The Ex Hex (Ex Hex #1)(41)

Where did he belong?

Not wanting to follow that particularly maudlin train of thought, Rhys nudged Vivienne with his elbow and said, “So how exactly does it work here? The secret witch thing. Especially with the college. You can spot other witches, right?”

Shrugging, Vivienne tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Usually. And honestly, it’s not as hard to keep a secret from people as you’d think. Lots of people dabble in witchcraft now, so it’s not exactly weird to have an interest in that kind of thing.”

“Or run a shop,” Rhys said, and she nodded.

“Or that.”

“But the other students at the college still don’t know they’re going to school with witches, right?”

“Right,” Vivienne confirmed as they came to the coffee shop. Like every store or restaurant along this strip of main street, it was decorated for Halloween, little pumpkins stuck to the front window, and a garland of lights that looked like tiny cauldrons draping the door.

As they stepped inside, Rhys held the door open for a family with a baby swaddled up in a stroller, smiling down at the babbling infant as they passed, and when he looked back up, Vivienne was watching him with a strange look on her face.

“What?” he asked, but she only shook her head and gestured toward the counter.

“Tea?”

“Tea,” he confirmed.

Once they had ordered—basic English breakfast for Rhys, something with honey and lavender for Vivienne—they made their way to a booth near the back, and Rhys was suddenly very aware of how cozy this setting was, how . . . intimate.

“So.”

“So.”

They sat there with their steaming mugs of tea on the table, but neither of them made a move to drink. Instead, Rhys looked at Vivienne, and Vivienne looked everywhere but at him, her fingers twisting the fingerless gloves she was wearing nervously, pulling at the edges until Rhys was afraid they might unravel.

He reached out and covered one of her hands with his own, and dammit all, even through the wool of her gloves, even with his palm only barely touching the bare skin of her knuckles, he felt the touch all the way down to the soles of his feet, his skin lighting up with awareness of her.

“I think we need to talk about the library.”

She was already shaking her head, golden hair spilling over her shoulders. “No. No, no, no, no. We don’t. That’s a thing that in no way needs talking about.”

“Vivienne.”

“It was stupid, and it was just a kiss,” she went on.

He raised his eyebrows. “Just a kiss? Really?”

A flush crept up Vivienne’s neck, but she drew her hand out from underneath his and repeated, “Just a kiss.”

Rhys had not known Vivienne all that long in the grand scheme of things, but he recognized the look on her face now. This was a closed subject, and pushing her on it wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

So he slid his own hands back across the table, resting them on the edge and drumming his fingers as he looked around him.

“Busy place.”

Clearly relieved at the change in subject, Vivienne nodded and picked up her mug of tea. “It’s always packed. We’re lucky we found a table.”

Leaning forward, Rhys gave a subtle jerk of his head to the barista, a short girl with bright turquoise hair and a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses. “Witch?” he asked quietly, and Vivienne didn’t even glance over to see who he was talking about.

“Yup. They only employ witches here. Usually students from the college. It’s part of what keeps things running so smoothly in here. There’s some kind of light enchantment, means orders never go wrong, no one ever drops a glass, that kind of thing.”

Her words seemed to dawn on them both at the same time and, slowly, they both looked down at their teas.

“So. Magic helps run this place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And magic is . . . bad now.”

“Maybe it hasn’t affected this place?”

He could see Vivienne steeling herself as she picked up her mug, and he already had a hand out, her name on his lips as she closed her eyes, jerkily lifted the mug to her lips and took a big gulp.

They both sat there, frozen, as she swallowed and then, to his massive relief, smiled, her hazel eyes bright. “It’s fine,” she said, setting the mug back down. “Totally normal tea, no disaster magic afoot.”

Rhys took a sip of his own tea, and she was right—it tasted fine, and there was no hint of magic in it at all. “Right,” he said, and then lightly tapped her mug with his own. “So maybe this place escaped the cur—”

The shattering of glassware cut him off, and Rhys had a horrible prickling sensation on the back of his neck as he slowly turned to look toward the source of the noise.

There, by the door, an entire table had been turned over, glasses and mugs lying in pieces on the floor, and amid all that broken glass was a body.

Rhys was on his feet almost without thinking, crossing over to where a man, an older guy in khakis and loafers, lay on the floor, the fingers of one hand still curled like he was holding a mug, his face locked in a rictus of surprise.

“He’s breathing,” Vivienne said, appearing by Rhys’s side, her fingers pressed against the man’s wrist. “And his pulse is fine. He’s just . . .”