How (Not) to Conjure a Boyfriend (Not)

Chapter 1

If I have to wipe up one more glob of caramel, I’m quitting. I promise. I swear it by the Allfather. I’ll walk right out the front door, not a second thought.

“Could you not, maybe”—I twirl a finger in the air at Kaitlynn—“make a mess?”

“Me?” She feigns pouty eyes and intentionally misses the cup while coating the counter with cinnamon. Ladies, gents, and theys, my best friend, the one and only essential bane to my existence, Kaitlynn May Miller.

She dusts the mess onto the floor, as if that’s better, and I roll my eyes to hide my amusement. I pop a lid on the drink I whipped up for one of our regulars and shake my head. A mess. That’s what she is, but she’s my mess, I guess.

“What?” She acts innocent.

“Really?” I ask. “Come on, less mess means less cleanup, and I still have to finish the pumpkin bread before we close, or Dawn is going to freak.”

Dawn practically begged Kaitlynn and me in the work group chat earlier to get all the extra stuff done so she could focus on baking the many Thanksgiving orders in the morning. There were lots of pouty emojis. She really likes emojis.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kaity groans. “Gotta have a—”

“Have you seen Hayden yet?” I interrupt as if I’m only now thinking of it. I’m not. It’s been on my mind the last hour. He’s a… Well, he’s a guy who comes into Woodsy Café & Cakes a lot. Okay, not just a guy, he’s the guy.

“No.” Kaitlynn grins, brown eyes squinting with amused accusation under pinned-up blonde hair, and shakes her head. “You miss your man?”

My man? I deflect by turning around, a plastic cup in hand marked GUNTER.

Hayden is not my man. I wish he was, but he isn’t.

I’m one hundred percent not that fortunate.

He’s probably super straight anyway, which rules me out entirely.

Besides, he doesn’t even know I exist. Okay, he does know I exist, but…

You know what, stop. Just focus on the now.

“Mr. Franz,” I call out across the counter.

It’s a rule to always call out the customer’s name on the cup, but I refuse to call him Gunter.

It’s Mr. Franz. Unlike some, he isn’t weird and flirty with Kaitlynn, and he has this cool hint of a waning European accent.

I want to say it’s German—my mom is German—but it might be something else, like Polish or Danish.

He’s just one of the sweetest old men I’ve ever met, and until he says otherwise, it’s Mr. Franz.

“Here,” Mr. Franz answers, one hand on a thin wooden cane, the other reaching for his drink. His fingers are rough when he takes it from me. “Thank you, Mackenzie.”

“Of course.” I nod. “Hope you enjoy it.”

My friends call me Kenzie, but my name badge says MACKENZIE in brown letters. I don’t usually hear my full name unless I’m in trouble at home, but there’s a warmth to the way he says it.

“Is that a new skirt?” Mr. Franz’s head ticks to the left. His movements tend to be a little abrupt.

“It is!” I let my shoulders bounce and I do a little curtsy.

The light mocha fabric shuffles around my legs.

I only recently started wearing skirts last semester.

Mom didn’t care, and Kaity thought it was great, but I knew not everyone would, especially at school, and that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my freshman year.

We live in one of those towns where the high school dress code changed to let dudes wear skirts, but people’s acceptance didn’t change with it.

Last week even, Mr. Franz saw someone give me a weird look while I was working, probably because of my outfit, and he made a point to compliment me right in front of them. He might be old, but he’s far from old-school.

“Looks good.” He nods and starts toward the door. “Have a good night, you two.”

“Thanks! We’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and walk around the counter. Kaitlynn yells her goodbye as the door settles shut behind him.

I walk past her, slapping the counter as I swish around it. “I’ll be in the back if you need me,” I say, and stop at the prep station.

Away from the shades of browns and grays, the old farmhouse-style lantern lights and eclectic gathering of wooden tables, couches, armchairs, and stools, I uncover loaves of pumpkin bread under a harsh fluorescent bulb.

A nutty, spicy scent wafts up to greet my nose.

I take a deep breath of it and sigh. It’s one of my favorite things about my job, even if after a few months of pumpkin spice I know I’ll be so ready for the flavor to go out of season. It’s amazing.

“Perfect,” I say to myself before starting on the bread that Landon put out earlier. I steady my thoughts while I start to slice. Chest relaxed, I pull in a new breath and whisper a blessing over the bread.

“Whosoever eats of these cakes,

may prosperity find them,

may good health be with them,

may happiness shine on them,

and no harm befall them.

Oh, and may their Thanksgiving be bright…I mean happy.”

As soon as I finish the blessing I start again. My thoughts weave around the regulars I imagine will be here tomorrow as I speak the words. Mr. Franz in particular.

Seems he’s staying in my mind. I hope he has family to see.

A whole big bunch of them. I dip my knife in the maple butter icing and slather it on a piece of warm bread from thick stacks while images of Mr. Franz pop behind my eyes like a photo reel from the ’80s.

He’s sitting by an old rock-framed fireplace with a toddler bouncing atop his knee.

A young woman laughs at his side while others gather around to listen to some story he’s telling.

He talks to a brother, or maybe a cousin, by the oven with his wife, or it could be a sister, who shoos them from the kitchen.

The thoughts warm me and simultaneously fill me with a tinge of envy.

I don’t even know if he has that and I’m jealous.

I grumble and push the feeling away before it consumes me again.

Breathe slowly, Kenzie. In and out. In and out.

Please, Freyja, take this out of my mind.

Still, the tendril of jealousy holds tight, refusing to let me forget.

I want that type of holiday, that type of life.

All I have is Mom, and sometimes that’s not even true.

“I will have a wonderful Thanksgiving. I will have a wonderful Thanksgiving,” I tell myself, and then switch to what really looms over my head. “Mom is going to feel great. Mom is going to feel great.”

She’s a good mom, I promise. It’s just that sometimes she gets depressed.

I know she tries, but she’s been like this since Dad died—since I can remember.

I was six when it happened, I think, so he’s this mostly blurry figure in my memory.

It’s weird missing someone you never really knew, but it’s even harder missing your mom from across the dinner table.

The meds help, but it’s just us. I faintly remember there being people around when I was younger.

Family gatherings and holidays with people whose names I can’t remember, people who one by one vanished from our lives.

“Kenzie!” Kaitlynn yells around the corner in German, “Notfall.”

I snap out of it. It’s how we say get the hell up here and help me without saying get the hell up here and help me in front of customers. It’s German for emergency.

“Kommen,” I yell back and cover the cakes before I exit the kitchen.

When I round the corner, the line is four deep from the counter. Kaitlynn is taking cash from the customer at the register when she looks back and asks, “Could you make drinks? I’ll take orders?”

“Sure.”

She hands me an order slip and I go for the cups.

It’s a large white chocolate latte with an extra shot of espresso for…

I check the slip again. TOBY. I could probably make this in the dark, so by the time Kaity passes back the next order, I hand off the drink to an average-height ginger with full facial hair and a massive coat who happens to reply when I call out Toby.

I steal a look past the counter. Hmm, no sign of him. Usually Hayden comes in around now. No, I’m not obsessed with him. He’s just handsome. I turn around and get back to making drinks, and twenty minutes later we’re down to one customer and still no Hayden.

“You look sour.” Kaitlynn bumps me with her thigh.

“Shut up,” I mutter and grab a miniature pumpkin pie to-go for Sheila.

I take another glance at the glass entrance.

Seriously? Where is he? I mean, he doesn’t have to come, but it’s just weird, and maybe I do want to see those gray eyes.

I hand over the little pie and half notice Sheila leaving because I’m too focused on who’s not here yet.

“I’m going to go finish up those breads,” I tell Kaitlynn, since there’s no reason for me to be up front anymore, and I start for the back. He always comes for his iced caramel latte with cinnamon. “Always,” I huff under my breath.

“I’ll get…” she starts as the door chime rings. “Actually…”

I wheel around and run to stand next to her by the register.

There is only one thing that could mean.

I freeze at the counter as he walks in, and suddenly the inch I lack on Kaity feels massive.

Are my hands clean? Do I still have that smudge on my apron?

I glance down. Yep. Still there. It’s too late to clean it off, he’s already here, gorgeous smoky eyes switching between Kaitlynn and me.

They settle on me for a little longer though, I swear it.