With Hearts Aflame: Valentine's Day Box Set

by Maren Smith

  "When were you planning on testing it? And with whom?"

  She uttered a puzzled little laugh. "What's to test? I put it in a pretty bottle and slap a price tag on it and we're done! You act like it'll turn people into toads or something if I leave an ingredient out."

  He didn't smile. "Will it?"

  Stung, she recoiled. "Of course not! I know what I'm doing here, Damien!"

  "I'd feel better if you ran it past one of your relatives, that's all."

  "I happen to be better at potions than my entire family. They run stuff past me... or they would if any of them brewed potions anymore. I'm the expert here and I'm telling you, it'll work. That ought to be enough for you. Seriously, what is this? I really thought you'd be excited about this with me!" Harper slapped the paper down again, trying to make a joke of her frustration. "I kind of thought you'd, maybe, brew it up with me. You're always telling me how you want to try magic!"

  "It just seems like a bad idea."

  "What? Helping people have great sex? Is Dr. Ruth a bad idea? Is his-n-her lube a bad idea? Is Bad Dragon's tentacle toy a bad idea?"

  "Don't get prickly."

  "Well, stop shooting me down then! Do you want to help or not?"

  He looked at the paper, then at Verity's book and finally at her. "Not this time," he said. "Sorry, Harper."

  She threw up her arms and slapped them down on her hips. "Why not? Give me one good reason!"

  "It just doesn't seem right to use magic like this. And to sell it."

  "Oh for... why not? Everyone sells everything these days! Doctors sell their services to sick people! Firefighters and cops get paid for protecting people! Even churches make money! Why shouldn't I?"

  "Magic isn't a service. It's a gift. And if I've learned anything hanging out around here, it's that gifts that are abused have a way of turning against their abuser."

  "I'm not abusing anything! I just want to make a little novelty item to sell for the next few weeks so I can make a little extra money!"

  "So brew up some non-magical drink and sell that. Your normal customers will be just as happy to buy that and the not-so-normal ones wouldn't buy it anyway."

  "No. It has to work."

  "Why?"

  "Because I can make it work!" she snapped, more sharply than she intended to. "Don't you get it? I'm a real live witch and I can make a real live potion! You'd rather I lie to people and sell them a total fraud and why? Because apparently all magic is bad!"

  "You know I don't think that."

  "I sure thought I knew that, but I guess I don't know you as well as I thought I did. You know what? Never mind. I'll make it myself. You go on home."

  "Harper—"

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Damien." She gathered up her papers and headed for the stairs. "Lock up when you leave."

  Chapter Two

  Harper had never been good with deadlines or arguments and having to deal with both together only made a bad thing worse. She took her mind off Damien the most cowardly way possible, by avoiding him. Fortunately, her little sister Lindsey had a taste for living beyond her means and could usually be counted on to take a few shifts in the shop for easy money.

  "Sure, I can be there in ten," Lindsey said when Harper called the next morning. "What's up?"

  "Working on some holiday stock. Cookies and stuff for the coffee counter, you know."

  "Yum."

  "Also... I thought I'd brew up a potion."

  "Love potion?"

  "More like a sex potion."

  "Double-yum!"

  Thinking of Damien's completely unwarranted concerns, Harper grudgingly said, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to test one out for me?"

  "Sure. What am I testing it for, taste?"

  "Oh, Damien thinks it'll make people sprout a second head or something. Normals, huh?"

  "Mmmm, I'd be happy to put his fears to bed."

  "Hey!"

  Lindsey hung up with a giggle and, true to her word, Harper was soon hearing that same sly giggle downstairs as her sister flirted with every guy in the store... which most of the time was just Damien.

  "She can flirt with him all she wants," Harper reminded herself forcefully. "We're just friends."

  But her sister's laugh was like fingernails on the chalkboard of Harper's concentration and Damien's half-heard replies were even more jarring. She lugged out the cauldron, lit the mandrakes and started chopping herbs, unable to help but imagine Lindsey's hand reaching out to teasingly slap at Damien's arm, drawing his attention so that when she leaned forward, his eye naturally fell to the cleavage she always had on display...

  Harper still didn't care. Lindsey flirted with everyone, but it was harmless. She didn't mean anything by it. And even if she did, it wouldn't be the first time someone had tried chatting up Damien at work. He was damned good-looking, with his serious brown eyes and long black hair tied neatly back... a little bookish, a little broody... a great sense of humor and a dark streak a mile wide. A normal, sure, but not so normal. The kind of guy who not only didn't mind if a girl was a witch, but didn't go all fanboy about it either. He just... let her be what she was.

  Downstairs, Lindsey called out a question and Damien made some half-heard reply that made them both laugh. The store would be empty except for the two of them, Harper knew. And he made it easy to just talk and laugh and pass the time.

  What was she doing up here?

  Harper heaved a sigh and gave the cauldron a stir. She was making a potion, that's what she was doing. Abusing her gifts, according to him. He knew nothing about real witchery and even less about her.

  Without warning, she found herself remembering that autumn night two years ago... no customers all day... the two of them sitting on the couch in the coffee corner, watching rain hit the window... how she'd leaned her head on his shoulder, not planning to, but just doing it... and he'd put his arm around her the same way. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he'd said, "I'd really like to know you better, Harper." And she'd said, "I want tacos. You want tacos? I think I'll go get some tacos."

  What an idiot.

  The smell of burning mandrake went perfectly with her mood. Harper opened up a few windows, hoping to clear some of the smoke even at the cost of an icy February breeze. She made herself comfortable on a tall barstool to do the preliminary prep-work while keeping one eye on her slowly heating rainwater. They said a watched cauldron never boiled, but if you didn't watch, sometimes things blew up, so it behooved a witch to stay close. She had to do this right. Damien would never let her live it down if this potion wasn't perfect. He probably wouldn't let her forget it even if it was.

  She really wished he were up here helping her. She'd never let him watch her do magic before (mostly because she didn't do that much magic at all, which in turn was mostly because she couldn't do that much magic, apart from potions and a few simple kiddie-charms). Strictly speaking, it was against the Coven Code for normals to witness supernatural events, but of all the world, she really wanted him to see her being witchy. She'd flipped a pancake in front of him once and could still vividly recall his expression of unfeigned admiration after it had plopped perfectly back into the pan.

  "You're amazing," he'd said then, in such a way that she'd believed it, not just as it related to pancakes, but in herself as a whole package. He'd made her believe she was amazing, Harper Hickes and she supposed that if she hadn't already been crushing on him just a little before that morning, she would have fallen in love with him then.

  Now she smiled, watching rosehips release tiny ribbons of color into the warming rainwater in front of her. Him and her on the couch, him and her eating pancakes... all her favorite memories were innocent, no one would ever suspect her of having the sorts of fantasies that kept her warm at night.

  The fantasy could take place anywhere—in her bedroom or his, in the bookstore or around the frog-infested pond at the far end of the parking lot some civic engineer had rather ridiculously dubbed Plaza Park.
Locations varied, but they were all just stage dressing; the script rarely changed. There they would be, working or chatting or walking, nothing unusual, but then suddenly, he would just grab her, as if in the grip of some surge of passion that could no longer be denied and even as she struggled—not fighting him off, but only taken aback in a girly sort of way—he would kiss her. Hard.

  Damien had actually kissed her a few times. New Year's Eve kisses, the kind that are made out of drunken crowds and goofy hats, with people shouting down from ten to one, forcing the two of them to observe that silly superstition. His mouth was always firm on hers, his kiss a little too long to be called chaste. And once, at Christmas, under the mistletoe, catching her by surprise even though she'd hung the damn thing herself. She'd just been there, counting angel ornaments for the inventory sheet and he'd swept in on the left, darting in not to give her a kiss as much as steal one of her own and wink up at the sprig of white berries as if it were a conspirator as he walked away, leaving her speechless.

  Harper loved his kisses, infrequent as they were and in her fantasy, he was free to explore her mouth in ways he never had in reality. Explore. Conquer. Claim. And even though fantasy-Harper always struggled (in vain) at first, those demanding, commanding kisses ultimately stole her strength until she hung in his arms, breathless and flushed. "I've wanted this for so long," she would say, every time.

  Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he didn't, but however else he responded, he would also seize her hips and pull her roughly against him, letting her feel his readiness. "And what is it you want from me?" he would ask, but it wasn't permission to proceed he wanted. Oh no, he just wanted to make her say it out loud.

  Harper stirred the cauldron a little faster, unaware that she had been staring at a sink full of dishes for some time with bright, somewhat glazed and smoky eyes. "I want you to make love with me," she whispered in unison with her stammering fantasy-self. "And I want you to spank me."

  And after that, there wasn't much talk, except maybe her name, an urgent whisper against her ear—

  "Harper?"

  Blinking, she tore her unseeing stare from the bubbling cauldron and looked around her empty apartment, then at the door, underneath which she could just see Damien's shoes. "What's up?" she called shakily.

  "Lindsey's going to get lunch. You want anything?"

  Lunch? She looked at the clock and sure enough, it was time. How had she managed to lose so much time in memories? In that memory in particular?

  In that perfect, pointless memory...

  "Whatever she gets is fine," she told him.

  He relayed this down the stairs, but didn't go. He waited for the shop bell to ring Lindsey out, then said, quietly, "You going to do this all day?"

  "I have a lot of work to do."

  She heard him turn away, pause, then come suddenly back and open her door.

  He'd been in her apartment many times—late night monster movies and pizza was their regular Friday night thing—but never without an invitation. It startled her, but she couldn't seem to protest.

  "You're acting like a child," he told her.

  Her mouth worked, but she didn't protest that either.

  "Is that it?" he asked, pointing at the cauldron. "You're doing it anyway?"

  "It's the first batch," she managed. And added defensively, "I'm going to test it!"

  "How?"

  "Lindsey said she'd help!"

  "You're using your own sister as a guinea pig?"

  "Oh please, I do it all the time! And I'd be hers if she needed one. It's called helping!"

  "Helping you do what? Have you really thought about what you're doing?"

  She'd never heard him talk to her like this, like the words 'Last Chance' were floating in the air between them. They'd had their disagreements in the past over little things—overspending on inventory, ditching on family gatherings, cursing shoplifters with sticky fingers—but for once, she wasn't doing anything wrong.

  "What is your problem?" Harper demanded. "When I do tea leaves and card readings, do you think people are asking about how to lose weight or talk to their kids? No! Everybody wants help with their love life! All I'm doing—"

  "You're not helping, Harper!" he interrupted. "You're selling something no one asked for and no one is actually expecting to work, so don't even try to tell me you're helping. The people who buy this are going to think it's a joke and instead, you're going to put the whammy on them!"

  She rolled her eyes. "It's harmless."

  "It's not harmless!"

  He'd never raised his voice at her before and it startled her—badly.

  "You may not be hurting anyone physically, but you're casting spells on people who won't know what's happening and you know that's wrong. Why the hell are you so determined to do this?"

  The bell over the door downstairs rang out, saving her from having to think of an answer.

  "We have customers," she said, turning back to the cauldron.

  He uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, I'm going. But I'm not going far and sooner or later, we are going to have this out."

  It was impossible not to imagine herself tipped over his knee when he said that, but it was not her usual daydream. It wasn't a gentle hand she pictured, no sensual game before bed. It wasn't a fantasy at all, but something that felt almost like a premonition.

  He was gone. She could hear him below, greeting whoever had stumbled in on the middle of this unfathomable argument, but she believed him when he said he'd be back. And they'd have it out.

  Harper's buttocks clenched. She shook it off and, moving swiftly and decisively, crossed the apartment and locked her door. Then she returned to the cauldron and gave it a defiant stir.

  "I'm not doing anything wrong," she said to the potion.

  It bubbled back at her, smelling faintly and sweetly of cinnamon and rosehips.

  Chapter Three

  Harper did indeed have a hundred little heart-shaped bottles filled, corked and decoratively labeled on Monday morning, but they were not on the shelves, although she had cleared a place for them next to the cash register. She didn't really know why she hesitated to take that last step. Oh, she knew there'd probably be another argument and she wasn't looking forward to it, but she wasn't putting it off. On the contrary, she'd rather get it out of the way instead of waiting for hours with her stomach in knots, knowing it was going to happen. And she certainly wasn't afraid Lindsey would show up with purple skin or flippers or some other strange side effect. Real magic either worked or it didn't; there were no surprises with witchery. So why this feeling, like the air itself was pushing down on her and every tick of the clock on the wall was poking her right in the heart? And if she wasn't doing anything wrong (she wasn't!), why did it feel so much like guilt?

  She had nothing to feel guilty about and she proved it as passive-aggressively as she knew how. As Damien manned the cappuccino machine (which he was able to do most of the morning from the coziest sofa while reading a book), she exercised her extremely limited artistic skill and painted a display sign: Here for a limited time only! Love Potion #9.1! Make it the hottest Valentine's Night ever!

  He noticed. He even came over and watched for a while, but he did not comment.

  There weren't many customers that day and those who did wander in stayed only just long enough to warm up with a cup of coffee and pretend to be browsing. When one of them asked about the sign, Harper was deliberately evasive, saying only it was something she'd been working on and she hoped to have it available soon. Still, Damien did not take the bait and start the fight building invisibly in the air between them. Time crawled, but she stubbornly stayed on her side of the store and pretended not to notice how uncomfortable she felt.

  At long last, the bell over the door chimed out and Lindsey strolled in, smiling. "It worked," she said, before Harper could say anything. "Hey, Damien."

  "Hello again." He closed his book and set it aside. "I understand Harper roped you into testing her love pot
ion."

  "I didn't 'rope' her into anything. I just asked. It's called helping!" Harper turned her back on him with a huffy flip of her hair. "How did it go?"

  "Boy, did it go. This stuff?" Lindsey fished her empty test bottle out of her pocket—no cute little heart shape for her, just a rinsed-out plastic bottle that used to hold aspirin—and put it on the counter. "This stuff rocks."

  Harper shot Damien a look of triumph.

  He frowned.

  "Tell us everything," said Harper. "Well, not everything, but you know. For science."

  "For science? Okay, well, for science, let me just start out by saying I would drink this stuff even if it didn't guarantee an epic roll in the hay. The taste is... hard to describe. Have you tasted it?" she asked Damien.

  "No."

  "Well, it's like... a little like fruit and a little like flowers and a little like tea. I know, I know, that sounds awful, but it's really good. Almost addictively good. I practically, like, licked the bottle clean trying to figure out exactly what is so good about it. It's not too sweet and it's not too herbal... it's got kind of a smokiness... "

  "Okay, okay, so it tastes good. We get it." Harper rolled her hand invitingly.

  "It doesn't taste good," Lindsey said thoughtfully. "Not like a cookie or whatever tastes good. It tasted... haunting. That's not the right word... but maybe it is. Haunting."

  Damien's frown deepened.

  "Moving on," Harper said hurriedly. "You drank it and then?"

  "Not right away. I mean, you told me I'd only have two or three hours and I wanted to push as many envelopes as I could, so I saved it until right before the action started."

  "Prudent."

  "I take my guinea pigging seriously." Lindsey flounced over to the cappuccino machine and made herself a drink. "I figured the biggest concern was exactly how much this stuff affects other people. Like, does it entice a guy to sex you up right or force him, you know? So I drove out to The Stables, because the bartender there is totally hot and I happen to know he plays for the other team, which is a crying shame. I mean, if you saw this man, you'd know what I mean. I'm talking stupid-hot. Muscles all over, tattoos up his neck and pants so tight you can tell how much pocket change he's carrying around. The kind of hot that—"