Hex & Hearth

Chapter 1

I met a boy today. Our connection was instant and magnetic.

I fear I looked like a madwoman as I could not stop staring at him.

It felt as if I’d found the other half of my soul.

I wasn’t a believer. I’d seen too many dalliances end in heartbreak and sorrow.

But attraction bloomed between us, proliferating like the flowers on my jasmine vines.

I was drawn to him, enchanted by his very essence.

Present day

Mercy Finch was lying to her therapist.

“I don’t know why he left.” Untrue. Her ex had freaked out when she confessed to her “special” abilities. Or not really confessed; more like her magic decided to show up in the middle of… sexy times.

To say he was upset was a bit of an understatement.

She felt a little guilty. But even her town, which was full of… special people, confiding in others that she was a witch had been a pain point for years.

It all stemmed from her father’s attitude about magic. Another thing she couldn’t discuss with Dr. Pellegrini.

“He was a placeholder anyway.” On that, Mercy was certain. She hadn’t been in love with Jason. She’d been in love with being a couple.

In love with lazy Monday mornings—not Sunday, because the store was open—lying on her puffy floral sofa, sunlight streaming through the filmy curtains, a cup of tea, and soft jazz drifting lazily through the room while they read their books.

Jason had been eminently practical. He didn’t believe in magic. Which made it easy to hide. But the doctor wasn’t as easy to fool.

Mercy glanced away from the zoom screen.

Dr. P. was trained in Imago Couples Therapy, dealing with childhood trauma and working through limiting patterns —which was why Mercy had chosen her, even though Jason had refused to come. He’d booked out of town amazingly fast for someone who had been slow off the mark on everything else.

Mercy was lost in remembering how quickly her ex had headed for the door when Dr. P. said, “I’m not sure this is working.”

“Wait. What?”

The bell over the door jingled, signalling she had a customer. Darn it!

Usually her part-time employee, Midge, who was somewhere around eighty-five, (although she was hard to pin down on her exact date of birth, which as her employer Mercy should know, and she still wasn’t sure) worked the front of the store when Mercy had her therapy sessions.

But Midge had been feeling under the weather, and it was a Tuesday, the slowest day of the week, so Mercy had figured it would be fine.

“You need to be honest with me if I’m going to be able to help you.” Dr. P. studied her. She seemed to be staring above Mercy’s head. Mercy touched the crown of her head wondering if her hair was messy.

Oh, my goddess.

Did she know that Mercy was… prevaricating? Lying seemed harsh.

She needed to fix this. But first, she had to take care of business.

“I need to just go check on the customer who came in.” A desperate fear rose in her, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Her therapist couldn’t dump her, too. “Be right back!”

Mercy rushed out of her cramped office.

She took a minute to re-center. As she inhaled deeply, the smell of vanillin, almond, and a bit of must—sweet and woody—wrapped around her like a hug. That bibliosmia scent never failed to instantly lower her stress level.

Books were her friends and companions. Books couldn’t stab you in the heart and leave.

Sure, they could lose their potency, and the message that seemed so all consuming at fifteen didn’t hit the same at thirty-five, but they didn’t bail on you, or talk about you behind your back, or other traumas that had informed her youth.

Who needed anything else?

“Here goes nothing.” Zane Bridges let the door to Finch nails painted a complimentary coral stood out against the black leather. She stroked the leather as if it held all the mysteries of the universe within its pages. “How strange.”

Zane blinked and cast off the thrall, or whatever, that had him forgetting where he was. “What’s strange?”

She shook her head. “I don’t… recognize this book.”

It had just fallen—come flying?—off the shelf. It would be unusual for her to remember every book in the store. Right?

He glanced around. “There are a lot of books in here. It would be surprising if you knew them all.”

She continued to caress the old leather. He found himself strangely captivated by her reaction to the book, having the odd thought that he wished she would caress him the same way.

“I know them all,” she replied softly, gently.

They still knelt on the floor, cocooned in the intimate, hushed atmosphere. He didn’t want to move, caught in a web of intense longing, wanting desperately to get closer.

She filled the space with her vivacious presence. That assurance that she knew every book in the store was spoken with an affection that made him yearn.

That was the word. He yearned to be closer to her.

She opened the book, revealing pages in handwritten script and some type of faded ink. “Whoa.” She snapped the book closed. Dust puffed from the yellowed, rag paper.

Her eyes watered, and she sneezed.

More books fell to the floor.

Perhaps the underlying structure was unstable. “You should probably check your cellar. It appears you might have a weak floor joist.”

She laughed, her amber eyes sparkling. That was when he noticed the leaf in her hair.

“Hold up. You’ve got something in your hair.” He gently reached out. “May I?”

She nodded. “Uh, sure?”

He removed the leaf from her silky strands.

She blinked. “Thanks.” Breathless.

His heart revved. When he stood and held his hand out to her, a strange sense of déjà vu blasted him.

He could almost recall this exact scene: she knelt before him, though her hair was a different color, and she’d been plumper in the momentary vision, but the feeling had been the same.

Affection and warmth expanded in his chest, as if being in her presence made the world brighter.

What fantastical thoughts.

“I’m fine.” She clambered to her feet, clutching the old book to her chest. “Can I help you find something?”

“Ah… yes?” She was closer than before, and her unique scent, herbs and flowers, flowed over him like a spell.

More fantastical thoughts.

“I’m looking for a town history.”

She giggled. “This is a very old town. You’ll need to be more specific.”

He broke the trance. “I have a client who is considering buying a house over on Church Street. I wanted to do some research.”

“Client. Client! Oh, shoot. Dr. Pelligrini!” She whirled and ran for the door marked Office. “Aisle 5, shelf 3.”

And she was gone.