“Oh my God, Ainsley,” she said, and I froze. “You’ll never guess who I just s—” She stopped and frowned. “Are you drawing pictures in the foam again? You know we put lids on them, right?”
There was no way Zoe could know I was casting a spell to ban Mr. This Isn’t Skim from this particular Java Hut for life—or at least until the coffee was out of his system—but I knew I looked guilty. I’m a terrible liar.
“Just adding a personal touch,” I said as I snapped the lid on and handed it across the counter. “It’s on the house.”
“Better be,” he said, but his eyes had shifted to Zoe.
I sighed.
I mean, I got it. Zoe was gorgeous. Tall, slim, and curvy, almond-shaped eyes, sleek, dark hair straight out of a Pantene commercial. Pretty much the polar opposite of my pale skin dusted with freckles that I couldn’t seem to outgrow, frizzy hair so blonde it was nearly white, and a body that could generously be described as “petite.”
Mr. This Isn’t Skim moved to a table and I turned to Zoe, who was frowning after him.
“Didn’t you date that guy?” she asked.
“It was one date.”
“He’s kinda cute.”
“We went to dinner. He spent the whole night checking out the hostess and then he tipped the server three percent.”
Her nose scrunched and she gave him a disgusted look. “Asshole.”
Exactly.
Mr. This Isn’t Skim’s real name was Mike or Mark or something like that, and I’d only agreed to go out with him so my mother would stop trying to set me up. I figured if she saw me dating on my own, she would back off.
So far, no such luck.
I’d stopped answering Mr. This Isn’t Skim’s calls after our first—and only—date. Apparently, he wasn’t over it. That’s what I got for dating a guy who worked in the same building as me.
Zoe slipped her apron on to start her shift and looked at me with wide, excited eyes. “So guess who I saw in the lobby.”
“Ryan Gosling?”
Her grin widened. “Better. Agent Smolder.”
Agent Smolder was the nickname we’d given to the broad-shouldered, dark-haired guy with smoldering green eyes who came into the café a couple of times a week and ordered two black coffees to go.
Oh, and we were pretty sure he was a spy.
We worked at the Java Hut inside CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, so this wasn’t as far-fetched as it might seem.
Zoe and I nicknamed most of our regulars. There was Agent Liu, a beautiful, Chinese-American woman who was partial to caramel macchiatos and would definitely be played by Lucy Liu if the world ever found out she was probably saving it on a weekly basis, and Agent Agent, who spoke with a thick British accent—clearly a double agent—when he ordered his iced green tea. Then there was Director Howard, who liked his coffee with three shots of espresso. Okay, his name really was Howard and he actually was a director of some forgettably acronymed department within the Agency. Apparently those positions aren’t so secret.
Of course, we had no idea if the rest of them were actually spies. They could work in tech support or building maintenance for all we knew, but imagining the exciting lives they led once they left our little café was as good a way as any to pass the time.
Agent Smolder had stopped coming to the café three weeks ago and we had outdone ourselves with theories, the latest of which had him holed up inside a lodge in the Alps while an avalanche peppered with machine-gun-toting terrorists on ski mobiles raged outside. We might have been two bottles of Pinot into a Sean Connery Bond marathon when we came up with that one, but I still thought it had merit.
“So where do you think he’s been?” she asked. “And don’t say the Alps.”
Zoe had been crushing hard on Agent Smolder for months. She’s not shy, and I didn’t understand why she didn’t just ask him out. I mean, besides the whole “I could kill you with a blink” vibe he had going on.
“He looked pretty banged up,” she added.
Totally a spy.
“Does it matter? You like him. He’s back. Just go for it.” Inwardly, I cringed at the hypocrisy of that statement. After all, I’d been crushing on the same guy since I was ten years old and had never worked up the nerve to ask him out. Good thing we weren’t talking about me.
“He always orders two cups of coffee,” she said, like this perfectly explained her reluctance.
“So?”
“So he’s probably got a girlfriend.”
“Or he’s got a boss. Or a Q. Or he just really likes coffee.”
She bit her lip. “I can’t.”
Someone at the counter cleared their throat. Probably Mr. This Isn’t Skim, wanting to complain that his foam was too foamy or something. I waved at him to wait.
“You can,” I insisted. “He’d be an idiot to turn you down.”
She shook her head. “No. I mean I can’t.”
I frowned. What was that supposed to mean?
“Miss,” called a deep voice.
“One sec! Busy work meeting here,” I called over my shoulder as I dragged Zoe behind the industrial-sized espresso machine for some privacy. “What are you talking about?”
She bit her lip again and flicked a glance around, as if to make sure no one else was skulking around the tiny space between the wall and the espresso maker.
I had a feeling we weren’t talking about Agent Smolder anymore.
“Zoe? You’re freaking me out. What’s going—”
“I applied to the agency,” she whisper-blurted and then slapped a hand over her mouth.
I blinked at her. The agen … wait. “You applied to the CIA?”
“I know!” she wailed. “It’s stupid. I’ll never get in. Plus the first instruction on the application is don’t tell anyone you applied and, well …”
“I’m sure they don’t mean your best friend.” Actually, I was pretty sure that was exactly what they meant, but no sense mentioning that. Besides, I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Zoe had applied to the CIA. I mean, she talked about it a lot, but in an, “I look great in black and could totally learn the tango” sort of way. I had no idea she was serious.
Zoe was still talking and I tuned back in to what she was saying.
“So you see,” she said, “I can’t ask Agent Smolder out because the agency probably frowns on interoffice dating and I don’t want to start out on the wrong foot. I know, I know. There’s no way I’ll get in. But I had to try. I mean, I’ve been thinking about this for forever and I don’t want to be a barista my whole life, you know?”
My gut twisted and Zoe’s eyes widened.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean you. Besides, you want to open your own coffee shop one day. That’s way different than being a career barista.”
I smiled, but it felt tight.
“Please don’t be mad. Especially since I’m totally unqualified to be a spy, and I’ll need you to hire me at your coffee shop one day. I mean, seriously. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
I threw my arms around her and hugged her tight, then stepped back. This time, my smile was genuine. “I think it’s great.”
“You do?” Her voice was half-skeptical, half-hopeful.
I nodded firmly. “I do.”
“But I don’t know how to do anything except make coffee.”
“You work inside CIA headquarters,” I reminded her. “You’re one of the most thoroughly vetted baristas on the planet. When did you apply?”
“A week ago.”
My mouth dropped open. “And you didn’t tell me?”
She started to protest and I held up a hand. “Never mind. I get it.”
And I did get it. I mean, not the wanting to join the CIA thing. Frankly, that sounded awful. Dangerous people, dangerous places, dangerous missions—I shuddered. No thanks. Serving coffee might not be exciting, but the most dangerous thing I had to worry about was steam burn, and that’s how I liked it.<
br />
I wanted to continue this conversation, but that same deep, annoyed voice called, “Miss!”
I scowled. It was almost seven a.m., which meant we’d be slammed the rest of the day and wouldn’t get another chance to talk.
“Drinks tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Not tonight?”
“Can’t. Family dinner.”
She raised an eyebrow. “On a Tuesday?”
“My brother called this one. Weekday dinners usually mean they’re going to announce another baby.”
“Number three?”
“Four.”
“Drinks tomorrow,” she agreed and sashayed through the swinging doors to the storage room.
I stepped out from behind the espresso maker, trying not to feel hurt that Zoe had applied to become a spy and hadn’t told me until a week after the fact. I mean, it wasn’t like I told her everything about my life either. Like the fact that I was a witch. Or that the guy I’d been crushing on since I was ten? Also a spy.
And he died almost seven months ago.
I shook away a pang of sadness and stepped up to the counter. “Sorry, what can I get …”
My gaze landed on a tall, familiar, dark-haired man who looked like he’d picked a fight with a brick wall and lost. Even so, his expression said he was ready for round two. And right now, that gaze was fixed on me.
I pushed down the ridiculous urge to hide behind the espresso machine until he left and gave him a bright smile.
“What can I get you?” I asked.
Agent Smolder scowled. “The last five minutes of my life back.”
“We only serve coffee.”
“Fine. Coffee. Black.”
“Two coffees, coming right up.”
I turned away but he reached across the counter and gripped my arm, stopping me. I stared at his hand, my heart beating loudly in my ears and magic flooding to my fingertips. As if he suddenly remembered it wasn’t okay to manhandle your friendly neighborhood barista, he let me go and stepped back.
“Just one coffee.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
I studied him while I poured the coffee. Zoe was right about one thing: the guy was hot, in a polished, G-Man sort of way. Or at least, he usually was. Today he looked … different. Maybe it was the mottled bruises along his neck that disappeared under his shirt collar, or the nicks and scratches peppering the left side of his face from temple to jaw. But it was something else too. Something that simmered in his eyes, in the clench of his strong jaw. He’d always exuded a sense of confidence, of control, but now there was an edge to it. Like his grasp on that control was slipping, and he was just barely holding on.
I snapped a lid on the to-go cup and grabbed a donut from the display case.
“Here,” I said, sliding them across the counter. “Donut’s on me.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “You look like you’ve had a rough week. Trust me, donuts help.”
He stared at the pastry for a moment, then grabbed both items. “Thanks.”
He turned away, and my gaze snagged on Mr. This Isn’t Skim—okay, fine; his name is Matt—hitting on Zoe at the milk and sugar station while she refilled the napkin dispensers. She was ignoring him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Unbelievable.
I narrowed my eyes, and this time, I welcomed the heat that gathered at my fingertips. I traced a rune in the air behind the counter, and then swept it up and flicked it at him, watching the magic only I could see glitter and glow as it flew through the air and stuck to Matt’s suit jacket. As soon as it hit its target, I whispered the words to invoke it. The rune flared brightly and then winked out. Matt’s hand jerked, splashing his coffee all over his nice clean suit.
He cursed and grabbed the napkins from Zoe’s hand while she tried—and failed—to hide her laugh.
A wave of dizziness swept through me, and I put a hand to the counter to steady myself. Normally, a small spell like that wouldn’t be a problem, but it was the second spell I’d worked in a short amount of time, and there was bound to be backlash.
Matt hurried away and I smiled. So worth it.
I watched him until he disappeared into the men’s bathroom across the hall, and that’s when I noticed Agent Smolder. He was standing in the hall, staring at me. Like I was somehow to blame for Matt spilling coffee on himself. Which was crazy. I mean sure, it was me, but there was no way he could know that.
Finally, he shook his head and walked away. He tossed his donut and his coffee into the first trashcan he passed.
What the hex?
My jaw worked. I wanted to go after him, to ask him what the hex his problem was, but a line was forming at the counter and I had work to do.
I dragged my attention back to my customers, plastered on a bright smile, and went back to work.
3
My parents lived on a cozy tree-lined street in Alexandria, Virginia. Thanks to surprisingly decent traffic on the George Washington Parkway, I wasn’t late, but I was still the last one there.
I let myself inside. My two nephews were crouched in the foyer, coloring on Cerebus, my parents’ poodle, with magic marker. My nephews looked up, wearing identical expressions of the three-year-old equivalent of “busted.” They saw it was me and their guilt vanished.
“Aunt Asley!” they squealed and threw themselves at my legs. I scooped them up and swung them around, giving Cerebus a chance to bolt for the back of the house while I ended up in a tickle fight on the entryway floor.
“Samuel and Michael Winters, let Aunt Ainsley get inside the house before you attack her next time, okay? And what did you do to poor Cerebus?”
I grinned up at Beth, my brother’s wife, who stood over us. She was trying for a stern expression for the sake of her twin boys, but amusement tugged at her lips and ruined the effect. She shifted the baby in her arms and held out a hand. I grabbed it and she pulled me to my feet while the boys ran off down the hallway.
Beth was tall, with flawless skin and golden-blonde hair that brushed her shoulders in soft curls. Today she wore well-fitted slacks and a blouse with zero stains, despite the fact that she’d spent her day working at the hospital as a pediatric surgeon and the evening corralling her own children. I’d been here less than a minute and my hands were striped with magic marker, a complement to the coffee stains and pastry smudges that decorated my work shirt.
Sometimes I wondered which one of us was the witch.
“Wine?” Beth asked.
“Yes, please.”
She turned and walked down the hallway. I started after her, and my phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out and looked at the screen. One missed call. Restricted number. Probably a telemarketer. I stuffed it back in my pocket and followed Beth into the kitchen, where the air smelled like pot roast and roasted vegetables and some cheesy potato dish sprinkled with herbs and sitting on the counter.
I kissed my mom on the cheek and stole an olive from a bowl on the island. Mom poured some pan water over the pot roast and stuck it back in the oven.
“How was your day, sweetie?” she asked.
I popped the olive in my mouth and gave her a suspicious look. Mom didn’t like that I was a year out of college and working as a barista. Or that I lived in a tiny apartment in the big, dangerous city instead of in a nice condo in Alexandria. Or that I was twenty-two and without a serious—or any—boyfriend.
“Fine.”
“That’s nice. When is your next day off?”
Alarm bells went off in my head. I chewed the olive and eyed her warily. “I’m not sure …”
She swept a brown curl from her face with the back of her hand and huffed. “For goodness sakes, Ainsley. You work at a coffee shop. Surely one of the tradeoffs is a normal schedule that you know ahead of time and—”
“Friday,” I said a little desperately. “My next day off is Friday.”
She smiled. “Good. Your father and I met the nicest young man. He’s a professor at the colleg
e in your father’s department and I think you’ll really like him. I’ll tell him you’re free for dinner on Friday.”
Curses, she was good. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. I can find my own dates.”
“Really? When was your last date?”
I perked up. “Two weeks ago. He was a lawyer named Mr. No Sk—I mean Matt. His name was Matt.”
“And did you and Matt have a second date?”
“Well, no.”
“And why is that?”
I squirmed and looked to Beth for help. She offered me a glass of wine and a sympathetic look.
“I bet Beth knows a few doctors she can introduce you to,” Mom added.
Mom turned back to the potatoes, and I shot Beth a don’t you dare look.
“I’ll ask around,” she said noncommittally.
A crash from the family room interrupted us. Beth set down her water glass and started that way, but I jumped up and beat her to the door. “I got it,” I said a little too eagerly.
Beth nodded and Mom waved me away. I hesitated. Mom was giving up way too easily. She was up to something.
I shrugged it off and escaped into the family room, where a battle for the fate of … something raged between an action-figure-sized Thor and Wonder Woman to the utter delight of my nephews.
Aunt Belinda was on the couch, the boys in her lap as they watched the two action figures battle it out on one of the end tables. A lamp was lying upended on the floor and, as I watched, Thor threw his tiny plastic hammer at Wonder Woman, who dove gracefully out of the way. The hammer pinged harmlessly off a potted plant on the coffee table. Then with a mighty cry, Thor tackled Wonder Woman—and the plant—and all three of them toppled to the floor. The boys cheered. Aunt Belinda clucked disapprovingly, as if the destruction was all on the heads of the tiny superheroes and had nothing at all to do with her.
“If Mom catches you, you’re going to be in trouble,” I told Aunt Belinda as I dropped onto the couch next to her.
“What your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Aunt Belinda said.
I nodded at the action figures, who had abandoned their fight and were running on tiny legs toward the kitchen. “Unless that happens.”
License to Spell: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Undercover Witch Book 1) Page 2
