She swung open the door for me, leaning in close as I reached her, a waft of her creamy perfume drifting over me. The nearness of her, the sudden heat that sparked between us, sent such a potent surge of thrill through my stomach that I caught my breath.
“In that case, I’ll let you in on a little Thistle Grove secret, Harlow,” she murmured close to my ear, her voice taking on a hushed, serious tone. “Try not to pass out, but . . . we even have nitro cold brew now.”
* * *
I was still giggling under my breath as we stepped out onto the cobbles of Yarrow Street, the picturesque pedestrian main drag that wound through the heart of the town. Storefronts lined both sides, awnings fluttering prettily in the wafting, cinnamon-and apple-scented breeze; so Golden’s, the bakery that sold melt-in-your-mouth croissants and mulled Honeycake cider, was still in operation. Along with the Wicked Sweet Dessert Shoppe, the Moon and Scythe tavern a few blocks down, and the little sandwich place on one of the side streets, it had been one of the few decent lunch spots within walking distance of Tomes.
But as we walked, I spotted a handful of new venues alongside the kitschy-witch offerings I remembered all too well. We passed the town’s elegant witch history museum, a gorgeous art deco movie theater that specialized in horror movies, the Bespelled soap and candle store, the tchotchke-peddling souvenir shops—but also a funky pizzeria called Cryptid Pizza, its spookiness clearly tongue-in-cheek, then an artisanal gelateria, even what looked like an upscaleish gastropub. Tourists milled around us, darting in and out of the bustling storefronts with tissue-papered bags in hand and bespoke witch hats perched on their heads, their kids bedecked in adorable Halloween paraphernalia.
“See that place, Whistler’s Fireside?” Talia said, pointing at the gastropub. “They have steak tartare sometimes, can you even believe it? With real quail eggs and black garlic aioli, just totally wild. If you close your eyes, you can pretend you’re not even here.”
“Okay, you can stop now.”
Talia abruptly veered left, shouldering open a heavy, industrial-looking door that swung into a hip little coffee shop; all exposed brick walls and rough wooden planks, vintage Edison bulbs hanging over the distressed beechwood counter, the air sweet with sawdust and the rich cloy of espresso beans. The kind of third wave coffee shop that put as much cultish stock by their equitably sourced offerings as they did by their décor. In other words, the kind of place that checked off all my boxes—and that I’d never have expected to see in Thistle Grove.
I scanned the beverages listed on the blackboard behind the counter, delighted and semishocked to see a variety of Dark Matter blends.
“They carry my favorite coffee!” I squealed, so thrilled I actually clasped a hand to my heart, as if I’d spotted a long-lost friend. “My Chicago go-to! I can’t believe it’s made it all the way out here. I officially stand corrected.”
“Let’s not make any grand pronouncements just yet,” Talia cautioned, holding up a finger, “before you determine whether these yokel baristas actually know their way around a French press. One never knows.”
At her direction, I wandered over to one of the tables while she ordered our drinks, pulling out my phone to skim through my work email as I waited. Even though I was technically on sabbatical, my duties split between my colleagues—nice people whom I mostly liked, and the kind of rare coworkers who genuinely didn’t seem to mind more than a month of picking up my slack—with my work bestie, Naomi, acting as lead, I was still copied on all the emails to keep an eye out for any fires.
“All quiet on the Box o’ Witches front?” Talia asked, reading the screen over my shoulder as she bent to deposit a massive steaming mug in front of me.
“Too quiet,” I complained, pouting. I drew the mug close as she sat down, inhaling a sweet mix of foamed almond milk, cinnamon, cocoa, espresso, and a spicy touch of cayenne. I was usually more of a purist when it came to coffee, but the Black Magic blend had sounded too enticing to resist, even if the name was a touch on the nose. “They haven’t even had so much as a minor catastrophe yet. How am I supposed to feel needed?”
“Give it time,” Talia advised. “You’ve only been gone just over a week. Surely the dire straits will be upon them soon.”
“And to be fair, I did leave my colleague who’s covering for me a novella of instructions. So all she has to do is keep the fires hot with the vendors, brainstorm some new concepts, keep on top of the printer, wrangle the interns, and execute the rest of my monthly checklist, and she should be fine.”