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Broomhilde chose that moment to come twitching down the center aisle. She knocked a spell jar off the shelf, and I lunged to catch it before it shattered. When I straightened up, I caught a pleasant, woodsy aroma—eucalyptus maybe—and breathed it in before realizing that I was smelling him because I was entirely too close, with only a few unprofessional inches between us. I stepped back hurriedly and busied myself returning the jar to its place, willing the sudden heat in my cheeks to dissipate. If the man was disturbed by my invasion—and inhalation—of his personal space, he didn't show it. He watched with bemusement as the broom swept merrily between us.

"Doesn't seem like the most practical use of magic," he said. He wasn't wrong, but I prepared to defend Broomhilde anyway. I was the only one allowed to insult my broom-sibling.

Before I could reply, Broomhilde started sweeping at his shoes with vigor, even though they were spotless and polished to perfection. I snatched her handle before it could jab his eye out and dragged her to the open door of the stock room. I threw the broom inside and yanked the door shut. I took a second to compose myself, trying not to think about the mess she was going to make of the salt and Florida Water, and then I turned back around.

"Can I help you with something?" The question did not come out nearly as composed as I'd hoped. Damn.

His eyebrows rose slightly. He was white, with short dark hair and bangs that fell across his forehead in a way that looked effortless but undoubtedly took a lot of work every morning. Overall, I found him attractive in that urbane, aristocratic way where you can't decide if you want to seduce them or send them to the guillotine.

"Do you own the shop?" he asked, and I blinked out of my reverie.

Double damn, I was definitely not supposed to be thinking about seducing customers. Or decapitating them, for that matter.

"My parents do." I offered what I hoped was a friendly smile as I made my way behind the counter, a position that would hopefully restore my equilibrium. Mama had told me before that if resting bitch face were a thing—which it isn't because it's an offensive, sexist construct—I would definitely have it. But I really was trying to be friendly. Not only could we not afford to lose customers to poor service, but I was oddly flattered that he thought I was the owner.

That day under my apron I was wearing my typical attire of loose flannel shirt, jean shorts, and my worn-out brown leather boots. Farm-girl hipster chic, Mim liked to call it. (The "chic" designation was sheer generosity on her part.) I had inherited Mama's genes, but unfortunately none of her skill with the eyeliner pen. And even though I had taken the time to straighten my hair to a sleek shine that morning, I had promptly pulled it into a messy top bun and sweated it into a frizzy mess while working the limpia.

Most people took one look at me and assumed I was just the shop girl.

They always wanted to know where the real witches were.

Supposedly, you should dress for the job you want. Sometimes I wondered, if I dressed more like a boss, would my parents finally start to see me as a potential partner in the business? There was nothing wrong with being a shop girl, but I was a witch, first and foremost, and the Cottage was my life. I wanted to invest in it accordingly.

There was probably a "boss witch" aesthetic I could emulate. I made a mental note to google it later, and maybe some eyeliner tutorials for good measure.

"The Sparrows," the man said musingly. "Are you Charlotte?"

I blinked in surprise, but it wasn't too weird for someone to know the name of the family of witches who owned Chanterelle Cottage. Anyone in town could have told him.

"That's me," I said, rallying myself. "Everyone calls me Charlie."

I extended my hand across the counter, and he came over to shake it. He had a nice grip, firm but not painful.

"Sterling Fitzgerald," he said.

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Sterling? That's&"

"Pretentious, I know."

"I was going to say interesting," I lied feebly.

He smiled, and for all the cool air of criticism he'd exuded upon entering, it was a nice smile. Nice suit, nice handshake, nice smile, nice face. As I pulled my hand away, I had to resist the urge to smooth down my hair. Not that it would do any good in this humidity.

"Everyone calls me Fitz," he said.

"I guess that's slightly less pretentious than Sterling."

His smile widened, and I grinned back, more at ease now that the ice had been broken. Resting bitch face or not, I was a people person. There was a reason I didn't mind working the front of the shop most of the time, fielding all the day-to-day customer service antics while my moms focused more on spellwork.

"I think this is the part where I say you must be new in town," I said.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Let's just say the closest place that sells suits is the Men's Wearhouse three towns away."

"I moved here last week from Boston. Someone told me about your shop, so I thought I'd come check it out."