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Margaret smacked her with the bouquet but laughed at the same time.

“Okay, fine,” Liza said. “She wouldn’t say that, but I definitely would.”

“I think he’s traumatized from last night,” Margaret said. “I keep running so hot and cold on him. One minute, I’m insisting we need to be friends. Then, I’m demanding he kiss me—”

“You demanded he kissed you?” Liza said. “Oh my god!”

“My point is,” Margaret said, “he’s got to be getting sick of me.”

“I highly doubt that,” Liza said, smiling and waving at something just past Margaret’s shoulder. “Considering he’s walking up the lane right now, beaming at you.”

Margaret scarcely dared to believe it. She turned on her heels so slowly, it was like she was moving through honey. But there he was. Waving, haloed by the sun like a Greek god wandering down from Olympus for the day.

And he was wearing glasses.

Goddammit.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The second that Silas had left the Toasty Owl last night, he had felt like a complete asshole. Here Margaret had been, spilling her soul for him, finally, finally opening up to him about the thing she clearly carried enormous shame about, as emotional and fragile as they come, and what had he done?

He had kissed her.

And yes, she had threatened to curse him if he didn’t, but Silas was a grown man. A grown man who should’ve seen the situation for what it was and resisted the urge to be with her at that moment, no matter how potent said urge had been. Where would they be if Liza hadn’t walked in? The last thing that Silas wanted was for Margaret to regret any piece of what they had done—or would do.

Because god, that couldn’t be the end of it. He was a man who had tasted true sweetness for the first time and had come away with not just a craving, but an addiction. If he couldn’t see her or touch her again soon, he feared he would wither away on the spot and die.

Silas hadn’t felt like this about anyone before. Sure, there had been the occasional woman in his bed, and he’d had girlfriends before—though none that ever stuck for very long. But every woman he’d been with had lacked something he couldn’t describe. It had felt silly to call it magic when Silas knew true magic existed, but damn if that didn’t seem to be the missing component.

And yet.

Here was Margaret, claiming she wasn’t magical. Showing him that unforgivable letter that made his blood boil at just the thought. Who could say that she didn’t radiate charms simmering beneath her skin?

Because it had taken Silas a moment when he first walked into Hex Hollow to realize what it was about it that was different than the dreary street he’d previously lived on. The stone and the brick and the general shape of the buildings were the same, and even the assortment wasn’t that different: Here was a bakery, there was a bookshop, and so on. But when he got closer—when he really looked—everything about the enchanted village sparkled with life, a sort of sheen that emanated from every inch of it, as if the magic itself was palpable and alive.

But nowhere did he see that more than with Margaret Nettle.

Even through the white blur of snow that fell around her, she glowed with magic. Snowflakes clung to her long auburn curls, dusted her pink cheeks, played around that mouth that was always telling him off. It sparked at her fingertips and chased around the curves of her hips, seemed to vibrate when she laughed—something she was doing now with Liza. There were blue and white flowers in her gloved hands, and she’d pulled on a cream knit beanie with a ball on top, and—

And she was wearing the scarf he’d given her. He saw the burgundy fabric wrapped around her neck and tucked into the coat and felt something warm swell in his chest. It was a small detail, but considering he’d seriously thought she’d returned it, it burned through him.

“Good morning,” Silas said as he stepped up to them. “Nice to run into the two of you.”

Margaret’s eyes sparked in the sunlight as she regarded him. Her lips no longer looked swollen from their kiss, a fact he was dying to rectify. But he would rein in his want for the present moment, particularly since he didn’t miss the devilish glint in Liza’s eyes. He thought Bernie’s diversion had kept her from seeing most of what had happened, but she knew. And, if Silas had to guess, Margaret had already filled her in anyway on the finer points that she hadn’t seen.

“Hello,” Margaret said in a shy voice that he’d never heard before. She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. The way she was watching him was as if they were back alone in that pub. God, was she as lost for him as he was for her?

Just ask.

It was easier said than done.

“Clearly, I’m no longer wanted here,” Liza said, breaking the spell and making both Margaret and Silas start.

“Oh, no,” Margaret started to say, reaching for Liza’s arm. “I am sure Silas isn’t, I mean, I don’t want to presume—”

Silas chuckled. “I was coming to see if you might be interested in spending the day with me before you open for the evening. Open the pub, I mean. Obviously.”

Smooth, Silas. You could’ve stopped while you were ahead, but of course, that would’ve been too easy. Why did the woman make him feel sixteen again? He hadn’t been awkward around women in years.