“I could use it.” Bill raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Old Bailer?” Sadie guessed, and Bill nodded. The restoration of the local landmark had been experiencing some unexpected setbacks.
“That place is twelve thousand square feet of trouble,” he said right before his eyes swiveled to Gigi like a magnet. Her grandmother stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. He cleared his throat and bid them both a good morning before leaving, but not before Sadie saw the flush that colored his cheeks.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Sadie demanded with a grin. “Poor Bill has been sweet on you for ages. Why can’t you be nicer to him?”
“Hush,” Gigi barked with harsh laughter, “Nobody’s after a doddery old fool like me. And don’t you pretend like half the young men in this town aren’t pining away for you, Revelare name or no. Why do you think that boy proposed to you?”
Just then, they both shivered as the back of their necks grew warm. They looked up to see Ryan Wharton walking by. As he caught Sadie’s eye, he gave her a sad smile and a half wave before trudging on. He was the temptation Sadie had almost given into. Not out of love—nothing like it. But comfort. Companionship. Someone to hold her hand or listen to the story of her day. In the end, though, it wasn’t fair to him. He deserved more than lukewarm affection, especially since he’d been in love with Sadie since they were in grade school. Her need to do the right thing was greater than her desire for the relationship. She’d wished, more than once, that she could do something for herself, no matter the consequence of injustice. But the guilt always ate at her before she could follow through.
“Speak of the devil.” Gigi laughed with indulgence. “None of the boys around here are good enough for you. Because that’s what they are—boys.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not in the market, then,” Sadie said drily, pouring herself another cup of coffee. She added a blend of cinnamon and sweetened German cocoa and swirled the spoon around thoughtfully.
“I’ve told you a hundred times. Love is more important than magic, sugar.” And Gigi, who was never prone to displays of physical affection, laid a gentle hand on Sadie’s cheek for the briefest of moments.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a curse that’ll take yours away,” Sadie said, sliding an arm around her grandmother.
“Honey, I’ve got curses coming out my ears.”
“You do?” Sadie asked, startled.
“Never you mind.” Gigi pulled her in for a hug and patted her waist. “Now, get back there and finish those cookies before I sugar ’em to death.”
Sadie hurried to her dough, checking the timer as she did and wondering what kind of curses Gigi was talking about and what had brought on the physical display of affection. With eight minutes left, she gave the frosting a contemplative stir.
Heartbreak for Sadie wasn’t a passing folly, to be recovered from with time and chocolate and tears. Because of her curse, it could take everything from her. Which made falling in love a risk that wasn’t worth taking.
Something drew her to the oven despite the six minutes left on the timer. Peering in, panic scorched down her body like chili flakes when she saw the cookies were starting to burn at the edges. The message was clear as cold ice: “Something wicked this way comes.”
“No, no, no,” she whispered, hastily grabbing the nearest dishtowel. But the pan burned her hand through the fabric.
She yelped and dropped it on the stovetop with a reverberating clang. Someone, or something, had turned the oven up to five hundred degrees. She waved the dishtowel frantically, trying to fan away any scent of the evidence, because if Gigi caught so much as a whiff, she’d banish Sadie from the kitchen for the day.
She hurriedly scraped the burned cookies into the sink and turned on the garbage disposal. A familiar fire was burning along her veins, and her fist ached to hit something. The sixth bad omen. The sachet of lavender and buckbean she kept in her apron pocket was doing little to keep her calm the way it was supposed to.
In front of her, peppered on the countertop and the long wall shelves, she eyed her canisters. Each one had a label, written by Gigi. There was no cinnamon, basil, clove, or marjoram. Instead, “Youth” sat next to “Friendship,” while “Love,” “Kindness,” and “Forgetfulness” were relegated to their own section. “Stability,” “Health,” and “Fertility” kept “Good Wishes” company, while “Misfortune” was pushed to the back like a dark secret.