Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)

by Lana Harper

where every type of weather is utterly and gorgeously flamboyant, the most extravagant cosplay version of what it might look like anywhere else.

Cinnamon and nutmeg and the bright, sweet tang of hot alcohol seeped into my mouth, blunting the thorns in my throat into something more manageable.

Wishing I were different, stronger, better . . . that everything was different, but in a way that would let me make peace with myself. Discover the version of me that had it in her to be happy and confident, truly at home in her own skin.

The mist swathed around it like layers of tulle or gathering robes, as if the thing was wrapping chill air around itself like a garment.

The shock abruptly shattered, falling off me in a fractured sheet, the way it always did when an imminent crisis beckoned. My brain thawed in an instant and then hardened, into something swift and dauntless and capable.

You are who you are, and his opinion of you is not dispositive of anything.

I wondered, for one totally absurd moment, whether anyone had ever actually died from wanting to fuck someone this badly.

the sky looked like crème brûlée, all smooth cream and gold-torched at the edges.

My philosophy tends to be, as long as you learn something from it, there’s not much point to regretting anything. Or anyone.”

The sky was like the world’s constant dream, never settling, never waking up.

The fact was, Delilah Harlow was remarkably beautiful, like the saltiest of Disney princesses.

“The very last thing you have to do in this life is pander to toxic people.

marinate in my misery.

and I had a dual lurch of sensation as the pit of my stomach tightened with both instant desire and fear of rejection.

I rarely got to enjoy a mellow orgasmic afterglow, “Not today, peace,” being my brain’s staunchest slogan.

But that was the point, and the comfort of it, too; no matter the weight of your pain or loss, the world only ever knew how to move on.