Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(51)

After returning to the inn, Justine had been gratified to learn that everything had gone smoothly at the inn during her brief absence. Annette and Nita had cleaned the rooms and common areas, and Zoë had taken care of the kitchen. No complaints from the guests—they had been happy to lounge in the reading room by the fireplace during the storm, while Zoë had brought in trays of refreshments.

Zoë seemed to sense that Justine wasn’t telling her everything about the experience on Cauldron Island. After listening to Justine’s expurgated version of the night at the lighthouse, she asked skeptically, “Nothing happened between you and Jason?”

An image appeared in Justine’s mind, of being held against Jason’s muscular body … that skin as golden and hot as sunlight … and she felt herself flush. “I guess I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have a little crush on him.” She tried to look nonchalant.

“What about Jason?” Zoë asked, bringing a roll of paper towels for Justine to use on the coffee machine. “Does he feel something for you, too?”

“Well … that doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“He’s my total opposite, Zo. He’s a one-percenter. He has a company plane. He has three houses and doesn’t spend time in any of them. I can’t be with someone like that.”

Zoë gave her a look of fond exasperation. “Is he kind to you? Does he make you laugh? Do you enjoy talking to him?” After Justine nodded in answer to all three questions, Zoë said, “Maybe those are the only things you need to focus on.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I think it is that simple. People use complications as an excuse to give up too soon.” Zoë helped Justine to push the heavy coffee machine back into place. “A group of the girls want to get together this weekend. Are you up for a movie night?”

“Sure. But do me a favor—warn them beforehand not to ask me anything about Jason.”

“You’re going to have to come up with some PR version to tell them,” Zoë said. “Otherwise, they won’t stop pestering you.”

“PR as in ‘public relations’? Or do you mean ‘pointless rambling’?”

“Provocatively risqué,” Zoë suggested with a twinkle in her eyes.

Justine smiled and went to one of the tall kitchen cabinets and opened the door. “Where is the little marble mortar and pestle you use for grinding herbs?”

“I’ll get it for you.” Zoë went to open one of the upper cabinets. Pulling out the white mortar and pestle, she brought them to Justine. “Can I help with something?”

“No, I was thinking about trying out a recipe for an oatmeal and honey mask.”

“Add a squeeze of lemon juice,” Zoë suggested, reaching for the fruit bowl. “It’ll brighten your complexion.” She picked up a ripe lemon and handed it to Justine. “As for what we were talking about … try to stay open-minded, Justine. Sometimes love happens in unexpected places.”

Justine gave her a dark glance. “So do weeds.”

Zoë smiled. “All right, I’m going.”

After Zoë left, Justine went to her cottage, retrieved the spellbook from under her bed, and brought it to the kitchen. Leafing through the section on potions, tonics, and tinctures, she found the recipe she wanted. A discouragement potion, one guaranteed to break the bonds of any romantic attachment or attraction. If given to Jason by her hand, he would lose all interest in her.

Since he could not be expected to drink the potion voluntarily, Justine would have to find a way to slip it to him without his knowledge. She felt more than a little guilty about that, but there was no other choice. It was for his own good, after all. She was trying to save his life.

She winced, however, as she remembered him telling her, “Whenever someone says ‘this is for your own good,’ it’s a guarantee they’re about to cause you some kind of damage.”

Wasn’t there a word for when you had to choose between two equally unpleasant options? “Screwed,” she decided ruefully.

She went out to her herb garden to gather fresh licorice root, mint, cilantro, and marjoram. Returning to the kitchen with fragrant handfuls of green, she locked both doors. It was important to follow the recipe to the letter—she wasn’t going to risk interruptions.

She ground the herbs with the mortar and pestle, scraped the pungent green mash into a copper saucepan, and added water. After setting the pan to simmer on the stove, Justine went into the pantry to retrieve a cardboard box from the top shelf. It contained a few basic magic supplies, including small glass jars and bottles and packets of resins. Crushing a small lump of myrrh and a pinch of dragontree resin into powder, she added them to the contents of the saucepan.

As the mixture boiled, Justine lit a white sage smudge stick and waved it around the kitchen in a negativity-cleansing ritual. When the herbs were sufficiently steeped, Justine strained the brew into a small bowl. She cleaned up the kitchen and returned to the table to finish the potion. She flipped back to the formula, which called for “Maiden’s Tears.”

“Great,” Justine said to the book sardonically. “I’m pretty sure I don’t count as a maiden.” In the absence of readily available weeping virgins, however, her own tears would have to do.