CHAPTER 1
Lucy
Lucy Ansari was in a terrible mood.
She did not look up to the sky to appreciate the clouds as she made her way into her car, nor did she take time to enjoy the sweet scent of baked goods wafting from the back seat. She did not fiddle with the radio, nor did she open her window to catch a breath of fresh morning air.
When she arrived on Main Street in the town of Little Brook, she only smiled politely at her neighbors; she did not ask them how they were getting on, for her mood was too foul. On any other morning, she might admire the colorful buildings, painted blue or yellow or pink.
She loved this small town, the streets jutting off Main Street, whimsically named drives like Storybook Court and Blueberry Lane. Especially, she loved it this time of the year: early November, when every storefront—not only hers—was decorated with lights or wreaths or maybe even holly, but today she could not enjoy that, either.
What else could be expected of her? It was ten in the morning, and she’d been up for hours, baking and collecting flowers from her garden for the shop. She was now in front of Crawley Books, and the door was locked of all things, a horrible, physical reminder of everything that was wrong.
She had a key, of course; she’d been working there as a manager ever since she’d graduated from college two years ago, but she’d never had cause to use it until now. The owner, Charles Crawley, had always beaten her to it.
Each morning, she would enter with her arms full of her purse, her water bottle, the baked goods, flowers, a sweater, an extra pair of socks, her lip balm, a clip, and anything else she might need, and he would always be inside, white hair neatly combed to the side, large glasses sitting on his nose. He’d already be sipping away at a cup of tea, reading a book or watering his plants, waiting for her.
“Lucy-Lu, let me help you with that,” he would say. He loved to call her Lucy-Lu, and she loved it when he did. “It’s a wonder you manage to carry all that.”
To which she would grin. At the same time, they would both say, “Magic.”
She was a witch, after all, a fact he knew well, since he was, too. But magic couldn’t save an eighty-year-old man from slipping down the stairs and breaking his hip, so Charles had been in the hospital for the past two days, recovering from surgery.
This was her third morning without him.
The store felt empty, like a fireplace with no fire. With a sigh, Lucy carried on. The store would be opening soon, and she needed to get everything sorted before then.
With a snap of her fingers, the lights switched on, and the many fairy lights draped across the window display and shelves plugged themselves in (it took forever to do it by hand). Being a witch openly could court danger—people were always so quick to act in hatred against anyone who might be different—but because no one was around, she could use her magic freely and without worry.
With another snap, a duster began dancing across the tops of the bookshelves, brushing away the thin layer of dust settled on the wooden fixtures as she set to making her breakfast in the café section of the store.
As the espresso machine whirred to life, she pulled out one of her favorite mugs, which was shaped to resemble a knitted sock. Lucy stuck a thick slice of bread in the toaster, then made herself a brown sugar latte, inhaling the sharp smells of espresso and vanilla and sighing.
When the toast popped out with a ding, she slathered the golden bread with French butter, relishing the shining pools of melted goodness that settled into her almost-burned toast.
Between sips of her sweet coffee and bites of her delicious toast, Lucy unpacked the boxes of baked goods she’d brought in, arranging them handsomely in the display case. Everything was warm and fresh: the cardamom buns, the butter pecan chocolate chip cookies, the pumpkin scones, the ramekins of apple crumble she would reheat and top with ice cream before serving.
Lucy reached for a pumpkin scone, but her hand froze midway. It didn’t feel right to sneak an early morning treat without Charles there to share it with her. His sweet tooth was worse than hers, and she loved seeing him savor her treats, the way he’d close his eyes in bliss, the wrinkles on his face shifting with enjoyment as he smiled.
The fact that he wasn’t here made her frown, and so she slid the display door shut with a snap, hand empty.
Unease rippled through her as she thought of Charles alone in the hospital. It reminded her of the terrifying moment when Charles had called three days earlier to inform her not only that he was in the hospital, but that he had slipped and fallen down the stairs in his home. An ambulance had brought him to the hospital soon after, and he’d had hip surgery.
So much had happened, and she hadn’t even known until it was all over. When Lucy had arrived at the hospital, the first thing she did after seeing Charles was ask the receptionist why she hadn’t been called as soon as he’d been admitted.
“What’s your name?” the receptionist had asked, looking at her computer.
“Lucy Ansari,” Lucy had replied.
“I don’t see your name here,” the receptionist had said. “Looks like his emergency contact is Grayson Crawley.”
Her vision had gone red. Charles’s useless, absent grandson—a man who couldn’t even be bothered to show up to his own grandmother’s funeral—had no business being Charles’s emergency contact.
The receptionist hadn’t disagreed, but—as Lucy discovered after a contentious but brief attempt to change Charles’s information herself—only Charles could designate a new emergency contact, and by the time Lucy had gotten back to his room, he’d been asleep.
Luckily, Charles was being released from the hospital tomorrow morning, and then everything would be okay. Charles would be back behind the counter, sneaking pastries and telling her which Penguin Classic he was going to reread next.
Lucy would fix her mood tomorrow; today, she was allowing herself to wallow in misery even as she set about ensuring everything in the shop was perfect, the way Charles would want it.
He loved the bookstore like it was his child. It had been years since he and his late wife, Sophie, had lost their only daughter, and they had poured all their time and energy into this place, making it a haven for customers like Lucy who wanted to return again and again. It was the kind of place where one never felt lonely or sad, but comforted and safe.
Most of the residents of Little Brook were regulars, friends even, though Lucy had been the only one lucky enough to turn her constant presence at Crawley Books into a job.
Finishing up her toast, Lucy wiped the crumbs from her cheeks with her stretched-out sweater sleeve and went to rearrange the table display in the front of the bookstore. The display was the first thing customers saw when they entered, and Lucy always gave it her particular attention.
Right now, it had titles perfect for an autumn evening spent at home while nestled in blankets and sipping a warm cup of tea. She had even paired some of the books with tea suggestions: the small-town British mysteries with a strong Yorkshire Gold; the Regency romances with a sophisticated Earl Grey; the cozy fantasies with a hearty cardamom chai.
She had very diligently taste tested every loose-leaf blend before making any of the pairings—for the shop, of course. She was nothing if not a dedicated employee.
Lucy noticed some of the romances were running thin, so she grabbed her coffee mug and went back to the storeroom to collect some more. The space was moderately sized and had filing cabinets along one wall, while cardboard boxes of stock practically hid the other three.
She quickly found the book she was looking for—a favorite of hers, which was why it kept running out. She recommended it to absolutely everyone. Piling a stack into her arms, she grabbed a few other novels she had noticed were running thin as well.
A noise sounded outside.
Lucy paused. That was weird. She had locked the door manually, and regardless, it was spelled to lock after her until eleven, when Crawley’s opened. (Not that Little Brook was a dangerous town, but just to be extra safe.) She was the only one with a key, save Charles.
She waited, listening, but when no other sound came, she shrugged, piling more books onto her stack. Balancing her coffee on the top so she wouldn’t have to make a second trip, she walked out, reading the back-cover copy of the book, giggling at one of the trade reviews.
Which was why, when she glanced up, just inches from a tall figure right in front of her, she jolted so intensely that the contents of her hands went flying.
Instinctively, she lifted her hands, palms out and fingers spread, freezing everything mid-motion with her magic. Not the books! But they were unscathed. She released a breath, heart beating fast, realizing a moment too late that she shouldn’t have used her magic so cavalierly in front of a stranger. Uh-oh.
But there was more to worry about. Her coffee was suspended in the air like a frozen fountain, and behind the almost-wreckage, she saw a slender man who looked to be about thirty years old.
He wore a button-up white shirt and gray tie beneath a very nice navy blue sweater that looked expensive and soft, and which accented his broad shoulders and the lean muscles in his arms. A tweed blazer was hanging off one arm, and the look was completed with dark slacks on his long legs and fancy loafers on his feet.
Lucy’s gaze traveled up to his face, where blond hair fell over his forehead, brushing his brows. A bit of gold scruff covered his jaw, which looked sharp enough to maim, rivaled only by his cheekbones. Behind his thin-rimmed glasses, his eyes were ice blue and fringed with long lashes.
He was gorgeous, to say the least, but the effect was dulled by his lips (pouty, pink) turned down into a frown.
A hundred thoughts ran through Lucy’s head: Why is he so pretty? Who is he? How did he get in? Is he a burglar? Could a burglar be that pretty?
“You must be Lucinda,” he said, voice deep and cold as an abyss. He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Leave it to Charles to hire a bloody witch for the shop.”
Lucy registered his accent—Irish—before she registered his disdain. She liked the lilt but not the tone.
She was too stunned to say anything, though a part of her was relieved that he evidently knew about witches, so she hadn’t royally screwed up by doing magic in front of him.
Mouth open as she tried to think of a response and failed, Lucy stared. Her mind seemed to be struggling to form coherent thoughts, and aggravation ran through her. Lucy was hardly ever at a loss for words.
He knew who she was and that she was a witch. But who was he? Not a witch, she realized. She’d have sensed it. But he was certainly familiar with witches and their existence, a rare occurrence, which probably meant he was close to a witch.
He sidestepped the frozen fountain of coffee, glancing at her adorable sock mug like it was the strangest thing he had ever seen, a gesture that offended her deeply. As he moved around the books still hovering midair, she got a better look at him, and a tingle ran down her spine.
Good lord. Men shouldn’t be allowed to be that beautiful; it wasn’t right.
“Professor Grayson Crawley.” He held out a hand as if bound by manners but detesting the act. “Pleasure.”
Lucy reached out stupidly to shake his hand, and she realized two things too late.
The first: She and her magic were distracted. While the spell had not needed her words, it had needed her attention, and without it, the spell collapsed. Everything hovering in the air fell to the floor, books thwacking onto nearby tables and coffee splattering all over the man’s shoes. Lucy could only watch as her mug shattered on the hardwood floor.
The second: Grayson Crawley. She knew that name.
Charles’s grandson.
Oh god no.
Grayson looked down at the mess, utterly unamused, then glowered at her.
“That’ll be cut from your pay,” he said, but she didn’t hear a word.
To think she’d been about to feel guilty for spilling coffee on him! Now she wished she’d spilled enough to ruin his entire outfit and his perfect hair, just for good measure.
Lucy always knew Charles had a grandson; he and Sophie only had one daughter, Claire, who only had one son. Claire and her husband had passed away over two decades ago, and their son was sent to live with a paternal uncle abroad. Charles rarely spoke about it, and Lucy never asked. It was a sore subject, one that brought the old man a great deal of pain, even years later.
Grayson had been a child when he went to live with his uncle, but in the years that had passed since, he hadn’t visited once. Not even when Sophie had died a few years back. Charles had been bereft at the loss of his wife, so Lucy had stayed with him, consoled him.
Lucy had imagined Charles’s grandson—his only living relative—would finally appear, and he never did. Lucy promised Charles he wasn’t alone, yet his grandson didn’t make even an ounce of effort. Her heart broke all over again when Charles, who finally got a smartphone after months of her pestering him, asked Lucy if his was broken. “I never receive his calls—Lucy, it must be broken. It never rings.”
She loved Charles with all her heart, so fiercely she would have made herself his blood if there were a spell for that.
And now his grandson was in his store, walking around as if he owned the place.
“You might want to clean that up,” he said, walking away from her to peruse the shop.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, glaring daggers. Her body buzzed with anger. Grayson looked taken aback by her tone. Frankly, she thought she was showing remarkable restraint.
“What do you mean?” he asked, blinking slowly. “This is my shop.”
Her jaw dropped open with shock. Not that he cared to notice. “It sure as shit is not yours,” she protested, flabbergasted. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
Ignoring her, he walked around, taking things in with an unimpressed expression that offended her. When he saw the crumbs from her toast at the counter (she was going to clean that!), he shook his head with disdain.
With a sigh, he went to the front display, picking books up and setting them down with disinterest, not even sparing her carefully curated tea recommendations a second glance. He saw the little table she’d set up next to the front counter with flowers and picked up a bouquet of peonies and marigolds, bright pink and yellow. He turned to her, holding it up.
“This is a bookstore,” he said, tone dry as she marched over to him. She snatched the flowers from his hands, trying not to notice how long and slender his fingers were.
“And?” she snapped, holding the bouquet close to her chest.
“Why on earth are you selling flowers?” He looked confused.
“We’re also occasionally a flower shop.” Lucy tried not to sound defensive and failed.
Anger burned through her; she had no reason to be self-conscious! She liked making bouquets from her garden to sell! Just as she liked baking things and selling beverages!
Yes, it was a bookstore, but it was also a café and a flower shop, and there had been one summer when she took pottery classes every week and would sell her creations, so it was a ceramic shop, too. (Mostly Charles bought the ceramics, which meant they were decorating random perches in the store, but it was so fun!) And it was Charles’s shop; he let her do whatever she wanted.
Raising his brows, Grayson kept walking, taking in the mismatched decor, the blanket folded lazily over the armchair by the fireplace, the knickknacks that sat on the mantel, the fairy lights covering the curtains and shelves in uneven swoops.
Lucy was proud of how the store looked. She had been coming here since she was a child and working here since she was old enough to get a job. It had taken years to craft the coziness of the store: the feeling that you were welcome and warm, and it was a place you would love to return to again and again, just like rereading a favorite book or watching a favorite movie—and he was taking it all in as though it were a messy yard sale of old junk.
“Charles said you were fanciful, but my god.” He shuddered. She usually took fanciful as a compliment, but his sneer indicated the opposite.
“Charles didn’t tell me a thing about you,” she said, voice clipped. “So, once again, what are you doing here?”
“I’m Charles’s emergency contact.”
“The emergency is over. You aren’t needed!”
He turned back to her, his scrutinizing gaze upon her. His blue eyes were piercing, and despite herself, she fidgeted beneath their intensity.
“You wear that to your place of employment?” he asked. Her face felt hot.
Lucy was wearing a huge thrifted sweater that looked like it belonged to somebody’s father, (admittedly) years-old black leggings, thick cable-knit socks, and her trusty moccasins. She usually liked to dress up more, but she wasn’t in the best mood, what with Charles in the hospital and all. This was a comfort outfit! Not that he had any right to judge.
“Sorry I’m not in a fucking three-piece suit,” she snapped, finally finding her voice. “I didn’t realize this was Wall Street!”
He was dressed like he belonged in some Ralph Lauren campaign, but he was a haughty jackass. What use was it to be as gorgeous as any male model when one had an absolute shit personality?
She threw him a glare and went to clean up the mess from earlier, the coffee (her latte!) and the books (the books!) still on the floor like fallen soldiers from a failed battle. She frowned at the sight.
Holding her hand over the hardwood floor, she cleaned up the coffee and remnants of her mug, the liquid and shattered pieces moving as if the scene were happening in reverse. While the mug was temporarily made whole again, her latte inside the way it had been before it fell, the mug wouldn’t be stable.
She would need to toss it. Magic was volatile and untrustworthy, fine for little tasks such as turning on the lights or cleaning up a mess, but not for things like permanent repairs.
After throwing out the mug, Lucy returned to the scene of the disaster, holding a hand over the floor, which had little marks from the impact. The scratches scrubbed away like pencil under an eraser.
The books she picked up last, by hand, inspecting each one and carefully remedying dented covers and stained pages until they were in brand-new condition once more. She clutched the books close to her heart, inhaling the scents of ink and paper.
She turned back to the front display table to set down the books, only to find that Grayson was watching her with those startling blue eyes. There was something on his face she couldn’t decipher, and she didn’t want to.
When he caught her looking, he blinked. “Shouldn’t you be more careful using your magic so cavalierly?” he asked with a scowl. “Or are you witches no longer worried about keeping such a secret?”
“Is there anyone else here?” she asked, making a show of looking around the empty store. “And as Charles’s grandson, you obviously know witches exist, so I’m in no danger from you.” She paused. “Unless you’re planning on taking me to trial?”
“If only,” he muttered. She clenched her jaw, preparing another retort when her gaze fell on the grandfather clock.
Shit! The store opened in five minutes!
“Is there a reason you’re here?” she asked, shifting into motion to make sure everything was set for opening. She made her voice clipped and professional, the way she did when dealing with the most irritating customers. “Since you know so much about the store, you’ll know it’s opening soon, and Charles won’t be in until tomorrow.”
“You don’t know?” Grayson asked, his brows furrowed.
Her stomach sank, alarm bells ringing in her mind as her thoughts jumped through awful scenarios. “Know what?” she asked, voice high.
Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose, looking up as if entreating someone for patience and strength. “Of course Charles wouldn’t have mentioned it to you,” he muttered. “Typical.”
“Know what?” Lucy repeated, this time with more urgency. She lost the professional tone as she added: “And who calls their grandfather by their first name?”
Releasing a long-suffering sigh, Grayson strode toward her, his long legs bringing him right in front of her in a few steps. She realized how tall he was then; she had to look up to meet his eyes. This close, she caught the scent of his cologne, which was earthy and woody, mingled with the scent of books.
Couldn’t he have been something loathsome, like a finance bro? But no, he had to be a professor, which she’d always found, unfortunately, incredibly sexy. Perhaps he was a professor of finance, Lucy consoled herself. Or some other terrible subject, like physics or statistics.
“I’m here to take over,” Grayson said. “Charles will be recovering for the next few months, so I’ve come to look after him and the store.”
Lucy blinked, shock registering through her.
She blinked again. And erupted into a fit of giggles.
“You’re screwing with me,” she said, doubling over. “That’s hilarious!” She was wheezing, nearly cackling like a … well, like a witch.
He frowned, brows knitted together. “I’m being serious.”
“Oh god, I thought you meant it for a second!” She continued to laugh.
“I am deadly serious,” he snapped. Dread curled through her. She looked up at his furious face, the hard set of his jaw. Disbelief made her breath catch.
No … No, he couldn’t actually be serious. “Charles wouldn’t—”
He cut her off: “Charles asked me to come.”
“Charles was recently injured; he’s not in his right mind.”
“He’s still my grandfather,” Grayson added.
“Ha!” she spat, too overwhelmed to come up with a more cutting remark. “That’s rich!”
At her words, his expression grew stormier. He took a step closer, eyes blazing. They stood mere inches apart as she glared up at him, the space between them charged with tension.
Red splotches appeared on his neck. She could see his pulse racing in his throat.
The clock chimed eleven, and Lucy pushed past him.
“I have work to do,” she snapped. “The door’s that way.”
CHAPTER 2
Grayson
Grayson Crawley had never in his life met such a madwoman.
And while he realized it might be offensive to think of her as such, she had all but kicked him out of his own grandfather’s shop! Lucy went to prop open the front door, and he watched her with a frown as a chill breezed in, though it wasn’t nearly as cold as her tone had been when she had spoken to him.
Though she was hardly a few inches above five feet (and was wearing slippers, for Christ’s sake), her nose was high in the air as she walked back to the counter. Her hips swayed with each step, and when she walked past him, he caught a whiff of vanilla, the scent strong and warm. He wondered if it was her perfume, or perhaps her shampoo.
Cutting off that train of thought swiftly, Grayson walked over to one of the leather recliners at the side of the store, setting his tweed blazer down. He felt her watching him as he did so, and when he glanced over, she blew a stray strand of hair out of her face. She had wavy black hair, a section of which was held together in a tangle at the top of her head with lord knew what—a rubber band, sheer will, or magic—and tendrils fell haphazardly around her face as she turned on the machine at the front desk.
One lock of hair curled perfectly above her brow, and Grayson was met with the startling urge to pull at the curl and see it bounce back into place. When Lucy caught Grayson looking, she glared, and he was entranced by her massive eyes, which were a shade of brown so dark he suspected they were black (like her soul). She had full cheeks, with even fuller lips (which really were magnificent, when she wasn’t ruining them by talking).
Not that he noticed. Well, he had, but it was purely academic; he was a professor, after all. A professor of English literature, sure, but a professor nonetheless. That meant it was his habit to catalog details and arrive at conclusions.
He had concluded that she was a beautiful woman indeed, which he was professional enough to admit, though her attractiveness was lessened considerably by how infuriating she was.
So why exactly was he still staring at her, relishing the scent of vanilla she left behind?
Must be the jet lag.
He had flown in at some ungodly hour last night. Time for visitation at the hospital had been over, so he’d gone straight to Charles’s place, using the spare key from under the pot like Charles had instructed him to and going straight to his old bedroom.
His entire body had ached from the travel. Though the flight from Dublin hadn’t been horrendous, the aftermath of getting through the airport, retrieving his baggage, taking the AirTrain, then the railroad, and then a cab, had been bloody awful.
Even so, seeing his old room was worse. Of course the room wasn’t the same at all; the only relic that remained from the one year he had stayed there was the color of the walls, a striking blue the shade of his father’s—and his own—eyes. His mother Claire’s favorite color.
“My beautiful, blue-eyed boys,” she would say, kissing their cheeks at the breakfast table, humming to herself.
Grayson set his jaw, pushing the memory away. There was no use in all that now.
He’d come to the bookstore this morning to make sure its affairs were in order before going off to visit Charles, and that was when he’d seen her.
Glancing down at the little coffee stains on his leather shoes, Grayson scowled. She’d ruined his favorite loafers. He had watched as she’d used her magic to get the stains out of everything else, which she did with ease, yet she hadn’t even offered to clean his shoes. How rude.
He’d never cared much for witches, aside from his mother. He had loved the little magic tricks she’d done in the comfort of their home, and even at a young age, he knew such a thing was their family’s secret.
While Charles and Claire were witches, Grayson’s father’s line didn’t have a witch in sight, so there was always a possibility Grayson wouldn’t inherit powers, and he was far too practical to be bothered when it ended up being true.
“You’re still here?” Lucy asked, passing him on her way to throw wood into the fireplace.
He was still standing stupidly at the side of the store, unsure of where to go or what to do. Things were not going as he had expected. This was not at all as he had planned.
He didn’t know why she bothered him so much; she was only an employee, a worker. She wasn’t important.
“Yes, I’m still here,” he said through gritted teeth. She should come with a warning label attached to her ridiculously oversized sweater: TWICE AS IRRITATING AS SHE IS BEAUTIFUL; PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
Lucy snapped her fingers, and the wood in the fireplace caught aflame. Magic was something he’d thought of fondly before his mother’s death; now, it only bothered him. What a show-off. She turned back, and he strode toward her.
“Have I not made it abundantly clear that I am serious?” he said. “Or are you being willfully obtuse?”
“Don’t you have a job, Professor?” she asked, saying the last word like an insult.
He glowered. “Yes, Lucinda, but I’ve taken a sabbatical.”
Her eyes flared at the usage of her full first name. Grayson smirked, half expecting smoke to billow from her ears.
“I don’t see why,” she replied, taking a step toward him. She looked up at him from under those long dark lashes, eyebrows scrunched. Another curl had fallen out of her updo (if it could be called that) and rested against her mouth. He itched to brush it aside.
Christ, but he must be mental. He should not be attracted to such an irrational person, no matter how perfect her lips.
“They called me,” Grayson said, refocusing. “Of course I came.”
She scoffed with disgust. “Just because you were Charles’s emergency contact doesn’t mean you needed to come. You didn’t come when Sophie died; you didn’t even call! And now you get one call from the hospital and suddenly you take a sabbatical and show up here?”
Anger burned through him. How dare she speak of things she knew nothing about? Those were his private and personal family matters. How dare she judge him?
Trying not to let the depth of his emotion show, he adopted a condescending tone, knowing it would infuriate her. “I’m here because Charles—you know, my grandfather? The owner of this bookstore?—will need someone to take care of him as he recovers in the coming months,” he said derisively. “I am his family.”
“Oh, now you’re his family!” she practically shouted. “How convenient!” She shook her head, cheeks red. “I don’t believe you for one second. Why are you really here? You can drop the loving grandson act; we both know it isn’t true.”
His temper spiked, and this time, he could not hide the emotion. “And how, exactly, would you know that?” he asked, stepping closer. “How would you know anything about me? Who even are you?”
“I know enough!”
Rather than stepping away, she took another step closer, poking his chest. He held a hand over his heart, more shocked than injured. Her expression was livid. She was not merely some worker, some witch.
This was personal for her. He didn’t know why.
“I’ve been working here for eight years and not once—not once!—have you ever visited,” she snapped. “Before then, I’d been coming to the store for another decade, and I never saw you then, either. You’ve never called; you’ve never written. So yes, I know all I need to know about you.”
She was breathing hard, and they were so close their chests were almost touching on the inhale. He recoiled, her words hitting their mark. Energy sparked between them, almost flammable. He set his jaw, refusing to light the match.
“You know nothing,” he said, voice quiet.
And really, she didn’t. Grief and rage rose in him, but he buried those emotions deep inside, just as he had been doing for the past two decades. He wasn’t here to argue with a complete stranger. This girl was irrelevant. He didn’t need to explain himself to her, even though he itched to.
He was here for Charles, to try to mend things between them.
Grayson had found out about Charles’s fall and hip surgery when the hospital had called him, since he was next of kin. He’d taken a day to get things in order, and another day to pack up and fly out.
He’d have his teaching assistant cover for the last three weeks of class, then handle revisions. He’d grade his students’ final papers from here, and then the term ended mid-December. He’d taken off the next term, which ran until May.
Six months was surely enough time to get to know his grandfather.
If this madwoman let him.
Dismissing him, she went behind the front counter, sipping another coffee and eating a cardamom bun, which smelled heavenly. But who ate on the job? Terribly unprofessional. She should have been tidying up. The store was in a state, entirely chaotic and cluttered. His eyes hurt just from looking at it.
Unfortunately, the logical part of him pointed out that he would be working in close proximity with Lucy for the coming months, so it would be wise to draw up cordial terms. He released a long breath, forcing himself to calm down. He needed to be practical. It was the only way.
They’d clearly gotten off on the wrong foot. He would need to remedy that, as her cooperation would be necessary to working in the bookstore. He’d had enough experience handling unfriendly colleagues to know that it was a daily headache.
Plus, she was clearly managing things in Charles’s absence, and she had mentioned she had been working here for eight years. If Grayson hoped to successfully look after the bookstore while Charles recovered, it would help if Charles’s employee didn’t hate him.
The problem was, Grayson had no idea how to speak with her. She’d already made it clear she detested him. He figured it would be safe to inquire after some tea, and it helped that he was just about dying for a cup, anyway.
Taking a deep breath, Grayson straightened his glasses, rolled his shoulders, and walked up to where Lucy stood behind the counter, doodling something on a notepad. When she saw him approach, her head lifted to fix him with a withering look.
“Just wondering if I could get a cup of tea?” he asked, doing his best to be polite. He cleared his throat, palms sweating as Lucy stared at him.
For fuck’s sake, pull yourself together, he scolded himself, surreptitiously wiping his hands against his legs. He had handled a number of bullies in his school days, not to mention cruel teachers. In his adult life, he had dealt with cranky faculty and sobbing students.
Surely he could handle one slipper-wearing witch.
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Grayson added, when Lucy made no move to help him. She opened her mouth, no doubt ready to give him some sarcastic retort, when something seemed to cross her mind. Her lips closed, turning up into a smile.
“No trouble at all,” she said, voice calm and … polite?
A little thrill shot through him. Perhaps she, too, was being sensible and had arrived at the same conclusion: that it was best they be cordial.
“What would you like?” she asked, leaning forward. He caught a whiff of that sweet vanilla scent again. It reminded him of entering a warm home after being out in the cold. It was so much easier to appreciate how pretty she was when she wasn’t yelling.
“Do you have Irish Breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, before pausing to think about it. “Actually, we don’t.”
She gave him a smug smile that made him realize her blatant switch from an affirmative to a negative was on purpose. He narrowed his eyes, anger sparking. Now she was being needlessly petty … No, no, he chastised himself, giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Perhaps she really didn’t have the Irish blend.
“I’ll just have the English, then, if it’s not too much bother,” he said, silencing his intrusive thoughts.
“Not a bother at all! Milk? Sugar?”
He was alarmed by her friendly tone; his heartbeat quickened. “Just black, thanks,” he said, voice high. Oh, for fuck’s sake—a shred of kindness from her and he was acting like a schoolboy with a crush!
He cleared his throat, but she didn’t seem to notice. She set about making his tea, humming to herself. The sleeves of her sweater were too long; they almost came down to her knuckles.
Grayson found himself smiling. This wouldn’t be so bad, after all. They would be colleagues. Who knew, they might even be friends! Maybe she could help him mend his relationship with Charles. This would be brilliant.
She slid the teacup and saucer toward him on the counter.
“That will be four fifty,” she said sweetly, flashing him a smile that disarmed him long enough that it took him a second to register what she’d said.
“Four fifty?” he repeated.
Any warmth he felt toward her froze and shattered like an icicle.
So that was the charade.
“Firstly,” he said through gritted teeth, “that is an absurd price for a tea. Secondly, this is my grandfather’s shop; I’m not paying.”
Her face scrunched with anger, and he quickly took the cup of tea before she could stop him, nearly burning his fingertips in the process. Her hand tightened around her coffee mug, this one in the shape of a pumpkin, and she was unhinged enough that he believed she might hurl it at him.
Luckily, just then, someone entered the bookstore. Lucy’s gaze flitted in the direction of the door and back to Grayson.
“Stay out of my way,” she ordered—ah, there was the biting tone—as she went to receive whoever had entered.
When she walked away from him, she morphed entirely. Gone was the irritated expression, gone was the cutting tone, gone was even the tension in her body. She practically skipped to the front of the store.
She brightened as she said, “Anna, hi! Happy to see you today.”
It was astonishing to watch, really. He’d only seen a hint of it when she was making his tea, but this? This was the full show. She was practically radiating like a sunbeam. For a moment, Grayson wondered if she was employing magic to create such an effect, but he knew enough about witchcraft to know that magic couldn’t alter a person’s entire demeanor. It was just her.
Grayson scowled.
Taking his cup of tea, he walked around the store until he found a small door at the back, behind the nonfiction section. The office. Just what he’d been looking for. He slipped in and flicked on the lights, then sighed as he took in the sight before him.
Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose just above his glasses, where he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. The office was, to put it plainly, a mess.
The table was covered with stacks of papers that looked as though they’d fallen over and been hastily shoved back upright, out of order. There was an ancient desk covered in dust, a bookshelf full of binders, and a pile of unopened mail. The space was small, and the lighting was dim, the air musty as he took a breath. Grayson covered the top of his cup, shielding his tea.
He noticed Lucy’s coat and purse hanging from the coat rack in the corner, so it wasn’t as if no one had stepped foot in here, just that no one had bothered to do anything about the mess.
Grayson went around the desk and sat down on the chair. As he did, a cloud of dust rose into the air. He coughed, clearing his throat, and took a sip of tea before setting down his cup.
Unsure where to begin, he looked around, not quite wanting to touch anything, it was so chalky in here. Eventually, he gained the courage to flip through the stack of papers on the desk, trying to decipher what they were: shipment notices, town flyers, book catalogs, and much more. It felt as if he’d gone back in time decades, to when everything wasn’t electronic.
Within fifteen minutes, he was able to deduce that whatever system Charles was running here wasn’t the most efficient. He wondered for a moment why Charles bothered at all with the headache of a small business in his old age, but then, Grayson didn’t know much about his grandfather.
A pang ran through him at the thought. Grayson leaned his elbows on the desk, resting his face in his hands.
It hurt him to think about how little he knew his grandfather. It hurt him to be here at all, and even now, surrounded by flickering light and years of dust, he wondered if he had made the right decision in coming.
At first, when Grayson had heard about Charles’s surgery, he had wanted to be angry and spiteful. He had wanted to be indifferent—he had spent years convincing himself he couldn’t care less about his family in the States, that he didn’t care about any of those old ties.
He had tried so hard to pretend that his life wasn’t empty, wasn’t lacking. That he didn’t even notice the space where a family should have been.
Unfortunately, it never really worked. Especially when he hadn’t done a good job of making friends who could be like family, or of finding a partner whom he could love and who would love him in return. Grayson was painfully lonely.
So after thinking on it for a bit, he made a frightening decision: to try something new. He would attempt to let bygones be bygones and hold on to his last living relative on his mother’s side.
An idea that seemed difficult, even foolish, now. How could he possibly accomplish such a thing when the tsunami of a woman outside was testing his patience—four bloody fifty for English Breakfast!—as if she wanted him to book the first flight back to Dublin?
He still didn’t understand why she was so bothered by his presence, why she cared so much that he was here. She had treated him as though he had personally offended her, and he didn’t even know her.
Lord, give me strength. He prayed to a god he didn’t even know if he believed in, but facing the force that was Lucinda Ansari, he might as well try anything.
Copyright © 2026 by Neena Noon.