Page 37 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“Bill’s. He works with me. You’ve never met him.”

I nod and take another sip of my beer.

There is no real reason not to go. I like Halloween, which should surprise absolutely no one given how much time I spend surrounded by crystals, candles, and sending out intentions into the universe in the form of online spells.

Still, my first instinct has been to find a reason I couldn’t.

I look at Maggie across the table.

There was a time when she wouldn’t have needed to formally invite me somewhere. If Maggie was going to a party, there was a reasonable chance I was going, too, and if one of us changed our mind, we’d decide that fifteen minutes before we were supposed to leave. We had other friends and separate lives, but there had been an ease between us that I hadn’t understood was something I could lose until I did.

For a long time afterward, I blamed my relationship.

It was easier to think falling in love with Alison had consumed me. That it had made me cancel plans, stop answering messages and turn every conversation into an update about her until there wasn’t much room for anyone else.

Except love hadn’t canceled dinner with Maggie three times in one month. I had.

And when my best friend of probably two decades stopped asking, I’d somehow managed to be hurt by that, too.

Now she is asking again.

“I’ll go,” I say, taking out my phone and adding it to my calendar, although I’m certain I won’t forget about it.

Maggie’s perfectly styled eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t.” She smiles and reaches for her wine again. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“I’m not a complete hermit, you know.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all, Flora,” she says, and I see some semblance of sadness in her eyes. “I was thinking I’m glad you said yes.”

Something about the simplicity of that makes me look down at my glass. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“You’re doing that stupid happy face!”

Maggie laughs. “God forbid.”

I smile, too, and some of the tightness that’s been sitting between my ribs since I arrived finally loosens.

“Do I have to wear a costume?”

“You can be dressed as a witch and bring your business cards,” she says, lifting one shoulder playfully. “You could write the whole night off.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s a solid idea right there.”

CHAPTER 12

MERRYWEATHER

There are seven folders on my chair when I get to work on Friday morning.

I count them twice, mostly because seven feels excessive even for Hell, who has never met a task she couldn’t delegate or an emergency she couldn’t make more urgent by writing it on a yellow sticky note.

There’s a few of those on my monitor, too.