Wells brushed his lips against hers again. “Penhallow and Jones.”
Gwyn kissed him back. “Jones and Penhallow, final offer.”
“We’ll talk about it at home,” Wells replied, and as he kissed her again, Gwyn realized she didn’t know if he meant her cabin or his haunted mansion, but it didn’t really matter.
Wherever the two of them were together, that was home.