Fake Dating a Witch

Chapter 1

SIRONA

People sign things online without reading them all the time. I know this. Still, it seems like lately there have been more and more patients showing up in my office asking me to use my magic to treat conditions they’ve acknowledged we don’t have the ability to treat. And it’s frustrating as hell.

”I”m so sorry, Mr. Prat. I really do wish there was more I could do,” I say to the gentleman across from me, putting as much kindness as I can into my voice. I truly do wish my magic gave me the power to cure horrible diseases, like Donovan Prat”s Parkinson”s disease. Unfortunately, even as trained and skilled as I am as a healing witch, I”m not able to reverse disease processes that significant.

Which it clearly states on the Goode Witches website. In extra-large font, bolded and in red.

Bernice, Donovan”s wife, looks at me with pleading brown eyes. ”Are you sure, Ms. Goode? There”s nothing you can do?”

”I can give you a potion for some of the symptoms. Cast a quick spell to ease the worst of the medication side effects. But I can”t slow or reverse the progression. Again, I”m so sorry.”

Fifteen minutes later, spell cast and potions ready for them to pick up at the apothecary on the first floor, the Prats leave my office. I shut the door behind them, sink into my chair, and lean my head back. I rub at my tired eyes.

Lately, the job as the head healing witch and executive vice president of the healing division is draining me more than it fulfills me. There are too many families like the Prats, where the limitations of my powers are more than apparent.

But what else can I do? I”ve been trained in the healing arts since I was eleven. Goode Witches is more than my job. It”s my family. My legacy. Half the town of Owl Cove, Wisconsin, was built around the company. I don”t exactly have other marketable skills.

I roll my head, stretching out my sore neck and shaking off the thoughts. It”s just a long week. TGIF and all that. I have no plans for the weekend, except to grab dinner with my best friend, Evan, this evening. I plan to stay home for the next two days, do some gardening, read, and cuddle my elderly cat, Koko. She”s been on my case lately about not being home enough.

My phone chimes with a text, bringing me out of my thoughts. Which is for the best.

Nana: How”s the date search coming?

I swing between wanting to throw my phone in frustration and wanting to sigh at the broken record of a conversation.

Me: It”s not.

Nana: Your sisters are waiting. And I”m not getting any younger. I want great-grandchildren.

Me: You have Sabrina.

Nana: I want more great-grandchildren.

Stupid curse. If it weren’t for a massive magical screw-up when we were teens, my sisters wouldn’t need me to fall in love first.

I put my phone down, because there”s no point continuing the conversation. It always goes the same. And I can”t give into my frustration and say something like ”Fine, if it”s so easy to find a decent partner, you find me one.” We”ve gone that route before, and my grandmother and I clearly have different criteria for what constitutes a decent partner.

Plus, she”s so set on me having kids, she completely ignores the fact that I”m bisexual, and discounts all prospects who can”t impregnate me without medical intervention.

Another thing my magic can”t do for me.

My computer chimes this time, an instant message from my receptionist.

Renee: Your 3:30 is here.

Me: Send them in.

I was so rushed when I got in this morning, I didn’t have time to look over my appointments for the day. So I”ve been running clueless all day, not knowing who my patients are or why they”re coming in. Not that I usually know my patients. People come from all over the world to get care from our clinic. The odds that it”s a local are slim.

A knock on my door, then Renee pokes her head in. ”Grant Humphries to see you.”

My eyes go wide at the name, then at the man himself as he walks into the office. I”ve heard he”s back in town, but haven”t seen him yet.

He looks good. Damn good. A tall white guy with thick brown hair and warm brown eyes, he”s grown a beard that looks both intentional and scruffy since we went to high school together.

Since I”d had a massive crush on him.

He”s wearing jeans and a Colorado t-shirt, and has a vaguely lumberjack vibe about him.

I stand and hold out my hand. ”Grant. It”s great to see you.”

He awkwardly takes my hand in his left hand, holding up a swollen right hand. ”You too.”

A tingle skips over my skin at the touch, but I do my best to ignore it. It”s just silly girlhood feelings reviving themselves for a moment.

I nod toward his right hand as we both sit on opposite sides of my desk. ”Is that why you”re here? I apologize, I”m behind today, so I haven”t had time to review the questionnaire you filled out.”

He sighs, a frown pulling down the corners of his full mouth. A mouth I”d fantasized about kissing as I sat in my teen bedroom, staring out at the stars and begging the deities to make him notice me.

We did two plays together in high school—my sophomore year, his senior. He”d known who I was since we played Matt and Louisa in The Fantasticks together. But he clearly saw me as too young to look at.

”What happened?”

”Bike accident,” Grant says. ”My buddy and I were out in Colorado, rafting and mountain biking and shit... Uh, sorry, stuff.”

I wave his concern away.

”Not exactly sure what happened, but one minute I was flying down the bike trail, the next I was flying through the air. I did some acrobatics and landed wrapped around the base of a pine tree.”

I wince at his description. If I”d done that, I”d probably break every bone in my body.

”I was really lucky. Helmet probably saved my brain. Mostly cuts and bruises, needed stitches here.” He gestures to a small scar mostly hidden by his right eyebrow.

”That sounds awful. I”m so sorry.” I love being outdoors in nature, but I”m more a weed the garden, take a stroll through the forest woman. No extreme sports for me. But even back in high school, he”d been into that.

He holds up his right hand. ”Except this. I—” His voice cracks. It”s clearly emotional for him to talk about. ”I shattered several bones in my hand and fucked up the tendons and ligaments. I”ve had three surgeries and it”s still not right. I, uh, well...” He stares at the desk for a long moment, but I can only guess what he”s thinking about.

”Anyway, it”s messed up. I”m scheduled for another surgery in July, but who knows if it”ll fix it. I”ve got one of the best hand surgeons in the Midwest, but she hasn”t been able to make it right.”

I give him my most empathetic expression. ”I can imagine that”s really hard.” I could learn to live with limited or no use of my hand, but it would be tough. People do it, of course.

He plays with the tuft of beard just under his lower lip. ”I”m a hand surgeon. Isn”t that some fucking irony? I have one more year of residency in Chicago.”

My mouth drops open in an O. I have no idea what to say. I might be able to learn to live without much use of my hand, but he clearly can”t.

”So, I”ve been on leave, and decided to come stay at the cabin until July. Tyler said you helped him out with his acid reflux and suggested I come see you.”

Tyler had been his best friend in high school, and I was able to treat his reflux symptoms. But tendons and bones... They’re a lot trickier.

Grant sighs deeply, his broad shoulders rising and falling. ”My fifteen-year reunion is coming up, and I was hoping I could go to it looking a little less pathetic.”

He doesn”t look pathetic to me. He looks lickable. Which is not a professional thought.

I swallow hard and shove the thoughts away. ”Can I see your hand?”

”Sure.” He holds it out for me to examine.

The back of his hand is swollen, with crisscrossed scars evident of bone tearing through skin. And it’s clear from the contours that the bones have not healed correctly. It had to have been extremely painful at the time, and I’d imagine is still painful for him.

I start to reach for him, then pause. ”Can I touch you?”

Face grim, he nods.

I gently take his hand in mine. Immediately, energy flows between us, giving me information about his wound. I can”t mentally picture his accident but, for a flash, I can feel his pain, his fear as he flew over his handlebars and toward the tree. It shakes me, but I force myself not to release him. This is all part of the process.

Then I start to be able to visualize his hand. The bones healing out of shape, the tight tendons and twisted ligaments. I feel the pain he sometimes feels when it starts to throb. The lower-level ache that is now ever-present for him. My heart squeezes. I”ve been through this process with people before; I see pain patients nearly daily. But something is different with Grant.

Probably because I not only know him, but had teenage feelings for him. Dreamed about kissing him. Hell, I”d dreamed about simply holding his hand like I am now.

I smooth my thumb every-so-lightly over the scarred top of his hand. He shivers.

”I”m sorry,” I say immediately.

”No, it”s OK. It didn”t hurt. Just felt... weird.”

I felt it too. A shimmer of something I don”t normally feel when I touch patients.

I spend another minute absorbing the energy and the information it contains. Then I reluctantly let him go.

I like touching him. His skin is warm and a little rough. Oddly comforting, considering I”m the practitioner and he the patient.

And now I have to tell him what he doesn”t want to hear.

”Unfortunately, I don”t think I can do anything to put it all to rights. Realign your bones and straighten everything out.” I fill my expression with as much gentle regret as I can. Send him a dose of soothing energy.

He closes his eyes, expression neutral. ”OK. I didn”t think so, but I figured it was worth a shot.”

”I can feel the pain you experience. I can give you something for that,” I rush to add. ”A salve you put on just like hand lotion, once or twice a day. And if you give me a few days, I might be able to find a spell that will loosen up some of that tightness. Give your fingers a little more movement.”

He nods tightly. ”OK. That”ll have to do.”

GRANT

Sirona looks at me across her desk, big green eyes more empathetic than anyone I”ve seen in the months since my accident. Sure, the docs and nurses and everyone back in Chicago are great. But there”s something about Sirona that makes the hard news a little easier to take.

Maybe it”s that she”s gotten so damn hot since high school. She”d been the weird girl in the play with me back then. She”s still probably a little weird. She”s a witch, after all. But I”m the one sitting here asking her to perform magic on me. So maybe we”re both a little weird.

She reaches her hand out toward me. ”Let me have your hand again. I can do a quick spell to ease some of the pain now, and I”ll do some research to find something that lasts longer. But this will hold you over until you get the salve. They have it in the apothecary downstairs.”

I let her take my hand again, and the instant her skin touches mine, I have to suppress a shiver. Something about even this casual touch feels good. Damn good. Better than I”ve felt in months.

It’s an unwelcome reminder that I”ve been celibate for nearly a year now. No wonder I”m reacting so strongly to her. She”s pretty and kind and has soft hands that soothe the ache in my muscles just by touching me.

She murmurs something in a language I don’t know. It sounds like some kind of Celtic. My hand grows warm and a little tingly, which lasts less than a minute while she continues to say words I don’t understand.

When she releases my hand with a smile, the pain is gone. My hand doesn”t hurt at all. For the first time since last October, when I fucked it up, I don”t have the constant background noise of pain.

I meet her eyes. ”That”s amazing.”

Her smile sinks into a grin. ”No pain?”

”No pain.” Before I can think better of it, I blurt, ”Can you just come home with me and keep doing that?”

Her smile flickers, but she holds her composure. “I?—”

I shake my head. ”Sorry. That was inappropriate. I just meant...”

She nods. ”I get it. The spell should last about a day, and by then you”ll have the salve. It won”t be quite as effective, but should help a lot.”

I put all my appreciation into my gaze. ”Thank you. Seriously, Sirona.”

”My pleasure.”

It”s something she probably says to all her patients, but it feels sincere. Like she truly derives personal satisfaction from treating my pain.

Which is probably true to an extent, but it”s also her job. I know as well as anyone about turning up the sincerity with patients. My charm and bedside manner are gossip fodder at the hospital I work at in Chicago.

Worked at.

”You don”t need a prescription or anything for the salve. Just ask for the pain salve and they”ll get it for you.”

I nod, then sit there trying to watch her without staring. She really has grown up to be gorgeous. Delicate features, a few cute freckles over her nose, full lips wearing a lipstick shade that compliments her dark red hair. She”d been much more mousy and awkward in high school, but she”s grown into herself. She”s confident and commands attention in a way she didn”t back then. It looks good on her.

She starts to rise. ”It”s great to see you, Grant.”

Hint taken. Appointment over.

I get to my feet. ”You too.”

It”s on the tip of my tongue to ask if she wants to get coffee, or maybe a beer after work tonight. Then she steps in and hugs me, and her body presses against mine and I can”t think.

I wrap my arms around her, not tight enough to be creepy, but enough to make it a solid embrace. My eyes drift shut and I sink into the hug. My whole body wakes up, reveling in the way she feels in my arms, chin tucked on my shoulder.

Medical doctors can”t date patients. I know that rule very well. But what”s the policy about magical healing practitioners? With patients they”ve only seen once. Surely she doesn”t hug all her patients goodbye.

Before I”m ready, she steps back, and I have no choice but to let her go. I immediately miss the weight of her body against mine.

”I”m sure I”ll see you around.” The curve of her smile is alluring. Kissable.

”Yeah, that happens in a small town.”

”Bye, Grant.”

Reluctantly, I leave her office, and head for the elevator. A quick stop in the apothecary and I have my salve. I”ll wait until bedtime to put some on. I have no need right now.

Tentatively, I wiggle my fingers, testing them. They all move better than they did a half hour ago. The stiffness has eased. In turn, I tap each finger to my thumb, testing sensation. Unfortunately, I still have no feeling in the tips of my middle and ring fingers. Something I haven”t told anyone except my surgeon. Who is also my mentor.

Fucking irony that I was training to be a hand surgeon.

As I head out of the building to my car, my phone chimes with a text message.

Tyler: Any help?

My best friend since we were little, we”ve stayed close even after we both went away to college. Then I went to Chicago for residency, and he came back to Owl Cove to do IT for Goode Witches. Even witches need someone to run the computer systems. One perk to being home is getting to hang out with him a lot more.

Me: She can”t fix it, but she gave me a spell and a salve for the pain.

I get in my electric SUV and head for my cabin. My phone buzzes with a few texts as I drive.

I grew up in Owl Cove, and my mom is still living in the house where we lived. My dad died when I was seventeen, so it”s just her. After college, I used money my parents had invested as starter money for me—my younger sister had the same—and built a three-bedroom cabin on an acre of land just outside town.

At heart, I”m an outdoors guy. With a beard and a preference for flannel shirts, I”ve earned the nickname Dr. Lumberjack at work. Mother Nature soothes my soul. I don”t love living in Chicago. But if I want to be a world class hand surgeon, which is my ultimate goal, I have to live in a city. Or at least the suburbs and work in the city. Major surgery centers just aren”t in small towns like Owl Cove.

Which is a shame, because I love my hometown. Tyler is an outdoorsy guy too, so we take vacations together. Like our trip to Colorado last fall. Damn, do I wish I could take that bike ride back.

I pull up to my cabin and park in the garage. Walking into the house, I check my phone.

Tyler: I”m sorry, dude. That sucks.

Tyler: Come over.

Tyler: We”ll go hiking.

I take way too long sending my reply. I used to be able to type ridiculously fast on my phone, barely looking at the screen. Now I have to balance it against my barely moving right fingers and type slowly, making lots of mistakes. Fortunately, Tyler has gotten good at interpreting my typos.

Me: Snds grrat.