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

Chapter 4

Sage

The sound of jingle bells pierced the morning air, alerting me to check my notifications.

I rolled onto my back, cursing the measly size of my twin bed, and stared at the boy band poster tacked to the ceiling. Life comes at you fast. One minute, you’re at the top of the career ladder, and the next, you’re in your childhood bedroom wondering how the cute, blond band leader did with his solo career.

Heaving a sigh, I reached for my phone.

One new email.

I shoved the covers away and scooted against the pillow. Fingers crossed, it was a cry for help. A pleading missive from the agency begging me to return, or maybe my award had been stuck at the engravers and was on its way here by overnight express. Anything to save me from having to devise a decoy.

My parents had asked to see the trophy at dinner, and I convinced them to wait until I’d organized the photo shoot. Which wasn’t happening under any circumstances. There was no way I'd pose in front of a cozy fireplace decorated with pine cones and satin ribbons at Leo's lodge.

Ugh …why was he here? Can’t a girl return to her hometown with a bruised ego and a self-care mandate without running into her nemesis?

According to a lifetime of holiday rom-coms, the answer was no. But my job was to facilitate other people’s romantic pairings and personal growth, not my own—and considering the way my pairing with Leo had ended, I didn't relish a do-over.

What we had might have burned bright, but it was short-lived, similar to my comical attempt at skiing when my parents forced me to get an outdoor hobby.

That’s where I met Leo—the ski instructor assigned to teach beginner lessons. Sure, the group was full of ten-year-olds, and we stayed on the bunny slope, but it turned out to be fun, and I felt comfortable being myself around him.

In school, Leo was the popular jock. But on the slopes, he was different—carefree, funny, patient. He made me laugh and helped me up every time I fell. It didn’t take long until I fell for him, too.

We became inseparable, hanging out after my lessons, and for one glorious season, I was secretly in love with my best friend. When he asked me out, I thought he felt the same way too. Until the night of our date, when he never showed. Lucky for me, his friends arrived to witness my humiliation. They laughed and told me Leo was never interested and he’d moved on to someone worth his time. In their eyes, I was still the weird girl—the witch—they made fun of.

Nothing was the same after, and I left town for a new life in the city.

And that’s why we don’t fall in love with our ski instructors, folks. They’ll stab you in the heart with their ski pole.

I shoved the memories away before I could spiral. Leo and I were ancient history. There were skeletons in the Smithsonian who had a better chance of resurrection than our failed romance.

I focused on my phone. Unfortunately, the email wasn’t from the agency. It was from Delia.

Just in case you need some help to get started. Attached is an article on self-care. Though, I suppose if you’re reading this, you won’t like number five: Digital Detox.

It’s a doozy.

XOXO Del

I rolled my eyes and clicked to open the article. Scanning the text, I made a note of the ways to reverse burnout, stopping before hitting number five. We weren’t touching that one yet. Probably never.

Power Naps: I slept eight hours so I can check that one as done.

Mindful Breathing: Sounds stressful.

Aromatherapy: Lavender makes me sneeze.

Walking in Nature: Are there bears in Cold Spell?

Dropping my head back, I consulted with the band members on the ceiling. They were noncommittal. I set my jaw and tossed my phone toward the foot of the bed. Stopping the snow was priority number one. It was the only way I’d get my life back on track.

I also had a side quest. Keeping up my assumed picture-perfect life was the key to keeping my past squarely in the past while I was in Cold Spell.

There was also the bonus objective to avoid Leo at all costs.

The two main goals overlapped. So I’d combine them and keep my eyes out for a certain rugged resort owner.

I’d start with walking in nature with the added twist of popping into the antique shop to find something to use as a fake trophy. Then I’d finish with some aromatherapy by way of inhaling a peppermint mocha.

That sounded pretty good. See! I could relax.

I was going to break this weather curse so hard, they’d beg me to make it snow.

***

Storm clouds brewed overhead as I stepped into the tea shop. Guests occupied a few of the linen-draped tables, and the sound of clinking china melded with the flow of pleasant conversation.

The tea shop was one of my favorite places. It was a sweet haven from the bustling streets during tourist season. A spot where you could relax with a cup of tea and try some of my father’s famous quiche. I used to settle in the corner with a book after class, escaping into a fantasy world, preferring fiction over my real life. The happy endings didn't come easy, but they never let you down.

My mother walked by carrying a three-tiered dish of finger sandwiches. She deposited it at one of the tables, then recited the list of delicacies, signaling out her favorite: Smoked salmon with cream cheese. Then she placed a small note card on the table.

“What are those?” I asked as she joined me near the door.

“Announcements for our first tea at the lodge. We’re trying to get the word out. It’s been difficult to drum up interest and we need this partnership with Leo. After everything we went through the last few years with the loan for the tea shop; I never want to experience that again. We almost lost everything.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know. But it can’t be difficult to find people to show up. Everyone in town loves your tea.”

My mother gently patted the nape of her neck where she had twisted her hair in a high bun. She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “No one wants to come because of the Graysons.”

Surprise tinged my voice. “You mean the monarchs of Cold Spell? I’m shocked they haven’t changed the town name to Grayson at this point. What do they have to do with it?”

“They’ve fallen from grace. Didn’t you read my last holiday letter? It was all in there.”

I nodded even though I had not read the letter. My mother’s version of a holiday letter was at least twelve pages of handwritten gossip. Even if you deciphered the penmanship, there was a mix of miscellaneous details—like when Donald, from down the street, started painting his front door to match the seasons—to a detailed recounting of the neighborhood watch.

Spoiler alert: It was Ms. Higgens’ dog who kept stealing the Cold Spell Gazette from my mother’s porch, not a news-obsessed bandit. Case closed.

After that, I skimmed the letters.

But now I wished I hadn’t. There was figurative spilled tea in that letter about Leo’s family, and I’d missed it!

“Refresh my memory?” I asked, as my father poked his head out of the kitchen and signaled for my mother.

“Sorry dear, I have to help your father with the crumb cake. Are you headed downtown?”

“Yeah. I stopped in to see if you guys needed anything.”

“As a matter of fact, we do. Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I haven’t had time to get everything for our meal. I’ll send you the list.” She walked away, then paused, and I hoped for a little taste of the Grayson gossip. “Oh honey, did you see the scarf I left for you by the front door? You should wear it. It was the last thing your great-grandmother knitted for you before she died.”

I wrinkled my nose. Guilt trip much? But she wasn’t finished.

“If you double wrap it and wear your hat, it will hide your hair.”

“Goodbye, Mom,” I mumbled .

I tried to ignore the dig and stepped outside to find the clouds had darkened and snow fell, coating the sidewalk. Peering into the sky, I blinked away the flakes that stuck to my lashes. I wasn’t off to a great start. It didn’t help I now had to brave the grocery store right before the holiday.

But everything was fine.

No, fantastic!

My phone jingled with my mother’s shopping list, and I brushed the giant flakes off the screen to view the items. It would be better to get the stressful errand out of the way first so I could focus on the walking in nature and aromatherapy mashup I had planned. I’d need the calming boost after—I squinted at the list—I tracked down truffle butter.

Where did one even find truffle butter? If it didn’t come in stick form or in one of those plastic tubs, I had no idea.

The snow fell faster, and I inhaled a mindful breath. Then another. It wasn’t as stressful as I’d imagined. The flakes eased up, so I straightened my shoulders and marched back to my parent’s house to grab the reusable shopping bags.

Out of protest, I did not wear my great-grandmother's scarf.

A short time later, I parked the car in one of the only available spots and hiked through the slushy lot toward the market entrance. Shoppers buzzed in and out of the sliding glass doors, loaded with bags and pushing carts brimming with holiday ingredients.

I grabbed a shopping cart and checked the list again. I would be efficient and organized. I would not get distracted by non-list items. Most importantly, I would not walk down memory lane, no matter who I ran into. Therein lies the path to chaos…

“Sage Bennett! Is that you? Wow! It’s been ages. Those teenage years are so awkward. Am I right? But you look amazing now and so grown-up.”

And…I was just shoved down memory lane. Thankfully, the rocky path was paved with a few scattered compliments. Too bad I’d only made it to the produce aisle.

“Mrs. Thompson! It’s good to see you. Are you still teaching ninth-grade science?”

Mrs. Thompson maneuvered her cart to the side, letting another couple slide past. “I’m retired now. No more science fairs for me. Gosh, remember yours? I still have nightmares.” She winked. “See what I did there?”

I did. Mrs. Thompson had made a sleep pun.

The thing was, I’d wanted to make a volcano. A perfectly normal and unproblematic project that would get me an A, and also leave me socially unscathed. But my mother insisted I show off the Bennett family mood detection tea. Not mood enhancer—that’s a different thing. This was more like a mood ring, but with tea.

The potion had passed from generation to generation, transcribed over the years until it was my mother’s turn to write it down. But not unlike the penmanship in her holiday letters, the potion card was unreadable.

I was also going through a phase where I refused to wear my glasses because they were too big for my face. Either way, I mixed up the ingredients, and instead of turning the tea blue when someone was happy; the potion had an unfortunate side effect: drowsiness. Like intense drowsiness. Everyone who drank my tea fell asleep, and we had to stop the fair early.

I did not get an A or leave socially unscathed. That year, my classmates called me Sage the Snoozy Mage and pretended to fall asleep whenever I spoke.

“So tell me,” Mrs. Thompson said, leaning on the handle of the cart like she planned to stay awhile. “What does it feel like to win such a prestigious award at the agency? Did they hold a huge banquet?” She pressed a hand against her heart and whispered reverently, “Were you wearing a designer label?”

“Well—”

Mrs. Thompson didn't let me finish. “Your mother told us all about your success at bookclub, and I told everyone at the historical center. Someone even made a flyer and put it on the bulletin board at the post office.”

“I hope they didn’t use my yearbook photo,” I said, trying to disguise my agony.

Only in my hometown would they post my alleged achievement right next to the federal wanted posters. Memory lane had morphed into a dark future alley, and I needed an off-ramp.

“Oh, look—fresh turkeys are half-off! Better grab one before they sell out.” I pointed toward the back of the store and when Mrs. Thompson fell for my ruse, I dashed down the cereal aisle.

This town wasn’t big enough for me and my emotional baggage, and I still hadn’t found anything on my shopping list. Keeping my head low, and my perfectly styled hair in my face—thank goodness for curtain bangs—I managed to locate the truffle butter.

The rest of the list I slowly added to the cart, wheeling between shoppers like I was moving through a maze while memories from my past waited at the end of every aisle. Until I’d reached the coveted cheese case and spotted the most terrifying dead end of them all: Leo Grayson picking out a wheel of brie.

How was it possible for a man to look that good under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the supermarket? It wasn’t fair. He was even backlit by a variety of gourmet cheese, and let’s face it, life was just better with cheese. If he had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, I’d melt like fondue in front of the cracker display.

Cleanup on aisle twelve.

I pivoted, nearly knocking over a rack of bagel chips. There would be no sharp cheddar at the Bennett family Thanksgiving this year. A tragic, but necessary sacrifice.

Now I needed to get out of this store without Leo seeing me, or memory lane might turn into memory quicksand, and a discounted turkey wouldn’t be enough to pull me out.