Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(36)

Hello. Have we met?

Of course not!

“Why’s that?” I ask, clutching the phone tight as I adjust my posture to make sure the giant-ass chip on my shoulder is still there where it belongs. “Because they’ll automatically assume I’m a loser?”

Don’t give me that look. We all have unhealthy defense mechanisms. What are you going to do, come for my raw cookie dough habit next?

“No.” He rounds the desk, coming to a stop next to me, close enough that every nerve in my body tunes into him like he’s the one available radio station on an entire spectrum of static. “Because they’ll underestimate you, just like everyone else does. Let them. They’ll never see you coming.”

The chip doesn’t just fall off. It evaporates—poof—like magic.

See? That’s what I’m talking about. How dare he say that and then how dare my body react like I just might be able to take off and fly up to Massachusetts?

That way lies disappointment, Tilda. Don’t forget it.

Grimacing, I dial the number, my finger striking the screen harder than necessary, but it is better than jabbing it into his really defined bicep. The guy is a researcher, a nerd, an academic. What in the world is he doing with a thirst-trap body? It isn’t fair. Also not right? His forearms. I don’t mean to look, but my eyes have to focus on something while the phone rings and rings in my ear. So here I am trying not to drool over Gil’s arm-porn forearms, visible because he’s rolled up the long sleeves of his button-up, and all I can think about is how his corded muscles would flex as he worked his fingers in me—and that is not what I am supposed to be even kinda sorta maybe thinking about.

That’s it. I am definitely having some sort of break.

“Hello?” A man on the other end of the phone answers. “Hello?” he says again when I don’t respond because my brain is trying desperately to stop my mouth from saying anything stupid to Gil. “Heeeeelllllloooooo, is anyone there? Bobby, is this you? You know you’re a little shithead. I had to fight off the goats to answer this damn thing.”

“Um . . .” Come on, Tilda. Engage! “I was looking for Erik Svensen?”

“Fuck me.” The man on the other end lets out a deep groan. “You’re not Bobby.”

“I don’t even know who Bobby is.” Really what I know about the entire Svensen family could fit on the back of this Rolodex card. Long-standing rivals of the Sherwoods. Rich as all get-out. Stuck-up. Deadly good-looking right down to the herd of goats they keep as familiars. Don’t ask me how goats could be considered handsome, I don’t know, I’m only reporting what I’ve heard.

“Bobby is the neighborhood unicorn,” the man says.

And that makes total sense. “We have one of those.”

“Total prick most of the time?”

“I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” I say, even though everyone else in town would describe Vance as exactly that—including the unicorn himself. “But he can be really grumpy.”

“Okay, so now that I know you’re not Bobby, who is this and how did you get this number?”

“It’s in my family’s contact list.” I really should have planned out what I was going to say instead of getting distracted by Gil. “I’m Tilda Sherwood.”

He lets out a low whistle. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“Are you Erik?”

“Nah, I’m Cyfrin Svensen—but everyone calls me Cy,” he says, managing to make it sound like absolutely no one calls him that but he really wishes they would.

“Okay, Cy.” Flatter, who me? Hey, when you don’t have magic to fall back on, you learn to adjust. “I’m calling for a favor.”

“What’s that?”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. “I need four tickets to the exhibition this weekend.”

“Yeah right.” Cy lets out a cackle of a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Next to me, Gil lets out a series of low, mumbled curses of the fuck-me variety rather than the turn-him-into-a-toad kind.

“It’s only a couple of tickets,” I say, trying not to let my desperation seep into my voice. “Please.”

Something in my tone must give him pause because he lets out a harsh groan. “I’ll see what I can do, but it’s probably a no.”

“I appreciate any help.” My shoulders go down a smidge with relief that it wasn’t a straight up no. “I’ll owe you one.”

“Yeah?” Cy asks. “Can you get your hands on any juniper berries? There’s been some kind of run on them up here.”

Gil flinches next to me, then his whole body goes stiff.

That’s weird. Juniper berries are low-level protection spell ingredients. Usually they’re so easy to find, grocers give them away for free in thank-you goodie bags. “I’ll look around and bring what I can find.”

“You bring the berries and I can guarantee the tickets, no questions asked.”

A shiver of unease zips up my spine, then I look over at Gil and he looks like he just ate a bowl full of glass. Whatever is going on up there, it can’t be good, and now we’re heading straight for even more trouble.

Because a frozen family isn’t enough.