As You Wish (A Brim’s Hollow Romance #1)

Chapter 1

Honey

Wishing wells are a menace, and Honey Baxter was the only thing standing between them and total anarchy.

Imposing order on the wildness of magic wasn’t so much a talent as it was an unwavering commitment to the guiding principles set forth by the Bureau of Magical Compliance.

The principles, detailed in the three brick-like binders at Honey’s feet, date back hundreds of years and encompass everything from how many witches can live in a town to spell work allowed in a cinnamon roll.

“No, sir.” Honey stepped forward, blocking the man’s path as he hovered near the fountain with a penny pinched between his fingers. “As you can see on the signage, the wishing well is closed for an audit.”

The man blinked at her, his expression a mix of surprise and desperation.

Honey had been watching him out of the corner of her eye for the past ten minutes as he paced the cobblestone plaza, loosening his tie, and running a hand through his neatly styled—now hopelessly tousled—hair.

His suit, an expensive charcoal gray, was rumpled, and the top button of his shirt was undone like he’d had a day that started with boardroom meetings and ended in an existential crisis.

“I don’t have time to wait for the next audit.” He exhaled sharply, rolling the penny between his fingers. “You ever have one of those days where you just need a win?”

Before she could respond, his thumb flicked, sending the coin arcing through the air. It plunked into the water with a small splash, and ripples spread out like the consequences of a bad decision.

Honey sighed. She dealt with plenty of wishers who tried to bend the rules, but there was something about this one—about the deep sigh he let out after the coin hit the water, and the way his shoulders sagged like he was holding up the weight of more than just a long day—that made her hesitate.

“Sir,” she chastised, already tugging on her elbow-length dishwashing glove. People had all sorts of romantic notions about wishing wells, but Honey knew what kind of bacteria festered in stagnant water.

With a practiced motion, she plunged her hand into the cold well and fished out the coin. After drying it on the apron she wore atop her smart suit, she inserted it into the coin slot on her computer. The wish scrolled across the screen: I want to be happy.

Honey didn’t need to consult her manual to know this was a bad wish—poorly formed, and too vague to properly grant. Both top ten violations.

She sighed and looked at the man standing beside where she knelt. “This isn’t a very good wish,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “You’ve got to be more specific.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Honey tilted her head. “It’s like ordering at a restaurant. You don’t just tell the waiter you want ‘food.’ You tell them exactly what you want.”

She picked up the handbag beside her and found the coin purse she kept tucked there. Of course, Honey did not make her own wishes, but she always liked to carry a few coins for situations like this. She snapped the little purse open and held out the coin. “Take this.”

She darted a glance over her shoulder at the revolving door of the building that housed the Manhattan district Bureau where she worked, half-expecting her boss to come charging out.

It wasn’t technically against the rules—she’d checked—but she had reason to believe that if Mr. Aldridge knew she occasionally helped wishers formulate a proper wish, the vein in his temple would bulge more than it did when Dean Weisel filed Fairy Godparent cases under M for miscellaneous instead of F.

“Try again,” she said, pressing the penny into his palm.

He hesitated, then closed his eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came out, and then he flicked the coin into the fountain. Before the ripples even settled, she fished the coin from the water, dried it quickly on her apron, and inserted it into the computer.

The new wish scrolled across the screen: I wish Candy would leave him and marry me instead.

Honey winced. The wish was better formed and more specific, but still, she couldn’t approve it.

It would be easy to approve every wish she thought would make someone even momentarily happy.

He would probably drop to his knees in gratitude, his eyes shining with the belief that fate had finally righted itself.

But love built on a wish wasn’t real, and happiness forced into place would never last. Honey knew that much.

Even if the man hated her for it, she couldn’t let a wish like that go through.

She straightened her shoulders and tried to push down the unsettled feeling of guilt.

Honey Baxter hadn’t become the most efficient and exacting auditor by approving wishes and distributing magic willy-nilly.

It took discipline and immense foresight to maintain a sense of order in the most bustling part of the city.

Honey’s boss knew she wouldn’t be swayed by the longing in this man’s eyes, though she knew the feeling acutely.

No, Mr. Aldridge could rely on her to remain impartial, adhere to the rules, and stop chaos from breaking out in their city.

She pressed the red deny button on her computer, and the words vanished from her screen. “I’ve denied your wish,” Honey said matter-of-factly, as the coin clinked into the five-gallon container of denied wishes.

The man’s face crumbled briefly before hardening. “What do you know anyway?” He shoved his hand into his pocket. “I bet you deny every wish except your own. Greedy witch.”

“I do not,” she said, rather haughtily. “Furthermore, I am not a witch. And I absolutely do not make my own wishes.”

The idea that she would misuse or needlessly constrain magic appalled Honey.

Perhaps that seems hypocritical given the nearly full five-gallon container of denial coins and the very small, snack-sized Ziploc baggie full of approvals.

But the point was Honey granted any wish that would lead to lasting happiness.

She didn’t deny wishes because she didn’t believe in magic or happiness, but because she wanted people to truly benefit from their wishes, not just experience fleeting satisfaction.

Above all else, that was the rule that dictated everything she did.

Wishes must be good in the long term.

Her code of compliance may not make her any friends or win her many thanks, but when there’s magic involved, there must be rules.

Maintaining order had been a guiding principle since the first time she color-coded and labelled her parents’ spell books, sorting charms from hexes and potions from illusions, and watched the relief settle over their home.

For the first time, the tiny apartment she grew up in didn’t feel like it was teetering on the brink of disaster, and dinner wasn’t forgotten in favor of some half-baked magical experiment.

That was when Honey realized that order could bring peace, that structure could hold joy in place instead of letting it slip through the cracks.

She had been raised in a family that railed against constraints on magic.

The truth of it was that her parents practiced witchcraft.

They called it many things over the years—holistic medicine, herbal teas, tinctures—but no matter what they called it, the ingredients they sourced and the centuries-old recipes they manipulated, were witchcraft.

They skirted many rules defining what was witchcraft with clever marketing.

It was a point of pride for them as they believed rules stifle creativity, and that magic should be wild and free.

As a pair of witches raising an ordinary human, they made sure Honey knew how to whip up a tonic to ward off the common cold and patchwork to keep away a chill on a cold winter night.

But they also left behind a trail of half-finished spells and consequences they never stuck around to clean up.

Honey had learned early that someone had to be the responsible one.

So, she became the person who thought ahead, and who kept things from spiraling into a mess.

It was the right decision to deny the man’s wish, she told herself, even as she watched his retreating back and guilt gnawed at her. She had to do the right thing, even when it was hard.

Honey secured her supplies, capping the container of denied wishes and tagging it for disposal. She tucked her computer, her folded-up apron, and her baggie of approvals into her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

She headed to Jo’s Pizza Shoppe on the corner across from the fountain. Despite the people streaming by her, she waited for the light to turn. She checked her watch as the light flicked to green. Twenty-nine minutes left on her lunch break.

Twenty-eight by the time the bell tinkled when she pushed the pizzeria door open, just wide enough to slide inside.

A wave of heat wrapped around her, thick with the scent of blistered cheese, slow-simmered tomato sauce, and the yeasty tang of dough baking in the brick-fired oven.

The place was packed. A long, snaking line of people shifted impatiently.

Their chatter wove into the clatter of pizza peels scraping against stone, the hiss of soda dispensers, and the shouting of orders from behind the counter.

Honey walked through something sticky as she took her place in line, ten people deep, pressed between a man in a stiff wool coat scrolling on his phone and a pair of teenage boys still in their soccer jerseys, sweat-damp and jittery with energy.

It should have been overwhelming—the crush of bodies, the constant motion, the heat from the ovens radiating outward—but instead, it settled something inside her.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back, letting herself sink into the rhythm of the place.

This was the city—loud, fast, unapologetic—and she loved it.