Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(13)
“I’d think her maternal instincts might be more triggered by how potentially fatal your hobbies seem to be.”
“Dang,” he marveled, a slight but unmistakable edge of annoyance to his voice, “you’re really still stuck on that risk factor, aren’t you?”
“I just have a strong desire to not die any sooner than absolutely necessary.” I shrugged, took a sip of my gin and tonic. “And difficulty understanding when someone doesn’t seem similarly invested in living to a ripe old age.”
“Well, like everything else, when it comes to silk safety, you can be smart or stupid about it,” he said, recrossing his legs and shifting in the chair in a way that somehow came across as adversarial. “I tend to choose smart. But not gonna lie, I do it for the thrill, too. That’s a built-in part of the appeal.”
“To each their own,” I said primly, echoing his own earlier dismissal of me. “I’ll stick with my marathons.”
“So you’re a runner,” he said, in the same lackluster tone one might say “probate accountant,” all but wrinkling his nose. “Cool.”
“It gets me moving!” I chirped, trying by sheer force of will to reignite that early spark between us, even as it became increasingly clear that having next to nothing in common was not, in fact, incredibly conducive to conversation. “I’ve also done a couple Tough Mudders, even ran the Boston Marathon a few years back. It’s tough during winter, being stuck inside on a treadmill.”
“You could still run outside on the nicer days,” he pointed out. “People do.”
“I am aware,” I said, gritting my teeth. “But it’s really not the best idea. It locks up your muscles and joints, and if you fall—of which there’s obviously a much higher likelihood—you can do a lot more damage to your body than you might in warmer weather.”
“Definitely very risky,” he agreed, in that same deadpan tone that made it sound like he was humoring me, as if the objectively enhanced risks of winter running were something I was exaggerating to a paranoid degree.
I dug my fingers into my palms, reminding myself that this was the point; Morty wasn’t a good fit for me, and therefore I should endeavor to chill a little. Lean into the chemistry, instead of stressing over the possibility of a compatible partnership.
“So, your burlesque photos look like such a blast,” I attempted. “I didn’t realize there was even a scene here. I love anything like that, especially with a cosplay element. Kind of grew up with it.”
His eyebrows ticked up at that, as if he were shocked that a sad stick-in-the-mud like me could appreciate any form of risqué or creative entertainment.
“There isn’t, really,” he replied. “I stick to Carbondale for that. They have plenty of theaters and clubs that do cabaret nights. I think they host some events over at Castle Camelot, too. But fuck if I’d ever set foot on Blackmoore property, much less give those tools my money.”
I tried to keep my face schooled in the same expression of polite interest, even though my blood pressure felt like it had shot up to press against the underside of my skull.
“And why is that?” I said, clearing my throat, my fingers twitching around my glass.
“Because they’re a bunch of outrageous, entitled chucklefucks,” he spat, jaw tightening, his face settling into harsh lines I wouldn’t have expected to ever see on such elfin features. “Who can’t take no for a fucking answer. The oldest one especially—that sublime shithead Gareth—rolls into the Shamrock all the time like some kind of lordling. Like he owns my place. They tried to buy it out from under me and my pops a dozen times over the past year or so, no matter how often we shut them down. Just kept grinding at it, even after he . . .”
He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say and shook his head instead, mouth curling in disgust. “Some people have no limits, you know? No basic decency.”
I dug my nails even deeper into my palms, trying to keep my lips from quivering—because in this instance, “some people” was me.
Since we lost the Gauntlet of the Grove, along with the magical boost in fortune that the Victor’s Wreath provided, the profitability of our holdings had taken a significant hit. We’d lost a good chunk of the seasonal tourist horde to the Avramovs’ Arcane Emporium and haunted house, and the Thorns’ orchards with their enchanted hedge maze and sunflower field. In response, my mother had wanted to expand our presence into Castle Camelot–themed stores and bars in downtown Thistle Grove, where they’d be even more readily accessible to strolling visitors. And there had been a particularly promising row of commercial real estate on Myrtle Street, just off the main drag, Yarrow, that lent itself easily to that kind of conversion.
And it wasn’t just her; we were all excited about the idea, this new chance to do more, become bigger. Feel relevant again, central to this town the way we’d historically been.
The Shamrock Cauldron had been the only one of the venues that hadn’t agreed to sell to us, no matter how we sweet-talked them, or how much pressure we applied behind the scenes. I knew, because I’d been the one drafting increasingly insistent letters of intent addressed to Armando Gutierrez and Mortimer Gutierrez, co-owners of the Shamrock Cauldron. That was why I’d remembered the name in the first place.