Chapter 3
Marigold
By the time we close up shop, my feet feel like over baked biscotti, and my hair smells like sugar, spice, and mild exhaustion.
Emery’s already gone, leaving me to sweep glittery crumbs and wipe down counters before flipping the sign to Closed.
The neon bee logo in the window hums softly, casting gold light across the floor.
When the last lock clicks into place, I trudge upstairs to my little apartment above The Cookie Hive.
It’s small, warm, and smells like vanilla extract and dreams.
Every time I climb those creaky steps, I tell myself I’ll take a proper vacation someday.
Tonight?
I just want a hot shower and maybe a cup of cocoa that doesn’t have buttercream residue in it.
But as soon as I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch, I can’t stop thinking about him—the white-suited cookie Santa with eyes like bottled lightning and a smile that felt suspiciously like destiny.
“Uncle Uzzi Stregovich,” I mutter to the empty room. “What kind of name is that? And who orders a thousand boxes of cookies on a Tuesday?”
My fingers start to tingle.
Oh no.
Not again.
I press my palms to my knees, willing the feeling to fade—but the familiar hum builds in my veins anyway, a sweet-sharp buzz that I’ve known since childhood.
The vision slides in, soft at first, then bright and clear.
Uzzi floats—yes, floats—in front of a massive standing desk covered in glowing parchment and flickering runes.
He’s waving his hands like a maestro conducting an invisible orchestra, sending shimmers of light through the ether.
Messages.
Hundreds of them.
Zipping off to people I can’t see, whispering words I can’t quite hear.
But one thing comes into focus.
A symbol.
A heart with wings, blinking in rhythmic pulses across the screen.
Date to Mate.
When the vision fades, I’m left breathless and a little dizzy.
I rub my tingling fingers together and glance at my phone sitting on the coffee table.
Curiosity wins.
A quick search later, I’m staring at a glossy homepage splashed with the words:
Find your fated match in one click—because even magic loves a good algorithm.
I snort.
“Sure. Like that’s real.”
But I can’t help scrolling.
It’s filled with testimonials.
Happy couples. Random people with silly names like VAMPYLVER and WitchySoulz, and other “unique individuals” talking about how they found their soulmates.
And the logo?
It’s the same heart-with-wings I saw glowing in my vision.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Maybe it’s a coincidence.
Maybe not.
“What have I got to lose?” I ask aloud, shrugging to no one but the leftover cookie scent in the air.
It’s not like my romantic life could get any worse.
My last relationship—if you can even call three dinner dates and one warehouse rendezvous a relationship—ended six weeks ago when I caught my flour supplier, Sal, spooning with his assistant behind the delivery truck.
I deleted his contact.
Changed suppliers.
Then, I vowed never to date anyone who uses the phrase bulk gluten procurement again.
And yet, here I am.
I thumb open the sign-up screen.
Name.
Birthday.
Species—Human, Witch, or Other?
Uh, what the what now?
I hesitate a moment before tapping Witch-adjacent, but figuring it out. Maybe these folks just like to cosplay a lot. Or maybe, like me, they’ve got a little something extra to offer.
The second I hit submit, the phone vibrates in my palm.
Ding.
You’ve got a match!
I blink. “Wait, what? Already?”
The screen flashes with soft blue light, and I swear I hear a faint chuckle somewhere in the room—a familiar, mischievous heh-heh-heh that sounds a lot like a certain magical busybody in a white suit.
I stare at the glowing heart logo pulsing back at me, equal parts terrified and intrigued.
“Okay, Uncle Cookie Claus,” I whisper. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The screen starts loading…and loading.
It must have timed out at some point, or maybe I did, because the first thing I notice when I wake up is that my phone is buzzing.
The second thing? I fell asleep on the couch, covered in cookie crumbs, wearing my Flour Power apron. Again.
“Ugh. Adulting, thy name is carbs,” I mutter, rubbing sleep from my eyes and reaching for my phone.
At first, I assume it’s an order notification.
The holiday rush has been intense, and most mornings my inbox looks like Santa’s spam folder.
But then I see the Date to Mate logo flashing at the top of the screen.
A pink heart with white wings, pulsing like it’s alive.
My stomach flips.
I sit up, clearing my throat like I’m about to face a firing squad.
“Okay, Marigold. You did this. You signed up for this. You invited magical chaos into your life. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
I tap the notification.
Congratulations, Marigold Santos!
Your fated match has been found!
Ebenezer Rogers, CEO of Rogers & Reed Investments.
I blink.
Then I blink again.
“Ebenezer Rogers?” I read out loud just to be sure. “What kind of Dickensian fever dream is this?”
A quick Google search later and—yep.
There he is.
His face is—well, it’s nice.
Green eyes. Nice lips. Great suit. Dark hair with a streak of pure white on either side.
Ebenezer J. Rogers.
Financial prodigy. CEO. Multi-millionaire.
“Are you serious?” I ask whoever is listening.
The guy is a literal Wall Street Scrooge with cheekbones sharp enough to julienne vegetables.
“Oh, come on!” I groan, flopping back against the couch. “My magical soulmate is a finance bro? A man who probably uses words like synergy unironically?”
The phone dings again, this time with a text message.
U.U.
Don’t judge a book by its ledger, my dear.
I sit straight up.
“Uncle Uzzi, are you texting me through the app now?!”
Another ding.
U.U.
Indeed! I see you’ve met your match—figuratively and magically speaking.
“Let’s talk about that. Magic. How did you know I get visions?”
U.U.
Visions is it? Interesting my dear. Next time we meet we shall look into your lineage. But tell me, isn’t he handsome?
“Handsome? He looks like he audits for fun!”
U.U.
He’s misunderstood. Broody. Efficient. Has excellent posture. The man is a Honey Badger Shifter, liebling. You’re welcome.
“A—wait, WHAT?!” I nearly drop my phone. “A Shifter? They exist? And did you say Honey Badger Shifter?!”
U.U.
Of course they exist! Just like Werebears, Werewolves, and accountants with souls. Rare, but not impossible. And he is your fated mate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, half laughing, half panicking.
U.U.
Which god, dear? Several might be listening, and it does no good to make them jealous.
“Wait. How are you texting me replies when I’m talking out loud?” I ask.
U.U.
Magic, of course.
“Oh, of course. Magic. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh yeah, probably because my fated mate is literally a grumpy Badger in a suit.”
U.U.
You could try calling him your holiday honey.
“Oh, ha ha. Uncle Uzzi, I can’t date a guy named Ebenezer! It sounds like he collects ghosts at Christmas!”
U.U.
He collects mutual funds, actually. But he’s lonely, my dear. And trust me—under that stiff exterior beats a heart waiting to be melted by someone as warm and spicy as you.
I drag a hand down my face, torn between screaming and laughing.
“But Uncle Uzzi, I make cookies. I don’t know anything about finance. I’m not right for him,” I whisper, ignoring the wealth of sadness that fills me when I say those words.
U.U.
Nonsense! You’re exactly what he needs. And who knows? Perhaps this will be your sweetest batch yet.
The message fades with a shimmer of gold dust, sparkling briefly above my phone like fairy lights before vanishing into thin air.
I blink.
Then I blink again.
Did that really just happen?
Yup. Definitely did.
I stare at the screen, floored—half expecting a second message to appear, maybe from a snarky celestial customer service rep reminding me to rate the magical matchmaking app on the App Store.
But no. Just me, my phone, and a lingering hint of cinnamon and sugar in the air.
I blow out a breath and rub the bridge of my nose.
“Perfect,” I mutter, tossing my hair up into a messy bun like the day’s already too much. “My love life is being micromanaged by a magical meddler with Wi-Fi.”
Because apparently, my latest Date to Mate match has arrived. And apparently, the Universe thinks I need help.
It figures.
Still, even as I grumble, something twists low in my belly. Not nerves. Not dread. Something else.
Hope.
Excitement?
No, that would be ridiculous.
And yet.
I press my palm against my stomach like I can calm the flurry inside. A quiet flutter of possibility I haven’t felt in years, honestly.
Like maybe Abuela was right.
Maybe I am destined for more than my straightlaced, church-going, SAT-prep-book-pushing parents ever imagined for me.
Maybe the weirdness I’ve carried since childhood—this sixth sense, this subtle second sight, this knowing—isn’t a burden, but a gift.
Maybe.
I close my eyes and try to force a vision, something solid I can grab onto. A face. A place. A sign.
But of course, that’s not how it works for me. The Sight doesn’t come on command. It comes when it wants to. Trickle-fed by emotion, instinct, and the kind of faith that can’t be faked.
By the time I give up, I’ve only succeeded in giving myself a mild headache and a strong desire to lie face down on the kitchen floor.
Great.
I sigh again, deeper this time, and shove away from the counter.
“Alright, Fates. You win,” I mutter to no one in particular. “But you better make him tall, hot, and emotionally available. Or I swear I’m adding raisins instead of chocolate chips to all my recipes!”
Grabbing my towel, I head for the shower.
Whatever’s coming next, I’m facing it—even if I’m covered in flour and smelling like snickerdoodles.
And maybe this time, I’ll trust the magic—even if it comes with glittery push notifications.