These Witches Don't Burn

I need a new T-shirt: Someone tried to kill me, and all I got was this stupid concussion.

Is she actually . . .

Flirting.

With me?

Oh god. What do I do?

THEY SAY THERE’S A fine line between love and hate.
I used to think They were idiots. Most people are. What could some faceless They know about love? Or hate for that matter. But then I dated Veronica Matthews.

The first kiss is tentative, like we’re trying to remember how to speak a forgotten language. Her lips are soft and warm on mine, the tenderness sending a small chill down my spine. But then her fingers tangle in the hair at the base of my neck, and there’s this shift. This hunger. It builds low in my belly and rises into my chest as her kisses grow deeper and her tongue slips past my lips.

She’s in full-on mama bear mode. I should bake her thank-you cookies. Plus a sorry-I-thought-you-were-a-Witch-Hunter cake.

“You broke my heart, and you didn’t even notice. How can I . . .” My throat closes up, and I look away. “How could I ever trust you to put the pieces back together?”