Witching You Weren’t Snowed In (Witching You #2)

Chapter 2

Sage

Welcome to Cold Spell Mountain.

The taxi drove past the painted welcome sign and into the quaint, snow-swept village. It rolled to a stop outside my family’s tea shop and waited with the meter running while I sat in the backseat and checked my email. I held up my phone, grinding my teeth as the picturesque mountains diminished the signal.

A single bar appeared, and I refreshed the screen.

No new messages.

I scowled at my empty inbox. My calendar was also a tale of misery thanks to the agency’s reset initiative. In two weeks, I was supposed to be on my way to the small town of Wood Pine to weave my magic around a grumpy Christmas tree farmer and the local pastry chef, but my research file was locked, and if I didn’t meet the requirements listed in the handbook, it would be reassigned.

That was not happening.

I’d never had a case reassigned, and I wasn’t about to start now. I planned to fix my frozen curse as fast as possible and high-tail it back to the office to reclaim my position before someone else filled it. Because if I didn’t, I’d be stuck—unemployed—living my own personal Groundhog Day with my past lurking around every corner.

An icy wind sailed into the vehicle. The driver flicked on the windshield wipers as fresh snow began to fall. Where there had been sun moments ago, there were now gray clouds gathering over the mountaintops. I winced, remembering too late I needed to control my emotions.

Outside the vehicle, flakes danced in the air, circling the wrought iron streetlamps and whizzing past brightly colored houses. If the snow had followed me here, the glistening rooftops and slush-covered cobblestone would keep my secret. At least for a little while.

It was a good thing I grew up in ski country and not in Florida. However, I would have given anything to trade in my parka for a swimsuit to avoid my impending family reunion.

Cold Spell might look like it had been plucked straight out of a holiday movie, but for me, the memories lurking here were less heartwarming and felt more like breaking one of my mother’s one-of-a-kind teacups—shameful, and no matter how hard you try, impossible to fix.

I eyed the single-story cottage that famously served the best high tea in town. A closed sign hung on the door with a little clock, reminding visitors to come back for their first seating around lunchtime. In the window, tea cups dangled from beaded strings, and cling-on snowflakes dotted the glass. Next to the shop and separated by a narrow alley was my parents' small chalet.

It all looked exactly the same. A picture-perfect postcard that I would have preferred had gotten lost in the mail.

“Are you getting out, lady? I have an early pickup at the lodge.”

The driver met my gaze in the rearview mirror, and I almost offered to pay him double to take me back to the airport. Instead, I pulled down my ski hat and grabbed my luggage before climbing out of the vehicle. Buried inside my thick parka, I wheeled my bag across the frozen sidewalk, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.

A couple passed by with their morning coffee, and I waved meekly, perched on the stone step in front of my parents’ house. First, I rang the bell. Then knocked. So much for the welcoming party. No one was even home. After a call that went straight to my mother’s voicemail, I tried the door handle without any luck and cursed myself for losing track of my key.

My parents were notoriously social and could be anywhere in town. But thankfully, I knew where they kept a spare key.

I glanced next door, then down the alley leading to the back of the shop. The cottage windows were old, and one had a loose latch. If you maneuvered it just right, you could unlock it from the outside.

It didn’t open far thanks to the worn casing, so my parents had never bothered to fix it. That, and crime in town was rare—besides, who in their right mind wanted to steal mismatched tea cups? I could be in and out, huddled under the covers in my old bedroom within minutes, or spend hours sitting in a busy coffee shop, trying to avoid familiar faces.

Breaking and entering for the win!

Leaving my luggage on the stoop, I walked to the back of the shop and found the window with the loose latch. Even though it didn’t face the street, the window casing was covered in a festive garland of pine needles and twinkling lights. My mother always believed it was as important to decorate the places people didn't see as the ones they do.

I moved some pallets underneath to give me more height, then peered through the glass. Morning light spilled over the stainless steel counters and illuminated the hanging racks of pots and pans.

From where I stood, I glimpsed the spare key hanging on a hook by a shelf of tea canisters. I removed my mittens and rubbed my hands together for warmth—okay, mostly courage. Was it still trespassing if your parents owned the place? The town might be low on crime, but leave it to me to commit a misdemeanor. With the luck I was having, I’d spend the holiday in handcuffs.

Bracing myself against the window, I wriggled the panes until the latch fell out of place, then put my shoulder into opening it as far as it would go. The casing screeched in protest and pine needles from the garland tickled my nose.

I tapped my boot on the wooden pallet, studying the gap in the window. I thought it would be wider. Then again, I also thought there’d be a banner outside the house celebrating my homecoming .

Looking over my shoulder, I made sure the alley was clear, then hoisted myself through the window. I grunted as my body contorted into a pretzel on the narrow windowsill and teetered precariously over the countertop. Regrets? I had a few—mostly my aversion to the gym and the idea I had any sort of balance. Window gymnastics was meant for people who regularly went to yoga.

And people wearing a less bulky coat.

Just as I made the transition to the other side of the window, my jacket snagged on a nail holding the garland. My momentum sent me reeling as the fabric ripped, and I toppled like one of those flying squirrels onto the counter. A flour canister tipped over in my wake and a poof of flour filled the air.

Ironically, the puffy coat that triggered the fall aided in the landing. Who knew sportswear was such a double-edged sword?

“Oh, come on!” I groaned as I inhaled a faceful of flour. The fine dust settled around me like one of my magical snowstorms—both of which were making my life miserable.

Happy homecoming, Sage Bennett! This relaxation retreat is really working.

The sound of footsteps creaked in the other room.

I lifted my head; unease tossing ice water on the hot flames of my indignity.

“Mom? Dad? I’m in the kitchen. Can I get some help?”

The footsteps paused, and when no one answered, a weird feeling skated up my spine. In the past, we’d had run-ins with local kids playing pranks on our family. Well—me mostly. They only played pranks on me. Stupid stuff like putting a frog in my backpack at school, and once while I was working in the shop, someone slipped food coloring into all the teapots, turning everyone’s tea green.

But that was years ago, and no one in town knew I’d arrived. Which meant the intruder on the other side of the kitchen door wasn’t here to embarrass me. My heart pounded as the footsteps resumed, moving rapidly toward the kitchen.

I barely had time to react, let alone get off the flour-covered counter. Frantic, I slid my hands in front of me, blindly searching for something to use as a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer! I swear, if this is another prank—”

The door swung open as I grasped a metal object and brandished it in front of my face. The rest of my threat died on my lips.

There he stood.

Because, of course, it wasn’t my parents, or a robber, or even a heroic firefighter who’d heard the commotion and rushed over to help. Now there was a rescue I could get behind. But no. It was the only person from my past I’d hoped I wouldn’t run into.

Leo Grayson.

Did people have arch-rivals or was that just a fictional villain in the movies? Either way, in the movie of my life, Leo was the enemy.

Growing up, he’d had a perfect life: he’d been a popular ski instructor at the local resort, came from a wealthy family that vacationed overseas, and had looks that made me suspect he modeled for a winter sports catalog in his downtime.

He still had the looks, by the way—tall and athletic from years spent on the ski slopes. Dark, tousled hair, and rough stubble that chipped away at his clean-cut persona. And those eyes—brown like gingerbread and so expressive, they pulled you in until your insides felt like warm molasses.

We all have one person who we hope ages poorly; Leo did not get the memo.

But none of that was his fault, and I could have overlooked all of it if only he hadn’t broken my heart.

“Sage?” Leo’s voice was a mix of amusement and surprise. “It’s been a long time. I can’t tell if you’re trying to bake me cookies or planning to whisk me to death?”

What? I focused on my makeshift weapon. Crap, I’d grabbed a whisk. I thought I’d met my humiliation quota as a teenager, but apparently, there was a whole other level involving kitchen utensils.

“It’s the second one,” I said, dropping the whisk onto the counter to push myself to a seated position.

Leo laughed, and the sound made my insides twist. I hated that something as normal as a laugh affected me so much.

“Are you okay?” he asked, struggling to keep a concerned expression on his face.

I wiped at my cheeks and tried to blink away the flour dust. “Do I look okay? I ripped my coat and there’s flour everywhere! ”

“Hold on. You’re making it worse. Let me help.” Leo grabbed a cloth and ran it under the faucet. “May I?” he asked, holding the dish towel.

If I was smart, I’d bolt back to the house and try to forget this window caper ever happened. There was probably enough spiked eggnog in my mother’s fridge to give someone a case of amnesia. But I couldn’t stop the questions swirling in my mind.

“Fine.” I scooted back an inch when Leo flattened a palm on the counter and leaned in, keeping me from running off. Were my thoughts tattooed on my forehead?

“What are you doing in the tea shop?” I asked, trying to distract myself as he carefully wiped away the flour on my cheeks. Not that my question helped. Leo’s clean, citrusy scent was doing a number on my senses. I cleared my throat and angled my chin. “Better yet, what are you doing in Cold Spell? I thought you were living the dream at some swanky ski resort in France.”

“Stalking my socials, Bennett?”

“I’d rather get hit in the face with a snowball, Grayson.”

The corner of Leo’s mouth curved, and my throat constricted when he reached up to adjust my ski hat, brushing flour from there too. Static snapped between us. His fingers tangled gently in my hair, pushing the wayward strands off my face.

It was too hot in this kitchen. Between my double-insulated parka, my ski hat, and Leo’s proximity, I needed a blast of cold air. A snowball to the face wasn’t an exaggeration, it was an invitation .

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you should leave before I call the cops.” I pushed off the counter, forcing Leo to step back. He slung his arms across his chest and cocked his head. My threat didn’t seem to have an effect.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“That is none of your business.” I swept past him, flicking my wrist to send a magical gust of air toward the flour on the counter that sent the dust sailing into the sink. The rest, I’d have to come back and clean up later.

I grabbed the spare key off the hook, pressing it into my palm until it hurt. Avoiding conflict was straight out of Old Sage’s playbook. New Sage was casting emotional blizzards and wanted an explanation.

“You know what? I’m not leaving until you answer my question. What are you doing here?”

Before he could speak, the front door to the tea shop opened with a jingle, and I heard my parents' laughter as they came inside. Leo’s gaze held mine in a standoff as he pushed the swinging door open and shouted, “We’re in here, Suzanne and David!”

Suzanne and David? Since when did Leo call my parents by their first names? Things were getting weirder by the minute.

“Look who’s finally home!” my mother cried as she entered the kitchen. “Get over here and give me a hug.”

My father walked in behind her, and as my mother pulled me into a perfume-drenched hug, he clapped Leo on the back and gave me a wide grin. “There’s our big city girl! ”

“Hey, Dad.” Wasn’t anyone concerned about Leo’s intrusion? Apparently not. My mother ended the hug and held me at arm's length. Her brows drew together as she plucked the hat off my head.

“Oh, sweetie, what did you do to your hair?”

“What do you mean?” I self-consciously touched the smooth strands that ended near my collarbone. It was a new style, and I’d woken up extra early before my flight to make sure it was perfect.

My mother clucked her tongue with disappointment. “Your hair used to be full of life. Now it just hangs there.”

I reached for my hat and resisted the urge to put it back on. I twisted the wool between my fingers and swallowed hard. “What you call life was frizz, Mom. This is better.”

“I guess that’s how you gals wear it in the city,” she said, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

“It’s how anyone who knows how to work a hot iron wears it,” I mumbled, glancing at Leo.

My cheeks burned. When I was younger, my long, frizzy hair was the bane of my existence. Nothing seemed to tame it. Sage the Frizzy Mage became a schoolwide nickname and my classmates would toss crumpled paper at me in the halls to see if they could make the pieces stick.

All I saw was pity in Leo’s eyes. I looked away, trying to re-bottle my emotions. Unfortunately, that’s when I spotted the wall .

I extracted myself from my mother’s scrutiny and walked in horror toward the large corkboard of photos hanging near the pantry.

“What is this?” I asked, grazing a finger over a picture of myself sipping a fruity cocktail under a palm tree on the beach. A photo I’d cropped super close to hide the fact the beach was actually a mural at a Caribbean Fusion restaurant in the city. Next to it was a series of shots from the luxury condo Delia and I had toured during an open house. We’d taken turns photographing each other as if we owned the place.

My actual apartment was the size of a shoebox and rumbled daily thanks to its proximity to the transit station.

So much for location, location, location!

There were so many photos. Travel shots. Plates of food. Me with the reindeer I rescued.

“Did you print out my Instagram feed?” My mouth fell open as I scanned the corkboard.

Most people’s feeds were notoriously embellished. Mine was practically fiction with a warm-toned filter. Even the one with the reindeer—I really did save it!—but they took the picture right before the reindeer sneezed on me and ruined my favorite ugly Christmas sweater. One that oddly featured its long-lost brother with a big red pom-pom.

“We did!” my father crowed. “Isn’t technology amazing?” He pointed to an empty spot near the center of the corkboard. “And we saved a space to immortalize your award. We can’t wait to get a photo of you holding it. Your mom and I are proud of how much you’ve achieved at the agency. ”

“I’ve already told all my friends at bookclub,” my mother chimed in. “Oh, and Susan, who works over at the Cold Spell Gazette, said to send her the photo and she’ll feature it in the business section. Can you believe it? A feature! This is the biggest news to hit our town since Mary Higgens’ daughter won a walk-on role in a sitcom! I had to hear about it every time I went out to collect the paper. When Mary reads the feature, she’ll be green with envy.”

“My award?” I choked.

That was the thing about small towns. Everyone knew everyone, and even the smallest news spread faster than icing melting on a hot cookie. The agency might have informed my parents I was coming home, but they hadn’t revealed the reason. My parents probably assumed I was on a celebratory vacation.

Hearing the surprise in my voice, my mother’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You won, Agent of the Year, didn’t you? Because in your last email, you said it was a sure thing.”

I withered under her critical gaze, and a knot of self-doubt tightened under my rib cage. The truth was a block of ice inside my chest, and I was frozen by the fear of disappointment. I’d worked so hard, but anything other than returning home a success would be considered a failure. I couldn’t face those knowing looks.

People faked it till they made it all the time. What was one more fabricated photo when I’d come so close?

“Um…of course, I won Agent of the Year. The award’s in my luggage. We can take a photo later. ”

Assuming I could conjure up a fake trophy.

“I know the perfect place,” my mother gushed, wrapping her arm around Leo in a way that made my nose crinkle in disgust. “You can do a photoshoot at Leo’s ski lodge. It’ll be the perfect backdrop for your photo.”

“Wait—Leo owns the lodge? I thought it sold to some obnoxious developer last year, you know, the kind that likes to strip out all the small-town charm and replace it with corporate logos and a soulless experience.”

“Sage!” my mother gasped. “Where are your manners? Leo’s company purchased the resort, and he’s hired our shop to host an afternoon tea. If it goes well, it’ll run through the season.” Her voice lowered with a warning. “We’re partners, so be nice, dear.”

My gaze snapped to Leo’s and suddenly the reason he’d been lurking around the tea shop became clear. He wasn’t in France because he was here, winning over my parents with his manufactured charm and piles of money. The whole town was likely falling at his feet, lauding his acquisition of the rustic resort as if it were the new town jewel and he was their king.

As if mocking my speculation, a gust of wind swept through the open window, catching the whisk I’d left on the counter and rolling it to a stop near Leo’s feet—a bad omen if I’d ever seen one.

Leo bent to retrieve the fallen whisk, then held it out to me, offering the utensil as if it were a peace offering, but I knew it was a challenge to a duel. He winked. “Welcome home, partner.”