The kind of girl who should definitely not be drinking a tourist-trap concoction with such evident relish.
“Technically, yes,” I said, eyeballing her drink with more than a little trepidation. “Literally, I’m a little afraid of what you might consider a beverage suitable for this occasion. I mean, what is that travesty? A Sex on the Beach with Scorpion Bowl aspirations?”
She pressed a fingertip to her lips, her eyes flying wide with mock outrage. “Hush, child, before you utter something that cannot be unspoken. I’ll have you know this is a Rainbow’s End Gimlet, the finest of all Morty’s creations. The homemade bitters really highlight the flavored vodkas, of which I believe there are at least three. It’s delicious, and it will knock you straight on your ass.”
I cocked my head, nodding slowly. “It’s . . . shall we say, interesting to me that this is your drink of choice on a Sunday night.”
“What can I say? I’m basically Russian. Random drunkenness is part of my life philosophy—and yours, starting now. Excuse me, sweet pea,” Talia called out to Morty, who’d emerged from the back. He turned to give her a beaming smile several leagues away from the stoic courtesy he’d reserved for Gareth and the Blackmoore brood. Unlike them, she was clearly a genuinely welcome regular here. “Think you could curate a Shamrock flight for us?”
Morty popped her a crisp salute. “Nothing I’d rather do, lovebug.”
While he set to mixing and pouring, Talia propped an elbow on the counter and cupped her chin, eyes drifting back to mine. “So, before we get into the heavy—what have you been up to all these years, Harlow? Living the normie dream, I take it?”
I winced a little at the slur that I had once slung around with similarly casual abandon, before it occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t entirely cool. “Pretty much. Kicked things off with a comparative lit degree at the U of Chicago, with a minor in business.”
“Figures.” Another of those high-voltage smiles, a coy little tilt of the head. “Ever the high achiever. Weren’t you valedictorian your year?”
I blinked, surprised that she’d remember, especially since she’d graduated two years before I did. “Uh, yeah, I was. Just one of those weirdos who loves to learn, I guess. For a while there, I thought maybe I even wanted to go into academia. But since I’m partial to the idea of paying off my student loans before I have grandkids, I wound up taking a job with a subscription box start-up a few years back.”
She lifted her eyebrows, pitch-black and naturally dramatic, and gave me an admiring nod. “Oh, well played. Those are all the rage, right? What kind of goodies?”
“Well . . .” My cheeks heated a little, and I nibbled on the inside of my lower lip, wondering if I was just imagining the way her gaze briefly leapt down to my mouth. “It’s called, uh, Enchantify. ‘Magical treasures to indulge your inner witch.’ Incense, chakra-cleansing bath bombs, fancy pendulums, that kind of thing. My job is coming up with the concepts, then sourcing the contents each month from local vendors.”
“I . . . see.” A suspicious hint of a smile flickered over her full lips. “And, if I may, what was September’s theme?”
“It was Find Your Inner Goddess, actually,” I admitted, my cheeks now fully aflame. The irony of a former witch peddling pseudo-magical artifacts was far from lost on me. “It included a truffle box that came with a hand-painted tarot deck and meditation crystals. So you could discover your inner goddess while fondling a chunk of sustainably sourced selenite and enjoying an artisanal nougat. As, you know, witches are wont to do.”
“As I myself was planning on doing tonight, before I came here instead.” Now she was grinning fully, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers. But there was no sharp edge to her teasing, no malice to it at all. “So, what you’re telling me is, you’re a wannabe-witch enabler, is that about right?”
“More or less,” I admitted. “It’s about as far from real magic as you can get, but, false modesty aside, I pretty much kill at it. And it’s a booming business. Can’t throw a rock without hitting an Instagram witch these days.”
Talia toyed with her straw, looking more pensive than mocking. “All jokes aside, that’s a really smart take. I keep pitching Elena on adding an online presence to the Emporium, but she’s such a pigheaded traditionalist. Claims it would ‘dilute’ the ‘authenticity.’？” She put both words in finger quotes, rolling her eyes. “As if you have to earn the right to shop there by physically showing up, like it’s some kind of pagan pilgrimage instead of an upmarket Witch Walmart.”