Don’t Hex the Handyman (Hot Flashes & Hexes #1)

Prologue The Day Everything Cracked

THE DAY EVERYTHING CRACKED

BEFORE THE MAGIC. BEFORE THE MESS. JUST ONE VERY BAD MONDAY.

Cassie knew it was going to be a bad day when her last clean bra disappeared.

She checked the usual places: under the bed, behind the bathroom door, clinging to the back of her desk chair. Nothing.

So she did what any woman on the edge would do—shoved herself into an old sports bra that was two sizes too small and threw a cardigan over her inside-out T-shirt. At least the cardigan had pockets. She'd probably need them for holding her last shred of dignity.

The coffee machine gurgled like it was being exorcised. Then sputtered. Then died.

She stared at it, deadpan. "Same."

No caffeine. Smashed boobs. Zero emotional buffer. All before 8 a.m.

Her phone lit up with a text.

Daughter (18, financially allergic):

can u venmo me $40? it's for books i swear

Cassie sent the money without asking questions, because motherhood in your forties was mostly just silent Venmo transactions and clenching your jaw during phone calls.

Another text came in before she could even lock her screen.

Ex-husband (47, allergic to boundaries):

Taking Peanut this weekend, not next. FYI

Cassie blinked at the paw print emoji.

Peanut. The one being in her life who didn't expect her to bake, budget, or emotionally regulate. And now he was going on an impromptu vacation with the man who still called her car "quirky" like it might be a compliment.

She started typing:

Cool. Hope he pees on your pillow again.

Then deleted it and settled for:

Ok.

Peanut deserved better. She deserved better. But the energy required to argue was currently in a coma, so she moved on.

As she stepped outside, her neighbor struck.

"Cassie! Good morning!" Marjorie beamed from her porch, snipping roses with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for blood sacrifices.

Cassie waved back. It was too early for confrontation and too late to pretend she hadn't heard her.

"Your flower beds are looking so natural," Marjorie added, eyes glittering. "I just love when people let nature do her thing."

Cassie smiled. The tight kind that said I hope your hose explodes but with Midwestern manners.

"Thanks! I'm trying something new. Witchcore meets chaos gardening."

Marjorie laughed like she didn't get the joke and waddled back inside.

Today was the HOA charity bake sale for.

.. something. She wasn't even sure what.

Probably one of those catch-all causes: "Local Families in Need" or "Wellness for Women and Children and Maybe Puppies.

" Someone had guilted her into signing up weeks ago, and she hadn't remembered until 11 p.m. last night.

So, she'd microwaved a box of frozen muffins and smeared frosting on them like that somehow counted as effort.

Now she was late. Again. By the time she arrived at the community center, her blouse was clinging to her in all the wrong places, her hair had frizzed into a halo of betrayal, and she was pretty sure one of the muffins had flipped over in transit.

A rogue smear of frosting decorated her sleeve like a badge of maternal mediocrity.

Susan, the HOA’s unofficial queen and self-appointed bake sale whisperer, met her at the entrance.

"Oh, Cassie, you brought something," she said with a smile so gentle it made Cassie want to hurl the tray into a pond. "You tried your best."

Cassie smiled the way one does when suppressing the urge to scream.

Her mouth said: "Happy to help."

Her brain said: I hope your gluten-free scones explode.

Susan placed Cassie's muffins next to a platter of professionally glazed cupcakes with gold foil flags.

"You can just leave them here," she said kindly, "and we'll find them a spot."

Cassie stepped back, already invisible.

This was the recurring theme of her life lately. Show up late, try too hard, blend into the wallpaper. Smile while getting steamrolled. Pretend she didn't notice.

And people loved her for it. They loved how "flexible" she was. How "helpful." How "easygoing."

They didn't know she had a running fantasy where she snapped and screamed, "YOU DO IT, SUSAN." Then disappeared in a puff of smoke and menopause sweat.

Her phone buzzed again.

Boss (emotionally tone-deaf):

Quick favor—can you cover the 10am pitch call for Dana? She had a family thing

Cassie looked at her watch. It was 9:45. She was double-booked already.

She texted back:

Sure

Then added a smiley face because otherwise it read like she might murder someone.

By the time she flung herself into her desk chair for the Zoom call, her shirt clung to her in humid betrayal, and her laptop gave her the spinning wheel of death just for dramatic flair.

She could feel it rising—that feeling. The one where her eyes started to burn and her chest got tight, and everything, even breathing, required effort she didn't have.

It wasn't burnout. It was incineration. And she was pretending like it wasn't happening because everyone else seemed to be juggling kids and jobs and bake sales and perfect flower beds without falling apart.

At work, her boss accused her of "dropping the ball" on a document Cassie had never even seen. Her coworker-slash-"friend" took credit for the presentation Cassie stayed up rewriting until midnight.

Cassie said nothing. She smiled, nodded, and made a mental note to scream into a pillow later.

"Perfect," she muttered to her coffee mug, which was empty because of course it was. "I love starting my Mondays by mopping up betrayal with paper towels."

By 2 p.m., she'd been asked three different times to "pivot." As if her spine weren't already metaphorically snapped.

She went home early. She told her boss she wasn't feeling well—which was true if you counted existential disintegration as a medical condition.

She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and collapsed onto the couch, trayless and muffin-less and dignity-depleted. She took off her bra the second the door shut behind her and let it land where it may. Freedom had never felt so defeated.

The truth was simple: Cassie was tired.

Tired of being the reliable one. The agreeable one. The woman who said yes when she wanted to scream no. The one who showed up with muffins instead of boundaries.

It wasn't just exhaustion. It was erosion.

Little pieces of herself had chipped off over time—smoothed down by years of smiling and swallowing and nodding through gritted teeth. And now? She didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

Her therapist had called it "people pleasing."

Cassie preferred "emotional hostage syndrome."

Because that's what it felt like. Like saying no would make her the villain in everyone's story. So she smiled. Said yes. Took on the extra project. Brought the damn muffins.

But inside she was seething. Not in an explosive way. Not yet. More like a pot left on simmer too long.

That was the thing about midlife… the heat sneaks up on you. You don't even realize you're boiling until something spills—and suddenly you're standing in your kitchen, covered in frosting and disappointment, wondering when you stopped belonging to yourself.

Then the cat barfed on her last clean pair of jeans.

Cassie carried them to the laundry room and didn't come out. She sat there. On the floor. Face pressed against the dryer door. She cried—not a cute, movie-style cry. An ugly cry. Snot. Sob hiccups. The works.

She was forty-five. Tired. Broken in the spiritual sense. Treading water in a life that didn't feel like hers anymore.

And then... something creaked out front.

She blinked. Wiped her face. Pulled herself off the floor.

On the front porch sat a box. Vintage-looking. No postage. No smile. No branding. Just her name, written in old-fashioned calligraphy, like a love letter from 1842.

Cassandra Morgan

Nobody called her Cassandra except her mother when she was in trouble.

Inside was a leather-bound book that smelled like rosemary and dust and secrets.

The cover crackled as she opened it.

A spellbook.

She laughed. Actually laughed out loud. The kind of laugh that sounded more like please don't let this be a nervous breakdown.

But as she flipped through the pages—filled with handwritten spells, pressed flowers, and symbols that made her spine tingle—one page in the middle seemed to... hum.

Not loudly. Just a little vibration in her fingertips. Like the static buzz of a forgotten song playing inside her chest.

The air shifted. A breeze passed through the room—windows closed, mind you—and her dead aloe plant in the corner suddenly sprouted a single, impossible flower.

Cassie slammed the book shut and poured herself a glass of wine so full she couldn’t pick it up without wasting any.

"Sleep," she muttered. "I just need sleep."

That night, she put the book on a shelf with her other mistakes: the bread maker she'd never used, the yoga mat that judged her, and three self-help books about "finding your joy" that made her want to commit arson.

She poured more wine. Microwaved leftover Chinese. Sat cross-legged on the couch and stared at the ceiling like it owed her answers.

Her phone buzzed one more time.

Automated Message:

Don't forget to RSVP for your colonoscopy!

She opened one eye and whispered, "Wow. Sexy."

Then flung the phone into the couch cushions.

She got up to toss the takeout box, stepped on something wet in her socks (please be water, please be water), and—

Paused.

The book was on the coffee table.

Open. Pages fluttering gently, even though the windows were still closed and the air was perfectly still.

One page glowed faintly. Just a shimmer. Like the idea of light.

Next to it sat a small velvet pouch she definitely hadn't seen earlier. Hadn't owned earlier.

She frowned. "Great. Someone's pranking the divorced lady. How original."

But she opened the pouch anyway.

Inside was a silver spoon. Old. Tarnished in all the right places. Etched with a symbol that looked like a star having an emotional breakdown—all angles and swirls and something that whispered possibility.

Cassie held it up to the light.

It pulsed.

Just once.

Like a heartbeat. Or recognition. Or like it had been waiting for her to be ready.

Or desperate enough.

Same thing, really.

The spoon warmed in her palm, just for a second. Or maybe that was the wine. Or maybe it was menopause. Who could tell anymore?

She looked at the spellbook. At the spoon. At her dead-but-now-blooming aloe plant.

She didn't know it yet, but the universe was done watching her fall apart quietly.

Something was about to shift.

And it was not going to ask permission.

She kept the spoon.

Just in case.