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“I’m liking you more with every word of this conversation.”
I folded my arms, leaned next to a plant that was spilling little pearls of green in long strands. “If I asked Trixie out on a proper date, what do you think she’d have said?”
“Hell no.”
I inclined a shoulder. “So she started a hexing war, and I’m just playing along. I didn’t want to stop seeing her and, well, this was an easy way to keep her connected to me.”
Emmy rolled her eyes like I was stupid. In my defense, I’d already admitted as much.
“You’re taking the easy way out,” Emmy said. “I bet if you really set your mind to it, you could find a much more creative and mature way to ask her out.”
“Ouch. But fair.”
“I think you’re just afraid of getting close to her in a meaningful way.”
“Are you part psychic?”
“Sure,” Emmy said casually. “If that makes you feel better.”
“Why is she so afraid of magic?”
“That’s another conversation to have with Trixie.” Emmy seemed to consider there was more she wanted to say. Finally, she broke down and continued. “Look, I’ve done a lot of therapy in my life. I can tell when there’s trauma, and she’s got a world of trauma buried deep. She doesn’t really talk to anyone about it, even me.”
“I’m entirely unsurprised.”
“Her relationship with her mom was supremely complicated. You’ll want to start there.”
“Are you going to tell her about this conversation?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I backed toward the door. “Have a good night, Emmy. Lock your door and don’t leave after dark for a few days.”
“Hey, Dom.” Emmy hesitated as she called after me. When I turned back, her hands were flexing nervously before her. “Trixie feels something toward you. I know she does, or she wouldn’t be reacting like this.”
I gave a soft snort. “You mean, hating me?”
“Hate and love are a fine line,” she whispered. “Give her time. Be careful with her.”
Chapter 15
Trixie
The next morning, my grandmother’s breakfast table was like a scene out of a cheerful countryside villa. Bright, airy light streamed through big windows thrown open to a warm breeze. Tall stacks of pancakes sat on the table surrounded by pots of fresh cream, cups of hot black coffee, and jars of local syrups. Berries and pastries were scattered across the checkered tablecloth like treasures.
I took a sip of my coffee, closing my eyes and savoring the warmth as it rolled down my throat. I bit into a flaky croissant and moaned, feeling like maybe life really was better in a retirement community. Maybe I should move up here and taxi around my grandmother’s friends when they got the munchies after getting high off her Happy Hexes.
Yesterday evening had been spent in my grandmother’s greenhouse. Grandma Betty had shown me all sorts of exotic herbs and spices that she’d collected over the years, both the legal and less-than-legal varieties.
While I’d been getting a tour of her storeroom, at least four members of my grandmother’s Happy Hex club—all of them over eighty—had stopped by inquiring about different vials sitting in carefully locked cabinets. I mostly looked the other way as Grandma Betty performed covert cash deals beneath the table for her cronies.
“What?” Grandma Betty said when she’d caught me frowning. “I’m on a fixed income. My taxes don’t pay themselves.”
Then Gran had fired up a bonfire and set a few colorful vials on top of it in mid-air. As it gurgled and boiled, she regaled me with story after story from her childhood. Like she was making up for all the sleepovers and bonfires we’d missed when I was a kid because my mother had been keeping me a secret.
I opened my eyes, polished off the croissant, and washed it down with another gulp of coffee. Gran had grown the coffee beans in her own hot house. I’d asked her if it was any sort of “special” coffee, and she’d mostly avoided eye contact as she’d answered in the negative.
“Your personalized Happy Hex is complete.” Gran slid a vial of faint shimmery gold liquid across the table toward me. “Tip a little into a beverage of his, and you’ll be golden.”
