Haven’s Trove Cozy Paranormal Mysteries

Welcome to Stormhaven Island! Our charming seaside village is filled with cozy shops, harbor breezes, and magic hiding in plain sight. At Haven’s Trove, Olivia Ross helps customers find exactly what they need… even if they don’t realize it yet. But life in Stormhaven isn’t always as peaceful as it seems.

When unusual happenings begin to stir, secrets surface at the worst possible times. Olivia finds herself drawn into mysteries that threaten not just her home, but the delicate balance between the magical and tide-blind worlds.Relying on her intuition, her friends, and a little magic of her own, she strives to keep her family, her witch coven, and Stormhaven Island safe.

Because in Stormhaven, even the smallest mystery can lead to something much bigger.

Perfect for fans of cozy paranormal mysteries, the Haven’s Trove series blends small-town charm, slow-burn romance, and an unfolding magical mystery that grows with every book.

NOW AVAILABLE: Book 1 – Too Curious by Half

Curiosity can be dangerous in a town full of secrets.

Stormhaven Island looks like the kind of place where nothing truly bad could happen.

Tourists stroll Harbor Avenue, fishing boats bob in the marina, and Olivia Ross spends her days helping customers find the perfect souvenir at her family’s shop, Haven’s Trove. Some visitors leave with fudge. Others leave with something a little more magical—though most never realize it.

Olivia has always used her witchcraft quietly, infusing small objects with comfort, confidence, or hope for the people who need them most.

But when her nosy neighbor Roger Finch is found dead in his garden, Stormhaven’s peaceful charm begins to crack.

Roger had been asking too many questions—about strange lights, unusual plants, and the people who live along the harbor. Now Olivia can sense something lingering around his death scene: magic.

With the handsome new detective in town asking questions and the island’s secret magical community on edge, Olivia must uncover what Roger was really investigating before the truth exposes far more than a single death.

Because in Stormhaven, curiosity isn’t just dangerous. It might be deadly.

*** SAMPLE ***

Too Curious by Half

A Haven’s Trove Cozy Paranormal Mystery – Book One

by Wendi Sotis

~ ~ ~ ~  Copyright 2026 Wendi Sotis ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 1

Witch’s Morning

The tug on my hair pulled me toward consciousness. An icy late-winter breeze whispered through my barely open window, carrying a hint of saltwater, last night’s rain, and cinnamon sugar from someone’s breakfast down the street. The sound of waves tossing against the rocks below grounded me.

It’s morning. Gotta wake up.

Another tug, a bit more urgent this time.

“Five more minutes,” I mumbled into my pillow.

A feather-light touch tickled across my nose.

I smiled, opening my eyes. “I’m awake now, Auntie Margaret. Thank you.”

Across the room, the curtains twitched—Auntie Margaret’s reply.

For a moment, I stayed cocooned in my patchwork quilt, wrapped in wool and the scent of lavender.

Anxiety, my usual companion, soon nudged me. I was opening the store alone today. If I didn’t hurry, the locals would start circling before I’d unlocked the door.

I got up, tripped on the quilt, and steadied myself with an awkward hop. The room was dim, except for a honeyed streak of sunlight that set the particles of dust in the air ablaze. The effect was so lovely I nearly forgave it for searing into my left eye.

Shuffling into the bathroom, I faced my reflection with my usual skeptical resignation. My bedhead was a wild, dark auburn tangle slouching sideways like a lopsided beret. My skin remained ghostly pale, typical of mid-February. My eyes were green today, laced with enough gold flecks to draw lingering stares.

Good morning, Livvy.

I stuck my tongue out at myself, then shrugged.

After my shower, I pulled my curls into a messy bun. Nervous about the day, I dressed in my thrifted cardigan—the one my magic told me was filled with its last owner’s calm—hoping it would help me feel better.

I couldn’t forget my charm bracelet for luck: a sea-glass charm I’d made, a lighthouse like Windmark Point’s—now a store staple, a ‘besties’ charm from Rita, and a ‘very special daughter’ charm from my mother.

Magic varies by witch, but follows rules. Most magical objects reflect their maker’s intention and skill, so their power depends on the care the witch instilled into them. Magic is not limitless. Every charm does only what it was designed to do. My bracelet brings the comfort of the love associated with the person who gifted me the charms.

Lastly, I put on a long chain with a bronze pendant—Stormhaven Island Coven sigil on one side, North American Witch Council on the other. We’re told never to leave home without it. It grants access to coven-only areas, such as the Sanctum at the store.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, I hugged myself against the morning chill. The moment I entered, the kettle on the stove quivered, its lid rattling in anticipation.

“I’m really not late, but I’ll move a little faster,” I said to my alarm clock, secretary, and ancestor, Margaret Hawthorne. She’d been the first witch to live in this cottage, and she’d probably still be here well after I was gone.

Auntie Margaret acknowledged my comment, making the stove tick several times in a row.

“Oh, were you wishing me luck?”

The kitchen light flickered.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

That was pretty much as far as our conversations could go.

The windowsill plants tried to impress me. The pothos shot up an inch overnight. My pink and cream swamp orchid glowed, ready to open another flower. The aloe leaned toward me, clearly forgiving last week’s over-watering.

I grinned and ran a finger along their leaves. “Good morning, guys,” I whispered.

My cottage, built around the year 1900, stands among imitators just a block from the bluffs at Windmark Point. After graduating from high school seven years ago, I rented it from my grandparents. With Auntie Margaret’s approval, I bought it from them last year.

From the outside, it looks like many others in the area. Covered with white siding and blue shutters, Auntie Margaret had finally pestered me into fixing the porch swing just last week. The interior is a testimony to my habit of impulse thrift store purchasing.

Hand-stitched curtains embroidered with constellation patterns hung at the windows of every room; my faded porcelain teapot collection adorned the kitchen, and books sat in uneven piles on every flat surface in the living room. I called it “comfortable chaos.” Very me.

Best of all, since the house rests on a ley line node, it vibrates with magic. Not the flashy, movie kind—no lightning bolts or flying furniture unless I really focus. The energy is strong, yet subtle.

On autopilot, I grabbed a mug and sniffed three tea jars. The ‘Wake Up, Dummy’ blend—English breakfast mixed with a mysterious herbal ingredient—won out.

While my tea steeped, I toasted bread, mashed an avocado, and checked my phone. I’d gotten a message from Mom reminding me to accept her company’s Spring Fling Gala invitation (still deciding). The other was a car insurance scam, so that got deleted and reported.

Today’s top concern was, of course, the family store. My grandparents had finally decided to “semi-retire,” which in Ross-speak meant “spend more time in the back room and below, doing interesting magical stuff,” and they would leave me to run the store.

I knew I could fake it in public, thanks to the years I’d spent watching my grandmother deploy customer service charm at a hundred-watt intensity. But when alone, self-doubt moved from my middle to my first name.

Excitement mingled with dread in my chest, making me wonder whether I was truly ready for so much responsibility.

I was flattered they trusted me, but I had to admit, I was also terrified. My brain resembled a library after a tornado had blown out a wall—lots of important information jumbled up with the fluff, nothing organized, and all of it sopping wet.

Could I live up to their expectations?

At the kitchen table, I finished my breakfast and read through the sticky notes covering the fridge: ‘Order more souvenir spoons,’ ‘Repair garden gnome (head in freezer),’ and ‘Don’t forget full worm moon on the 14th!’

I’d moved out young because my mother loathed this sort of mess, but I thrived in it.

A medium-sized, mostly white seagull with amber eyes landed gracefully on the perch Gramps had installed outside the kitchen window. It eyed me, waiting to see whether I would give up some scraps.

“Good morning, Piper.” Feeling a bit mischievous, I brushed the crumbs off my hands onto my plate. “Sorry, you’re too late. I was very hungry this morning.”

A faint sheen of iridescence ran over her feathers as she ruffled them, turning her back on me.

Smiling, I brought my things to the sink and grabbed the extra slice of toast I’d left in the toaster. Unlocking the window, I pushed it outward and was a bit shocked as the freezing air rushed in at me all at once. At least it looked like a beautiful day.

I leaned out toward the gull. “Only kidding. You know I always save a piece for you.”

It could never hurt to be friendly with your grandmother’s familiar.

Piper produced a sound reminiscent of wind chimes and snatched the bread from my hands.

“Can you tell Grandma that I’ll be leaving for the Trove soon?”

The gull tilted her head to the side, then spread her wings, the crescent-shaped black spot on her right wing winking at me before she flew away.

The rest of my routine was uneventful, mostly hunting for shoes (one under the couch, one under the radiator—why, I’ll never know). A heavy winter coat was a must.

Halfway out, I remembered the tote with last night’s fudge batches—classic and mint chocolate. Muttering, I doubled back, bumped a wall, and knocked a photo askew.

The house groaned.

Chuckling, I straightened the picture.

The porch steps creaked. Frost glittered on the blades of grass that tilted toward me. I walked down Lookout Lane, tote swinging, the familiar view of Stormhaven Village ahead brightening my day.

Morning light reflected brightly off the water in the marina. I waved a silent “hello” to the Lantern Watcher, the ghost of Thomas Rourke, who had taken up residence in the waters just offshore.

Harbor Avenue formed a gentle arc around the harbor. I stopped and blinked, never realizing before that we sold a postcard taken from this exact angle.

Passing the Dawn Patrol, I wished them “good morning” as their keen eyes darted in every direction, eager to maintain their reputation of knowing everything about everyone. It amazed me how the brisk weather didn’t faze them. Only a snowstorm or a hurricane would keep them from their daily morning walk.

Making a quick right onto the boardwalk, I skirted around Drifty Dan, our resident whale carved out of driftwood by Dan Cutter many years ago. Brushing my fingers down Drifty’s side fin, I hoped he would grant me good luck today.

Crossing the street, I neared the shop. The old sign swung in the breeze: “Haven’s Trove – Curios and Souvenirs.”

Most locals came for the fudge, but we also sold crystals, shells, t-shirts, keychains, weathered glass, and a limited choice of greeting cards for those too lazy to drive over the bridge to the main island. Additionally, our witch friends knew there was more hidden behind the cluttered shelves. My family had run the place for generations. Though its purpose had changed over the years, the year-round residents of Stormhaven knew it was a huge part of our tiny island’s history just off the coast of Long Island.

I stopped before the door and took a deep breath.

Out of habit, nerves sent my fingers seeking my charm bracelet.

Would the inside of the shop seem different today? Doubt and anticipation twisted in my stomach. This was my morning, the first of a new routine for this tiny empire of dust and wonder.

I allowed myself a moment to prepare, then put my hand on the brass handle. It vibrated under my fingers, as if Haven’s Trove itself was scolding me to stop dawdling.

Unlocking the door, I wondered what kind of magic the day would bring. The old bell on the door rang with a deep clang. My first whiff was of varnished shelves, mixed with a hint of dried lavender from the bowl near the register, and, of course, just a touch of ozone that no member of the Ross family could ever outrun (except my mother).

Inside, the air seemed thicker than it did outdoors… as if the store’s secrets had grown comfortable overnight and were in no rush to drift off.

I flicked on the lights. The faint electric hum rolled across the ceiling, and for a second the front room shivered, a contented stretch, like a dog rising from the hearth. The glass display case at the register, home to our “collectibles” (shop code for overpriced trinkets), buzzed as its bulbs blinked awake.

Somewhere along the length of the wooden floor, a sequence of polite creaks marked my arrival.

Grandma would say, “A house remembers its people, and a shop remembers its keepers.”

I’d spent a good part of my childhood here after school and on weekends, then I switched to full-time after graduation. After all these years, I’d become part of the Trove, and it is a part of me.

The front half of the shop was filled with bins of polished stones and racks of faded t-shirts with the phrase “I Got Troved on Stormhaven Island!” in six different fonts. Shelves stocked with snow globes (even in July) sat alongside plush lobsters, seaside calendars, and tote bags with “Stormhaven Island” spelled out with seashells.

Behind all these were items that vibrated with magic that only witches could sense. Even when I was a young girl, I knew I should keep them away from the watchful eyes of people who might, someday, notice what truly made Stormhaven different.

Walking the perimeter, I wove through the aisles, looking for anything out of place to tidy. I checked the fishbowl by the register (still three bucks of crumpled singles inside), then the locked cabinet where we kept the “antique” jewelry (aka mildly enchanted stuff, disguised as costume pieces).

As I made my way toward the back, I passed the brass ship’s bell mounted on the wall. On impulse, I gave it a little tug. It let out a deep, sonorous chime that rattled the shelves and sent a shiver down my arms.

“Good morning, all,” I said to the shop and any ghosts that might be listening. The sound faded into a hush.

On the door to the stockroom and “office” (a repurposed closet with two mismatched chairs and a file cabinet that only opened when you held the coven sigil up to the lock), I found a sticky note:

Olivia —

Water the plants. Open at 10.

We’re downstairs if you need us.

Do NOT let Rita eat all the fudge before lunch.

Love, Grandma

I smiled. Our family’s fudge recipes were legendary. And Rita, my best friend and occasional enabler, was well known for her ability to inhale sweets.

The wall clock said 8:52 AM. I had an entire hour and eight minutes to myself—a luxury.

Reaching into the stockroom, I exchanged my bulky winter coat for my apron, the one with “Assistant Manager” written in permanent marker, tying it twice around my waist.

Before I could even finish straightening the postcards, the bell over the door rang, and in waltzed our first customer of the day: an older woman in a quilted jacket, hunched over a cane and moving with the determination of a cruise missile.

“Morning,” I called, using my best customer service voice.

The woman peered at me over the tops of enormous sunglasses. “You’re open early,” she announced, as if it were an accusation.

I blinked and forced a smile. Guess she couldn’t see the CLOSED sign. “Anything I can help you find?”

She didn’t answer, making a beeline for the rack of greeting cards instead. I watched her shuffle through them, the way she studied each one before setting it carefully back in place. She moved with a kind of deliberation I found comforting. Eventually, she chose a card featuring a lobster holding a bouquet of spring flowers and sidled up to the counter.

I rang her up, made small talk about the weather, and handed her a piece of saltwater taffy from the bowl on the counter. For a split second, she smiled. It was the tiniest smile I’d ever seen, but it counted.

“Have a great day,” I said, and meant it.

Taffy clutched in her fist, she nodded and limped back out into the morning sun.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

My mother always said customer service was ninety percent performance art. I’d inherited enough of her dramatic streak to make it work. But Mom didn’t know about the magic side of customer service. Interacting with customers was similar to walking a tightrope, especially for a witch with my talents. One misstep and I could ruin their entire week.

After that, I sensed the shop was even more awake. Turning on the radio under the register to an oldies station, I cleaned any fingerprints off the counters, watered the plants, and snuck a piece of yesterday’s apple cinnamon fudge.

About a quarter to ten, I heard the door to the stockroom creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of my grandfather’s slippers shuffling against tile.

I called out, “Everything’s under control, Gramps.”

The door swung open further, and there stood Gramps, sporting his usual combo of a plaid shirt and cardigan, topped off with a pair of thick bifocals. He gave me a grin that was almost too big for his face.

His voice was low and sweet as molasses when he answered, “Good. Because I had to rescue your grandmother from a mischievous potted cactus she was trying to enchant. I’m in no mood for any more emergencies.”

A pointed brown snout peeked out from behind Gramps’s neck. “It’s okay, Tinker. I’m alone for now.”

Gramps’s rat scurried up onto his shoulder. Tinker might be known as a pet to the tide-blind, or non-magical people, but witches knew him as Gramps’s familiar.

My smile widened. “Good day, little one. Are you helping Gramps downstairs?”

His whiskers twitching, Tinker made a couple of squeaks and a chirp.

I looked at Gramps to translate. He rolled his eyes. “As I mentioned, we’ve had an interesting morning.”

Behind him, Grandma peeked around the doorframe, her bun held together with at least four pencils and a knitting needle. She wore a white dress covered in tiny blue anchors.

Grandma nudged Gramps gently aside. “Morning, darling.”

“Did Piper give you my message?” The seagull was her familiar.

“Yes, she’s in the Sanctum on her perch now.”

As Gramps inched over toward the fudge, Tinker scuttled down Gramps’s sweater and leaped off onto a shelf.

The poor rat was terrified of fudge ever since he’d accidentally ingested a crumb that had been infused with the ability to understand thoughts—human ones, at least. Whatever he’d heard during that time must’ve been awful since he’s steered clear of fudge after that. Grandma doesn’t mind at all because she really does not want his fur anywhere near the fudge due to sanitary concerns.

Gramps pretended to inspect my work on the display. “You know,” he whispered, “your grandmother used to eat fudge before lunch, too.” He tapped the corner of his mouth. “Must be a family trait.”

I giggled and wiped my mouth with a tissue. Yep, fudge.

The tension that always knotted in my shoulders when I opened the shop melted away. For the first time all morning, I had the sense I was where I was supposed to be.

I saw the wind chimes in the window twitch.

It might be nothing, but I decided it was a sign that the Trove was welcoming me as Assistant Manager.

Chapter 2

Fudge and Secrets

Grandma wasted no time marching to the back of the shop, but not before pressing a piece of fudge into my palm. “Eat more. You’re thin as a whippet,” she commanded, then vanished through the swinging door that separated the public store from the Not for Tourists area. Once Tinker was back in his usual spot on Gramps’ shoulder, Gramps winked at me, then followed.

That area was technically office, inventory, and storage, but anyone who’d worked at the Trove for more than a week knew it led to the place where we kept the stuff too magical for unaware eyes.

I glanced around the showroom, now empty of people except me. A familiar knot of nerves tightened my stomach. Every time I was alone at the register, I had a surge of imposter syndrome, like I was waiting for a real adult to show up.

The thing was, I am the adult now. The sole “Assistant Manager.” Ha.

I was halfway through the fudge cube Grandma had commanded me to eat when the main door flung open, letting in a blast of chilly air, the sound of shrieking seagulls, and Rita Lewis.

“Great, you started without me.” Rita’s voice always had an edge, even when she was pretending to be cheerful. She kicked the door shut with her Doc Martens and brushed imaginary crumbs off her oversized cardigan. Rita’s hair was a mess of black curls held back by a scarf with angry-looking daisies on it, and her thick eyeliner was impeccable, as usual.

I held out a cube of fudge in greeting. “Breakfast of champions?”

She snorted and took it, dropping her bag onto the counter with a thud. “If my blood sugar dips to a ‘danger to myself and others’ level before noon, you’ll have to replace all the stuff I break.”

Rita retrieved her apron from the stockroom and shimmied it on, making a show of adjusting the straps. Today, she’d painted her nails a violent shade of blue. She used them to flick the wind chimes above the counter. They let out a discordant clang in answer.

The shop had officially shifted from “Grandparental Supervision” to the “Livvy and Rita Zone,” which meant Rita would narrate the day’s events in a running commentary only I could appreciate.

“You get the memo about today?” Rita asked, leaning forward to look at her reflection in the glass case.

“What memo?”

She gave me a withering look. “The first tourists of the season. A busload. They’re coming at eleven. Your grandma told my mom, who told me.”

I pretended to be surprised, even though I’d heard the same thing yesterday from Grandma, the Harlow sisters at the bakery on Saturday, and, weirdly enough, the UPS guy last Friday.

I started prepping the fudge samples and straightening the keychains while Rita rearranged the snow globes so that the ones with the haunted lighthouse were at eye level.

“People enjoy a bit of mystery,” she said. “Keeps them coming back.”

We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes. Rita hummed along to the radio, which she’d already switched to the local indie station, and I tried to organize the souvenir magnets by color.

At two minutes to ten, I noticed Rita smirking at me. “You want to do the honors?”

Smiling, I walked over to the door and flipped the hanging sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

Rita wiggled her eyebrows. “Bring on the weirdos.”

For the first hour, we got the usual morning suspects—locals, off duty fishermen, a couple of retirees in search of fudge to fuel their walk home. Rita and I had a silent system: she managed anyone who wanted “weird stuff” (the section of the store with the pickle-shaped magnets and novelty potholders), while I took anyone with an aura that told me they needed something more.

About fifteen minutes later, a mother and toddler wandered in. The child went straight for the plush toys, but the mom stayed near the counter.

“Can I help you find anything?” I asked.

She smiled politely. “Do you have anything with lighthouses on it? My son’s obsessed.”

“Of course.” I gestured to a shelf near the window. “We’ve got snow globes, models, even a couple of books about the local history.”

While the boy made a beeline for the biggest snow globe, the mom fingered a rack of wooden lighthouse keychains. Her hands shook enough to notice, and she lit up with anxiety as bright as the sunlight angling in through the window.

I reached out, careful not to spook her. “These are hand-carved out of driftwood. My grandfather does the painting.”

“They’re cute.” She picked up one, turning it over and over in her palm. “My son and I recently moved here, after my divorce. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

Wow. For her to say that to a stranger, and so out of nowhere like that, she really needed my kind of help.

I smiled to put her at ease. “If you’re keeping another human alive, you’re ahead of the curve.” I slid the keychain off the hook, my thumb brushing the lacquered surface, and infused it with a quiet nudge of confidence. Not enough for her to notice—no fireworks, just a little warm spot in the back of her mind, like the memory of a time she did something right.

As she took the keychain, she inhaled suddenly. Her shoulders settled an inch lower. “Thanks.” She was really examining the keychain. “Your grandfather does incredible work.” Her smile reached her eyes this time. “I’ve decided that I deserve a gift, too.”

Her son brought over a small lighthouse statue. With her holding onto the keychain as if her life depended on it, I wrapped the statue. She paid in cash, then scooped her son up and headed back into the day. A minute later, I watched from the window as she clipped the keychain onto her purse. The two walked out of sight.

Rita sidled up behind me and whistled low. “You ever worry you’re going to run out of juice, patching up every lost soul that walks in here?”

I shrugged. “It’s what the store’s for, right?”

Rita snorted. “I thought it was to pay for your grandma’s wine-of-the-month subscription.”

I grinned. “That, too.”

The next customer was an older man in a Red Sox cap who drifted in on a sigh. He wandered the aisles, hands deep in the pockets of his worn corduroy jacket. I watched him trail a finger over the snow globe shelf and pause at the display of sea-glass jewelry.

Rita watched him, too. “Ten bucks says he’s either forgotten an anniversary or he’s about to propose to someone he met on the Internet,” she whispered.

I studied him. He wasn’t nervous, exactly; more… hollowed-out. As if he’d been standing at the edge of a storm for a while and wasn’t sure whether to step back or let himself blow away.

I walked over and asked, “Looking for a gift?”

He shook his head, then pointed at the sea-glass pendants. “My wife had a necklace almost exactly like that. She loved it. Wore it every day for thirty years. It was buried with her last winter.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but a deep ache sat under the words.

I picked up the pendant; the glass a soft green that reminded me of summer leaves pressed between the pages of an old book, and handed it to him. “She had good taste.”

He took it and held it up to the light. For a second, I saw the memory of his wife, clear as a photo. The pendant caught the sunlight and cast a prism of light into the space beside him.

He swallowed and handed it back to me. “Would it be weird to buy it? For myself, I mean.”

“Not to me.” With a gentle squeeze, I let a wash of comfort run from my hand into the pendant.

Refusing the offer of a box, he slid it into his breast pocket, directly over his heart, and left with a smile that was mostly sad, but partly relieved.

Rita appeared at my elbow. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you saying I should hex the next person who comes in, to balance things out?”

“How about a minor curse?” She bit her lip. “Limit the person to speaking in limericks for a week.”

More customers meant more stories: friends debating which magnet best captured their personality, a man who wanted a candle that would “grant good luck.” For each, I tried to give a bit of magic, enough to tip the day in their favor—a smidgen of patience, a dusting of hope, a hint of luck.

Between taking care of customers, Rita and I swapped stories. She told me about her last boss’s tendency to speak only in sports metaphors. We discussed my mother’s never-ending quest to get me to go to a “real” networking event, as if I would ever leave Haven’s Trove. There could be no career that could out-weird this one.

When the lull before the lunch rush hit, Rita leaned across the counter and whispered, “You know, eventually someone’s going to notice that things get better for them after buying a fridge magnet here.”

I shrugged, but the worry caught me anyway. “As long as they don’t catch me doing it, we’ll be fine.”

She smirked. “The real crime is that you could be charging a lot more for these things since you’re infusing them with the magic these people need.”

“Not when most of them don’t know about magic. My only goal is to help.”

My magic might not be flashy. I wasn’t healing the sick or moving mountains. But I made things a bit easier for people in need, even if only for the time it took them to chew a fudge sample.

Rita opened her mouth to retort when the bell atop the door rang longer and louder than before, accompanied by the tourist group we’d been warned about.

I glanced at Rita. “Showtime, Miss Assistant Manager.”

As the day wore on, the shop was overflowing with laughter, bargaining, and a dozen conversations at once. Shadows moved across the scuffed wooden floor.

Rita handed me a fudge cube, and we watched our customers browse, both of us pretending not to care as much as we did.

I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.

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