"You have to admit," Mary Grace says, running a hand along the rim of the cauldron. "Their chemistry is palpable."

She grins up at Chanel, currently towering over her in her single heel, and bites down on the inside of her lip. "And when one of those vines sneaks up and," Mary Grace slides her foot forward, tilting her toe up just enough to tickle the bottom of Chanel's foot, "tries to snatch ya?"