Page 62 of Witchy Woman

A vintage tea set draws me in. It has a floral motif, with red roses decorating the four porcelain cups, matching plates, and teapot. It’s something she would use—something she would like.

The little sticker says it’s in my price range, miraculously.

I haggle with the woman behind the booth and cross the easiest purchase off my list.

Now on to Hazel. Fuck.

What does Hazel like? Being a martyr. Maybe I can get her a cross.

Okay, no, I’m not that much of a bitch.

She’s an artist. Enjoys all manner of art supplies and artwork. She has horrible clothes. I really should buy the woman an entirely new wardrobe. Maybe get her a haircut, too. The way some layers would do her facial structure wonders...

I’m getting sidetracked.

Presents. Focus.

A sparkle from my left catches my eye. I turn toward it, moving closer almost against my will.

It’s a necklace. A locket with a paintbrush etched into the silver.

“There’s a protection spell on that,” a woman says, appearing to my right. I almost jump at her sudden materialization. “A very powerful, ancient one. Physical manifestations of the spell are inside the locket.”

“How much of that is true and how much is you trying to make a sale?” I ask her, raising a brow. She’s not the typical old crone you’d expect to say something like that, which I’ll give her points for. She’s around Mom’s age, with long black hair braided into a gorgeous tail down her back.

She laughs. “I respect a bit of healthy disbelief. It’s very true, but even if you don’t believe it—it’s still a pretty necklace.”

Hazel has been protecting me all my life—even as angry as I am, I can admit that. Something about protecting her feels right.

“I’ll take it.”

“Well,aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Goldilocks?” Ash says, coming up behind me.

Busted. Not me looking at fucking wood-splitting axes because I have no fucking idea what to get him.

Who knew he’d be a harder buy than Hazel?

“Can I help you?” I try for sass, but the last word leaves my mouth in a whine as Ash moves in front of me, wrapping his large hand around the back of my neck and into my hair.

He pulls just a smidge to lift my gaze to his, that always indulgent smile on his face. “I can think of a few things you could help me with, actually.”

“I’m busy.” I try to clear the buzzy desire from my head. “While I understand that you could never get enough of how amazing I am, I do have a life.”

“I miss you, too,” he chuckles. “What are you doing?”

He squeezes the back of my neck and retreats, wrapping his arm around my waist instead. The hold is loose but still possessive, as if he enjoys others seeing us twisted together.

“Christmas shopping. Which is why it is asoloactivity.”

“We’re only a week out—cutting it pretty close there, aren’t you?” His deep green eyes pull me in just like they always do.

“I’m supposed to believe you’ve already bought all your presents?”

“Of course I have. I couldn’t go two days this entire month without seeing something that reminded me of you somehow.”

Soft, gooey affection warms my heart. It’s official. The man is too good for me.

“I excel at shopping for myself.” We move away from the axes that were absolutely a horrible idea. “Not for others.”