Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(49)

“But my very favorite is Beatnik on the River,” I finished. “It’s this Moroccan-inspired place on the Riverwalk. You sit right out on the water, with all these plants and pretty carpets and art deco chandeliers dripping crystals right above your head. You get to sip cocktails out of coconuts and watch the death-wish kayakers and pontoons go by on the river. Maybe place bets on how likely they are to get capsized by one of the architecture cruises that absolutely do not give a fuck.”

She raised a considering eyebrow. “Now that you put it that way, the sick thrill of it all just might be worth the money.”

“Maybe you’ll come out sometime, for a few days,” I suggested, trying to keep the question casual, though the thought of Talia in Chicago stirred up a fresh swarm of butterflies in my belly. “I could show you around.”

“Maybe,” she said, looking doubtful. “I’m not sure I could handle it—even a long stint in Carbondale is a stretch for me. And all the way out to Chicago, that far north? You know how fast the magic fades once you get beyond town lines.”

“Even for just a few days, though?” I pressed. “It took months and months before I couldn’t do spellwork at all anymore.”

“Not worth it,” she said, shaking her head. “Even a few days of being that weak just isn’t for me. Then what if something went wrong, and for some reason it never came back in full?” She shuddered bodily at the idea of such a loss. “Hard, hard pass.”

I sipped my drink past the sudden lump in my throat, momentarily saddened by how much she would miss because she couldn’t stand to let go of magic, and therefore of Thistle Grove, even for that long. But then again, I thought, recalling the gorgeously macabre spell she’d woven in the woods to dispel the shades—the sheer dark elegance of her magic—maybe I was the one whose priorities were out of whack.

“Then you’ll have to take my word for it on Beatnik. It’s eclectic in the best way . . . a little like this place.” I looked around at the thoughtful installations, bemused. “This doesn’t even feel like Thistle Grove. I mean, a solid coffee shop is one thing, but an actually tasteful dining establishment? Where are the inevitable bats? Why isn’t it called, I don’t know, Booo-nagi or something?”

She chuckled at that, shaking her head. “You’ve been gone a long time, Harlow. Like you saw on Yarrow the other day, it’s not like Thistle Grove’s been stuck in stasis since you left. Things change, new places open . . . If you’d just let your guard down the tiniest bit, maybe you’d find this place has a lot more to offer than what you might remember.”

I held up a hand, taking a healthy swig of the martini. “Let’s not go that far, just because I happen to enjoy a good transitional aesthetic.”

A host arrived to lead us to our table, where I tucked myself into the banquette while Talia took the chair across from me. By the time we’d ordered and our appetizers had arrived, we were well into our second round of drinks; I was feeling warm and glittery and a lot more relaxed, any lingering jitters swept away by the martinis and Talia’s equally intoxicating presence.

“My dilemma now is, how do I even admit how good this is without you gloating about it forever,” I said, taking another savory bite of tuna tataki, “thereby ruining my enjoyment? Quite the quandary.”

“If it makes you feel safer, I’ve been known, upon rare occasion, to be Jessica Lange gracious about being right.” She dipped her petal-pink sashimi in soy sauce, then nibbled at it in a way that abruptly catapulted raw fish to the unlikely top of my “most erotic foods” list. “And my favorite sushi happens to be the kind I make fresh at home. So until you’ve had mine for comparison, I can’t completely trust your judgment.”

“Wait a minute.” I stared at her with narrowed eyes, brandishing a chopstick at her. “You make sushi? You cook?”

She watched me, amused, candlelight dancing in her frosty irises. “I don’t know that rolling maki qualifies as cooking. But I do like to actually cook with heat, too. And bake, even. Why, Harlow, are you surprised by my tremendous domestic prowess?”

I made jazzy exploding fingers on either side of my temples. “More like mind blown. Tell me more.”

“Well, for your information, I enjoy doing all kinds of”—her voice deepened, turning deliberately husky as she leaned forward, holding my gaze—“homey shit. In fact, I’ve been told my chocolate babka is the dessert equivalent of tantric sex.”

I burst out laughing, though a small, snotty part of me wondered if it was the notorious Jessica who had told her that. “Makes one of us, I guess. I keep trying out meal subscription boxes to get into cooking, but that particular skill set just does not seem to take. I’ll lie about it if you ever tell anyone, but I’ve managed to burn rice at least three times in the past few months. Like smoke-alarm-and-pissed-off-neighbors burnt.”

Her inky eyebrows soared. “I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but damn. That’s tragic.”

I swirled the prickly pear sediment in my glass. “I just don’t have the patience for it. Like, what’s the point of slaving over beef bourguignonne or whatever, when all your hard work is just going to get eaten? Hours of labor, and then poof, it’s gone?”

“That is generally how food works, yes.”