2. ~ Char ~
CHAPTER 2
~ Char ~
T amara was still texting me as I pulled on my coat, my curiosity piqued beyond their usual safety levels. My current plan, since my maps app was clearly out of date, was to do a walk-by of the invoice’s listed address. It was probably just a fun little store called Your Fairy Godmother.
Or maybe my roommates, who knew how blue I’d been lately over my dad’s declining health, or how alone I felt on long weekends when they went off with family, had put together a surprise for me.
My phone neighed at me, and realizing Tamara might be freaking out about me calling YFGM and then ghosting her, I texted back.
Me
Got their voicemail.
Heading down the stairs to the locked door that opened into the main floor foyer, I typed ‘Your Fairy Godmother’ into my phone’s web browser search bar. I rolled my eyes as fairytale references came up. What had I expected?
I tried again and added ‘Calgary’ to my search. Nothing different. So maybe YFGM wasn’t a store. However, if it was new, it wouldn’t be in maps yet or have an online presence.
But then, how did I owe them so much?
A glitch?
I redialled the number out of curiosity. Maybe my friends had gotten ahold of a burner phone for this prank, and I might recognize the recorded voice if I paid attention. That would most definitely be preferable to having my identity stolen.
“Hello. You have reached the offices of YFGM again . Have a magical day.” Beep.
I threw my phone, breathing hard as it bounced down the last two steps and clattered against the scarred wood door.
It knew I’d called before.
It knew.
And it was shaming me for not leaving a message.
I laughed at my panic and sat down on the steps, inhaling deeply. It was simple. So simple. Samantha, or whoever had the burner phone, noticed I’d called and had zipped in and changed the outgoing message. That was all.
This was simply part of an elaborate plan to stay one step ahead of the bumpkin.
Your Fairy Godmother was not a real place. It was probably a virtual assistant company. Because fairy godmothers? Please .
Pulling myself together, I collected my phone, thankful for the extra sturdy case I kept it in, and let myself out into the foyer.
I squeaked as Randy, our landlord, popped into view, two feet away. How was it he always magically appeared beside me like a poltergeist, no matter what time I came or went from the upstairs apartment?
“Hello, Char. Heading out already?”
I gave a quick smile. “Yup.”
“Did you drop your phone? I heard something take a tumble. Hope it’s all right.”
Ugh. Randy.
I waved my phone. “Yup. Fine. Thanks.”
Everyone in the building collected their mail from the entry and used the front door. Naturally, we all bumped into each other here and there. Although, do the math on this one—we ran into Randy about eight times more often than the cutie Irishman Caleb, who had the apartment below our living room, despite our best efforts to avoid Randy and to bump into McHotStuff.
Almost a year ago, when Tamara had taken Caleb a slice of homemade cake on Samantha’s behalf, in an effort to find out if he was single, she’d run into Randy twice. Twice.
Sadly, those statistics were not an anomaly. They were also the reason I often contemplated the scary, wobbly fire escape that clung to the back of the building. And it wasn’t because I wanted my smart watch to stop nagging me to fit more steps into my day and to increase my heart rate.
“Ah, to be young again. Friday nights!” Randy smiled like I might invite him to join me.
The man had inherited the building, collected our rent, and fixed things with a startling level of incompetence, as well as borderline stalked us. Why he thought we were all pals was beyond me.
“Have a nice night,” I said, continuing to move to the front door like I had a ride waiting for me, and therefore couldn’t stop.
“How’s your sink draining?”
“My what?”
“Your kitchen sink?” He’d hurried his pace to catch up, stopping alongside me where I stood frozen, my immediate thoughts about our forbidden pet gopher. If faulty old plumbing called Randy into our apartment when we weren’t home he’d surely get busted. Sometimes I wished I didn’t have to deal with Randy any longer.
He smoothed the bits of his waving comb-over to cover his shiny, flying saucer of a scalp and waited expectantly. If he embraced his middle-aged bod rather than fighting it, he might stand a chance with the ladies. I mean, he wasn’t a bad person. He was just trying way too hard. Like, Olympics level of trying too hard—and was wearing figure skates at the sailing event.
“It’s fine,” I said, assuming our sink truly was. No problems had been mentioned in our group chat, and it surely would have if dirty water had stopped doing what it was supposed to.
“Good, good. There was a clog in Caleb’s—just below you. The young Irish fellow? Coffee grounds. You don’t put coffee grounds down the sink, do you?”
Hm. I may have seen Samantha trying to wash her fancy new latte machine and running a few more grounds down the drain than usual lately.
I shrugged.
“What do you do with your grounds?”
I shrugged again. I wasn’t the one who made the coffee.
“But you’re a coffee drinker,” he pressed. “I’ve seen you with Timmie’s cups.”
Everyone with a Canadian passport went to Tim Horton’s at one point or another in their lives. That was hardly a marker of my caffeine intake habits.
“My roommates make the coffee. I’ll ask them to be careful.”
“Okay, good, good.”
I turned the doorknob. Just a few more steps and I would be free.
“The girls are all gone for the May-long, are they?”
“Uh, yeah.” Inwardly, I cringed. I knew he watched who was coming and going from his front window, but seriously. Could he act any more creepy?
His tone became jolly and slightly parental. “Well, don’t party too loud on your own tonight, or I just might show up!”
* * *
Hands stuffed in my jacket pockets against the evening’s chill, I shuddered as I hustled away from Randy and the building. As I passed his red sports car, which was blaring its alarm, I resisted the urge to go back and complain to Randy about the noise. Everstone wasn’t a super great neighbourhood, with all the vacant lots and lack of community pride vibes, but it wasn’t what anyone would call inner city. And it wasn’t so bad that someone would try to steal his cherry red beast every single day—which seemed to be how often its alarm swore a blue streak.
Everstone had potential, but it was a tiny, forgotten neighbourhood close to the downtown, boxed in by the Bow River, the Stampede grounds and Canada Pacific’s main rail line. We were only a few blocks wide and long, and ranged from half-occupied, basically historic (by western Canada standards) buildings to industrial lots. We had one restaurant, one coffee shop and cheap rent. But if the revitalization bug found us, and gave us a good bite, the line of interesting old brick buildings a block from my place would become super trendy and fetch top dollar. But right now they were mostly vacant, sadly overlooking the trashy empty lot across the street. The lot’s sagging chain-link fence was full of holes and had grown thick with blown-in trash. Not to mention the waist-high weeds and the abandoned warehouse sitting on the lot behind.
Nobody wanted to start a trendy business around that.
Usually I sped by, head down, trying not to notice the dumpy bits so close to home. Today, however, I slowed, worried about a group of kids playing in the empty lot. They’d created a slide out of old barrels and bent metal siding panels from the abandoned warehouse, like they were in a third world playground. One of them was going to get hurt. I paused, wondering if I should tell them not to play in there. But where else would they play? On the street? That hardly seemed better.
Before I could decide what to do, a woman came hustling up.
“Get out of there! Right now!” She had her hands on her hips and had her mom tone down pat. I startled, and out of habit, or maybe self-preservation, my spine straightened and my arms dropped to my side as though I was awaiting a command.
The kids’ heads popped up like Felipe’s did when he sensed danger.
“I swear,” the mother muttered, as the three young boys scuttled through the break in the fence like they were being chased.
“We need a park,” I said as she looked at me, head shaking.
“We need to complain to the city about this dangerous monstrosity.” She was already herding her boys up the street toward the apartment building on the corner.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Too bad it doesn’t do any good.” She was moving, nudging the children when they moved too slow. “What did I tell you about playing in there?”
“It’s dangerous,” they said in the most dejected voices. It pulled at my heartstrings.
I’d grown up in small towns all over the province, and no matter where we’d landed for Dad’s jobs, or whether I fit into the close-knit communities or not, I could always assume there’d be a safe playground at my disposal. Why should it be any different for these city kids? It wasn’t fair. Not at all.
I began walking again, my mind spinning, wondering how I could help. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe this was just one more aspect of city living that I’d never get used to.
As I got closer to the downtown, the temperature drifted lower, the buildings around me growing taller. This time of year in Canada, you could be breaking out the sunblock or the parka. And tonight we were dipping toward parka weather.
My route to the other end of downtown went past my favourite place in the city, the Museum of Culture. It had been one of my first placements at Temporarily Yours, and I’d been placed with my now-roommate, Josie, who was an inventory specialist. She had since started her own business, but back then we’d worked alongside as she’d trained me on two different inventory systems. With her strategies and efficiency, we’d gotten the massive job of changing the museum’s inventory system over to the new program in less time than had been budgeted. Sadly.
I’d loved poking around in the restricted areas and tagging all the display and storage pieces. Except the mummies. They gave me the shivers whenever I was in the same room with them. The ancient pottery, though? Those pieces made me slow down, inhale a little deeper and savour the warm feelings they exuded. When I looked at them, I got a comfortable feeling of belonging, of fond memories and calm assuredness. It wasn’t a common sensation in my life, and it probably helped that Grecian pottery turned out to be the key to unlocking the untapped relationship between me and my dad. After nearly thirty years, we’d finally found something to talk about. However, he didn’t like to daydream about the person who’d made the items. And he didn’t want to imagine their family routines and home life like I did. I wanted to make up a story about the pieces, and what they’d survived in order to make it to today. Back then, was everyone just trying to survive from day or day, or were there people like me, on the lookout for adventure?
The museum’s large, three-story sandstone and limestone building began to loom up from its spot on the corner. With a bounce in my step, and my original destination temporarily forgotten, I headed toward the wide stone steps that would lead me inside. James was working somewhere in the building tonight, and the only question was: go straight to the ancient pottery, do a deep dive into the new Blackfoot exhibit, or track down James and pretend he wasn’t the highlight of my night.
Tamara asked me once why I didn’t work at the museum, and I guess it was because I didn’t know enough. Or at least, that was how I felt. Sure, I’d beaten the museum’s director at history trivia at their members-only Christmas bash a few months ago. But Richard really should have known those things, such as where Kerameikos got its name—from the Greek word for pottery: keramos. As well as the recommended humidity setting for their paper archives, their mummy collection and their ancient pottery. Basics.
I reached the doors and stopped, face scrunching. I didn’t have my membership card on me, and I’d pleaded one too many times with Glenda at the admission desk to bend the rules and let me in without my physical pass. Usually, if I listened to her woes about her gout, she’d eventually allow me inside. But I think Richard, the museum’s director, must have busted her doing that, as she’d been cracking down on me lately.
Turning, I marched back down the steps. At least I was a bit closer to meeting my stair-climbing goal for the day.
“Char! Hey, Char!”
I turned toward James’s voice and felt my lips turn upward. Spending time on the museum’s inventory for those few weeks had not only allowed Josie and me to become friends, but I’d also become friends with the hunky museum security guard, James, too. It truly had been the best job ever. Even better than the book depository, and that was a pretty sweet gig.
“Hey!”
James jogged down the steps, stopping in front of me. He was about eight inches taller than I was, and delectable in a just-friends sort of way. Because hot guys who worked out regularly—such as James—didn’t go for dorky, curvy girls like me. Not that either of us was looking to cross that line. Our friendship was too important, and I was certain neither of us had lain awake at night wondering how the other person’s lips rated when lined up against our own.
Right.
“You okay?” he asked, his brows pinched with worry as he reached out to tap my arm. I swear the whole limb went warm.
“Yeah, why?” I resisted the urge to wipe my face clean of any half-cocked dreamy expressions or possible drool.
“It’s not often I see you walk past the museum.”
I laughed. Oh, that. “Mark your calendar.” I eyed his spiffy, navy blue security jacket. The colour suited him and his Norse, Viking-like good looks. Built, blond and with a fiercely loyal protector vibe that ran beneath his sweet kindness—that was my James. Whoever did the museum’s hiring had good eyesight and even better taste. Not that anyone would hire based on appearances these days. They’d get cancelled faster than a hacked credit card.
“I set something aside for you in the gift shop.”
“Really?” I caught myself leaning forward like an eager three-year-old who’d heard the word ‘present.’
“Want to see?” He was already walking backward, toward the museum, certain I’d follow.
“Yes!” I hooked my arm through his, spinning him around as we hurried to the doors. Even though he was a total hunk, and I sometimes got all tongue-twisted when I was with him, I felt comfortable in ways I didn’t around other guys. “I forgot my pass, though.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re with me.” He smiled with a warmth that assured me.
As we made our way inside, I asked, “Anyone try to touch the mummies today?”
James knew I was a sucker for museum stories. I’d had a fit the first time I saw a kid climbing around the mummies. I’d abandoned my inventory chart and pulled James over to scold the boy in what turned out to be our friendship’s Meet Cute.
Then, after he’d gently guided the child back to his parents, I’d chided James for his lack of severeness, even though I’d been swooning a bit for how sweet and firm he’d been. I’d given him quite the lecture about letting people climb on sacred, ancient items. His lips had quirked the whole time, like he’d been fighting a smile.
Then he’d leaned in and cemented our friendship with a tidbit I’d never once overheard while eavesdropping on the various tours throughout the museum. The mummies on display were fake. That was right. Reproductions. And not only that, he’d had a hand in making them one summer as part of the museum’s student hiring program.
Total. Swoon.
Honestly, if I’d actually paused to think about it, I should have figured out that they were reproductions. The ones on display didn’t send chills down my spine when I walked past them, unlike the ones in the back.
“Nobody even tried to touch a toe,” James assured me.
“Really? How boring.”
“And nobody tried to take a selfie from the wrong side of the rope or unravel any head wrappings.”
“Ew. Has someone actually tried to do that?” I might be a curious history nerd who was up for pretty much anything, but that idea completely grossed me out.
James smiled. It was sweet and slightly crooked in the most perfect way.
“We did have a shoplifter in the Tinkertorium.” That was the poorly chosen name for the museum’s gift shop—it always made me think of a bathroom. “She was trying to stuff a reproduction sword down her pants.”
I cringed, hoping the blade had a sheath, or at least was dull-edged.
“Did you have to personally retrieve it?” I tried to lift my eyebrows seductively, but honestly, I was too intrigued to pull it off. Plus, I really didn’t have the confidence to pull off true sexiness. You had to commit and put yourself out there, and at the last minute I always backed off, afraid I’d look like a complete idiot who had no clue she was far from what men considered sexy.
James laughed, his shoulder bumping into mine. “No.” His voice dropped. “I had to call 9-1-1.” He waved at Glenda. “Just showing Char the new stock.”
The woman let us in; her smile way bigger than when she encountered me on my own.
“You called to have her arrested?” I asked, bringing his attention back to his unfinished story, my mind fizzing with how James kept letting his body touch mine accidentally. Or was that on purpose? A sign that indicated he was into me? Maybe that was why I’d so few dates in recent years—I was illiterate when it came to men and their I’m-interested-in-you signs.
“The repros have fairly sharp edges, apparently.” He grimaced. “When she was trying to return the sword, it slid out of its sheath.”
I shuddered, my imagination going wild. “You’re exaggerating.” He did that here and there, knowing I loved the added drama.
“You’ll never know.” There was a twinkle in his warm eyes and it made me think of earthy, grounded pottery pieces and a feeling of belonging I couldn’t quite peg. As for the twinkle, I wasn’t sure if it was his joy in teasing me, or if he was tickled to have me stumped.
“I’m going to fact check with Glenda.”
James laughed, then nodded at Greg, who was covering for Kendrick in the gift shop tonight. Greg usually ran tours, asking me for random facts to sprinkle into his spiels. I loved it when I overheard him sharing the things I’d told him, and seeing it intrigue others.
Tonight, he reached under the back counter with a ring of keys before revealing a beautiful necklace with a perfect, small black and orange-red pottery fragment edged in silver. The artist, from well over a thousand years ago, had illustrated the shape of two hands on what had likely been a water jug.
James took it from Greg, proudly draping it over his palm for my inspection.
“James,” I gushed, “it’s perfect.”
“Thought you might like it.”
He knew me so well.
“Yeah, she loves everything old, doesn’t she?” Greg joked.
“And yet, she doesn’t like you,” James muttered, his eyes flashing to mine to catch my reaction.
Was he jealous of Greg? He was outgoing and cute, and I’d crushed on him for approximately a day and a half before downgrading him to merely fun-to-flirt-with. In other words, James had nothing to worry about where Greg was concerned. But I was charmed that he might think he had competition.
“Hey!” Greg complained. “I’m the same age as you are.”
I giggled as James turned his back to Greg and slipped the piece into my hand, his fingers brushing my palm with a gentle feathering. I flipped the fragment, taking it in. Ancient Athenian clay. Differential firing. Artistic detail. Very much one of a kind. Did I mention ancient? I hefted it gently, considering whether it was a perfect reproduction. No. It was too heavy. Cracked. Carried old world vibes. It was the real deal, unlike the fakes that had replaced several of the more priceless exhibit items in the Grecian wing last week.
“This is an amazing piece,” I stated.
“Why?” Greg asked.
“The illustration’s detail, mainly. To have it survive for so long, and then the way it’s centred in the fragment definitely increases its value.” I turned the piece over again, feeling a tiny bit like I was on an episode of Antiques Roadshow with the guys waiting for my evaluation. “It’s nicely set in the silver, and it’s in amazing shape.”
“So it’s a good one?” Greg confirmed. He often asked me which were the best pieces so he could guide his tour patrons directly to them, and earn a commission on their purchase.
“It is very good.” And I wanted it. Desperately. “How much is it?”
James flashed me the price tag, delicately stuck to the chain’s clasp, and I cringed. My life had been pretty charmed lately, but not that level of charmed.
“I get a staff discount,” he said. “I could buy it.”
“I wish you would…” Realizing I sounded wistful, I quickly added what was implied, “I’d pay you back, if you did, of course.” I was unable to take my eyes off the piece, even as I returned it to him.
Financially, it was out of reach. I was doing my best to stick to the plan Samantha had outlined for me, and I was still slowly saving up for the Greece trip for my dad. Assuming his health improved, we’d hopefully go sometime next year. This necklace, as gorgeous and amazing as it was, could push the trip back by at least a month in terms of my savings.
I stepped away from temptation and sighed. “I love it.”
“But?”
“Come on,” Greg urged. “You only live once.”
“It doesn’t go with any of my outfits.”
“Greece,” James said, and I confirmed with a quick nod, pleased he remembered that I was saving up for my dream trip. Not only was the man hot, but he listened like he cared. Total aphrodisiac.
Greg took the piece with a shake of his head, locking it up in a nearby display case. I didn’t own any jewellery that belonged locked up. Obviously, today I was lusting after numerous things that were beyond my league.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Don’t apologize,” James said, guiding me out of the gift shop with a warm hand on my lower back and sending a shower of sparks through me like someone had lit a sparkler.
“I appreciate you setting it aside for me.”
A feeling of FOMO—otherwise known as a fear of missing out—settled into my bones, and I almost turned around to empty my savings account. That piece was one-of-a-kind. Ancient. Special . Nothing new would be made by that artist or his peers. Ever.
“Of course. I saw it and immediately thought of you.” Outside the front doors, James asked, “Where are you heading to next?”
I hesitated before answering. There was a possibility that he could be in on the YFGM invoice prank, if it was one. On the other hand, if I confessed that I was going to peek at a place filled with fairy godmothers, or some such thing, so I could figure out my strange, hundred-thousand dollar tab, he might have me shipped off to the funny farm. He was kind and caring in that way.
“I’m checking out a business on tenth and tenth,” I said casually, building a lie as I spoke. I watched James out of the corner of my eye. He was a salt of the earth sweetheart. From what I’d gathered, he came from a perfect and loving family, and he was the type of man a woman married but didn’t date, or whatever the expression was. In other words, James wasn’t a liar and the idea of telling him a mistruth felt like a severe violation of our tentative, museum-based friendship.
“Tenth?” He glanced in the direction I needed to go: south-west. I was still off my target by several blocks.
“Yeah. Joan wants me to do a quick walk-by of a place that’s looking for a few temps for their summer rush.” I cut myself off, remembering something I’d heard about liars always giving too many details.
“Oh.” He nodded, his look one of obvious skepticism.
Notably, there was no flickering hint that he was hiding prank minutiae from me. I was starting to think my friends could apply to the CSIS—Canadian Security Intelligence Service—and get in. If this was a prank, it was something that would have taken some time to put together, and nobody had dropped a single hint over the past several days or weeks. Nary a moment of feigned over-interest in anything, an ill-placed eye twinkle or guilty glance away.
Right. Because it might not be a prank. It could be a scam.
Or it could be real. What would that be like? To have a fairy godmother?
The fact that I was more curious than a rational being should be meant I should keep my mouth shut. My thoughts were my secrets. Especially since they were ones that might get me shipped off to Ponoka’s Centennial Centre to have my grip on reality double-checked by qualified mental health professionals.
I sighed and rubbed my face. This really was a case of identity theft, wasn’t it?
“You okay?” James asked, lightly touching my forearm.
I dropped my hands to my side. “Yeah, of course. Want to tag along?” I perked up at the idea of spending some time walking and talking with James. Plus, having a big guy in a security uniform accompanying me into the unknown was not a bad plan.
He gazed off toward tenth again and winced. “Sorry. Can’t.”
I checked my watch. “Aren’t you done your shift?” Should I admit to knowing his dayshift schedule?
“Yeah. I am.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze kept darting away like he had a secret.
I gasped. “You have a date!” I gave him a shove, which I’d meant to be playful but surprisingly, given his size, nearly knocked him off balance. Good thing he caught himself, otherwise he could have broken a leg, charged me for assault and then I’d be out of a job—no longer bondable. I shook my head at my silly imagination running wild and muttered, “Sorry.”
Of course he had a date. He was cute. Just because I hadn’t had one in at least eight months, that didn’t mean his love life had to shrivel like a raisin as well.
Sometimes I thought maybe he liked me, but clearly he wasn’t secretly pining for me, waiting for me to make a move.
The man was a hunk of the highest order. I was delusional to even consider that he might be pining for me. James wanted a big, close-knit family and a woman who was steady and calm, and didn’t say awkward, stupid things when she was uncomfortable. Or nearly shove him down a set of stone steps when she was actually happy for him in a sad, wishing-it-was-herself kind of way.
“That’s uh, nice. Are you going to get lucky?” I asked halfheartedly, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Not because I sounded a tad jealous and judgemental, but also because it was absolutely none of my business. Why he still talked to me when he made me so incredibly tongue-tied, awkward and nervous was beyond me. And to think, I was more comfortable around him than most other eligible men. It was a good thing I was already comfortable with my singleness, because it was looking like I’d be this way for the foreseeable future.
“It’s a first date.”
“Sorry. What?”
“I’m not really into one-night stands.”
“I don’t think sleeping together on the first date makes it a one-night stand.”
“Well, in my experience, a relationship never really develops if you jump into things that fast.”
“What do you mean? Like develop emotionally?”
He nodded. “It doesn’t seem to progress beyond the physical.”
“Huh.” I’d always sort of gotten the vibe that James was looking for love, and not just a good time like most men his age, and his confession felt like a verification of my theory. He wanted to move slowly and deeply, and make it last forever.
That was the fantasy, wasn’t it? Too bad it was just that—fantasy.
“Don’t you find that?” he asked.
“I don’t…” My tongue got all twisted, my imagination running wild at the suggestion of a one-night stand with James. His strong biceps like a vise around me, his weighty, muscular body…. Wow. Forget it becoming parka weather out here, break out the shorts. I resisted fanning myself and muttered, “I never. I…”
“You’ve never-ever?”
“No!” Out of habit, I glanced about for eavesdroppers judging me, then lowered my voice. “Not like that. I’m not a—you know. I’m just not someone who moves fast, or is into one-night stands.”
“But you think I am?” James said, tone wounded.
It took me a moment to realize he was kidding, and I barely refrained from giving him another shove—this one out of frustration. What was with me tonight? Yeah, I wanted to touch the man, but shoving him? That was hardly a good way to show how I felt. The move didn’t even work for fourth graders on the playground.
“You’re frustrating,” I grumbled.
He flashed me a triumphant grin and let his shoulder bump into mine as we meandered in the direction of the staff parking lot’s entrance.
I struggled for a way to recover the conversation, so it didn’t end on the note of my spectacular awkwardness.
“Where are you taking her?”
“Probably Earl’s.” He gave a one shoulder shrug.
“Fancy.”
He gave me a dry look. “Not really, but not everyone loves Peter’s.”
I gave a dramatic gasp. Peter’s Drive-In was a long-established burger joint in the city and had the absolute best milkshakes. Plus, when you ordered a large fries, it came in a shoebox. Mind. Blown.
Okay, so they didn’t do that anymore. But still. Impression made. They meant business and I could totally climb aboard that train.
“Real women love Peter’s.”
“You’re not real, Char.” He bumped his shoulder against mine, giving me a look of affection that made me hope he’d cancel his date and see me as ‘real’—whatever that meant to a single hunk like him.
* * *
“It should be right here,” I muttered to myself, pacing outside a row of single-storey businesses. On my walk to YFGM’s address, I’d promised myself I’d extricate myself from this erroneous invoice, laugh off anything fairy godmother-like, as well as act tough in the face of a potential scam.
But I hadn’t expected to find nothing.
Studying the buildings coated with dust with their air of neglect, I couldn’t find Your Fairy Godmother. I didn’t know whether to scream in frustration or to relax in relief.
I took another scan. I wasn’t a city girl, and sometimes street addresses left me muddled. If the address wasn’t ‘go a mile past the large pine,’ I got lost, and tenth was an odd, east-west strip through the city, scattered with more parking lots than buildings. To further limit my options, the Canada Pacific’s main rail line ran behind the south-facing row of buildings instead of there being an alleyway.
It was this or nothing. And it was looking like nothing—a dead end.
However, this would be a great place for an underground nightclub.
Train? What train? They’d never hear it over the thumping music.
I counted off the businesses again, determined to get to the bottom of YFGM. 810, 1210, 1410. 1010 and 1010B were completely absent.
“1010B, 1010B,” I muttered to myself on the empty sidewalk. I scanned again and there it was: Photocopies and Beyond. How had I missed it the first few times?
I mean, to my credit, it was one of those skinny places that was basically the width of a door with a tiny window above it to let in a bit of light. Since there was no second level to the buildings, it was probably just a staircase that led to a basement.
Creepy.
Although…nightclubs were often in basements. But so were kidnapped women, according to awful TV shows that refused to leave my memory banks. Why couldn’t every scene with Luke from Gilmore Girls stay rooted in my mind instead? They were much more pleasant.
I shivered and blinked at the door with the tiny, faded business sign. It wasn’t a nightclub, and this wasn’t a prank or fun puzzle for me from my roommates. I was alone in the city this weekend, and I was the victim of identity theft.
What had I expected? To find the offices of an actual fairy godmother, pressed up against the grit of a major rail line?
It would be located in a magical forest, obviously. A cute little building with magic sparkles flying out of its big, bright windows and wood nymphs flitting about, slipping inside through tiny, old-fashioned keyholes that were just their size.
I sighed, my entire spirit flagging. A teeny, grubby copy place that hadn’t even made it into a maps app was a perfect front for a scam artist stealing identities.
Not quite ready to face going home and calling the police about identity fraud, I reached out to try the door. Dealing with a fairy godmother would be much preferable to dealing with scammers, and I found myself saying out loud, “I was hoping you’d be the office of Your Fairy Godmother, you stupid door!”
I squeaked and jumped back as the metal door with the crooked Photocopies and Beyond sticker transformed into a wooden one with an intricately carved handle with lifelike leaves and flowers. Above it spanned a maroon sign that stated simply, ‘YFGM.’
I sucked in an unsteady breath, body trembling.
What. The.
Magical….
Okay. Get a grip. My mind was clearly playing tricks on me. Doors didn’t transform like that.
Hand outstretched, and nearly touching the wood handle that was darkened from use, I hoped I wasn’t about to do something incredibly dangerous. Because what if this was a trap and inside was a human trafficking ring?
I lost my nerve and dropped my hand, shaking my head at myself. Tamara’s mom’s constant worries about the city were starting to erode my confidence and sense of security.
Honestly, if I was going to believe in something dark and awful behind this door, I might as well believe there was a fairy godmother inside who thought I owed her money.
Right. And if she were real, and I went in there, she’d have me turned into a toad for having an overdue account. Smiling at the absurdity, I paused. Wait. Did fairy godmothers turn people into things, or was that the work of witches? I needed Josie’s mental spreadsheets of the magical world as gained from her passion for reading romantasy. She’d know.
Shaking off my thoughts and ready to figure things out, I touched the door handle, my fingers moving over the bumpy grain of wood. Carefully, I tested it. Locked.
Thank goodness.
“Not going to let me in YFGM?” I laughed, relaxing as a smile stretched wide. It looked as though I didn’t have to face this weird, slightly scary fiasco today. Thank you, Universe.
But as I turned to return home, I heard the telltale sound of a door’s lock clicking open.