Hot Girls Date Shifters (Hot Girls Date #3)

Prologue Elsie

Ever since I moved to Barvale, I've believed in magic a little more.

Maybe it's because this little South Jersey town feels like it stepped out of another time.

The streets are lined with old brick buildings draped in flower baskets every spring. The storefronts are independently owned, their windows filled with handmade signs instead of corporate logos.

Everyone waves at everyone else, and if you're standing still for longer than five minutes, somebody will probably stop to ask how you're doing.

The first week I moved here, three different neighbors brought me pie.

Pie.

Do you know how aggressively wholesome that is?

The second week, the elderly woman who owns the antique store next door slipped a lavender sachet into my shopping bag “to keep away bad dreams.”

The week after that, the florist across the street started leaving a fresh flower on the counter of my shop every Monday morning.

No note.

Just a flower.

Pretty orange and yellow ones I don’t know the names of.

“Hi, I’m Maya. And please accept the flowers, it's just what we do here,” she'd said when I tried to pay her.

I smiled and thanked her. We shared a few more words, and after I left, feeling both elated and befuddled.

I mean, I didn’t know what it was...

But I liked it.

Barvale isn't flashy.

It isn't glamorous.

But it’s home.

Or at least...

It's becoming home.

The little apartment I rent sits above an old, detached garage on the edge of town. The landlord lets me keep bird feeders in the yard, and every morning I wake up to cardinals arguing outside my bedroom window.

Down on Main Street sits my happy place.

Moon & Mug.

Half coffee shop. Half occult bookstore.

Entirely my dream.

The front half smells like espresso, cinnamon, and fresh pastries.

The back half smells like old books, sandalwood incense, and polished wood.

Tarot cards.

Crystal displays.

Candles.

Shelf after shelf of books—fictional, spiritual, and more.

Tea blends.

Hand crafted soaps.

Wind chimes.

Moon journals.

Because even if magic isn't real, hope certainly is.

And that's what I sell more than anything.

Hope. Fun. Whimsy.

The little bell above the door jingles as another customer leaves with a caramel latte and a book on herbal remedies.

“Have a wonderful evening!” I call.

“You too, Elsie!”

I glance at the antique clock hanging above the pastry case.

Six o'clock.

Only another half hour before the coffee counter closes. One more hour before the bookstore closes.

My favorite time of day.

I steam milk, sprinkle cinnamon over my evening chai latte, and inhale happily.

“This...”

I sigh.

“...is perfection.”

And exactly twenty-nine minutes later, the bell jingles again.

A group of women sweep inside like they're arriving at Fashion Week instead of my cozy little bookstore.

Designer handbags.

Six-inch heels.

Perfect blowouts.

Enough perfume to fumigate the county.

They don't even look around before one wrinkles her nose.

“Oh...”

She whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“... this place is adorable.”

A different one snorts.

“In a trying-too-hard kind of way.”

I pretend not to hear. After all, people are allowed their opinions.

The tallest woman eyes the crystal display.

“Do people actually buy this stuff?”

“Oh my God,” another says. “Look at the little witch books.”

“WitchTok must be keeping places like this alive.”

They laugh.

I stir my tea.

Smile politely.

“Breathe, Elsie,” I mutter beneath my breath.

Then one of them notices me.

Her eyes sweep from my long blonde hair to my chest, my belly rolls that are pretty visible when I sit down, and finally, to my hips.

She smirks.

“I suppose all these baked goods are employee perks.”

The others giggle.

Well.

That's rude.

Still...

I don’t react because customer service and all that jazz.

“Good evening,” I say brightly. “What can I do for you?”

The tallest one steps forward.

“I'll have an iced quad-shot half-caf oat milk caramel macchiato with three pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump hazelnut, cinnamon cold foam, extra drizzle, and light ice.”

I smile.

“I'm sorry, I can’t do that.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Our espresso bar closes at six-thirty.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“The coffee shop is closed.”

“Then why is your door open?”

“The bookstore stays open until seven.”

She folds her arms.

“So, make the coffee.”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

Her smile disappears.

“Excuse me?”

“Our espresso machines begin their cleaning cycle at six-thirty every evening.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“It's our posted business hours.”

She glances dramatically toward the menu board.

“Well, that's terrible customer service.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way.”

Another woman steps forward.

“I wanted a lavender honey matcha with almond milk.”

“And I wanted a pistachio latte.”

“I came specifically for coffee.”

I nod sympathetically.

“I understand. Please accept this ten percent coupon card for next time and do mind the coffee shop hours. They’re listed on it.”

None of them move. Instead, they simply stare at me.

Waiting.

As though if they stand there long enough, I'll magically change my mind. One sighs dramatically.

“You know...”

She looks me up and down.

“If you actually wanted repeat customers...”

I meet her gaze.

“Well, of course I do.”

“Then maybe don't refuse service.”

“I'm not refusing service. I can help you with anything you see here. Just not coffee.”

“But I want a latte.”

I gesture toward the bookshelves.

“I do apologize. The café is unfortunately closed, according to our posted hours. The bookstore is still open, and if you’re thirsty I can ring up any of the bottled water or juices we have in the mini fridge there.”

She scoffs.

“This is unbelievable.”

Another laughs.

“No wonder this place is empty.”

I glance around.

There are like six customers quietly browsing.

Mrs. Devlin from the local bakery—the flagship Bear Claw Bakery, if you can believe it—waves at me from the romantasy section.

I wave back.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry you feel that way.”

The woman rolls her eyes.

“You'll regret this,” she whispers menacingly.

I smile pleasantly.

“I hope you have a lovely evening.”

And I do, as long as it’s anywhere but here.

They huff. Turn dramatically. And march toward the door. The bell jingles violently as they leave.

When it stops vibrating, blessed silence settles over the shop.

A moment later, Mrs. Devlin peeks around a bookshelf. She’s absolutely adorable with shoulder length blonde hair graying at the temples.

“Well, they seemed delightful,” she says sarcastically.

I snort.

“Didn't they?” I ask with a smile.

She is so sweet, and she’s come in the shop almost every week since I opened.

“Some people mistake kindness for weakness.”

She smiles knowingly.

“I've noticed.”

I ring up two romance novels, a bag of Earl Grey tea, and smile when she tells me she'll see me next Tuesday.

After the last customer leaves, I glance toward the darkening sky outside. It’s twenty minutes till close.

You know what? I'm done for the night.

It’s my favorite perk of being my own boss.

I flip the sign to CLOSED and rinse out the mug from my chai latte. The bookstore can close early once in a while.

I switch off the lights one section at a time until only the warm glow from the front windows remains.

Then I lock the front door and set the alarm.

Outside, the summer air is cool and fragrant. Most people would take the sidewalk home.

Not me.

There's a shortcut through the woods behind Main Street.

Ten peaceful minutes beneath towering pines and ancient oaks.

Normally, it's my other favorite part of the day.

No customers.

No invoices.

No emails.

No social media.

Just me, the whisper of the wind through the leaves, and the comforting feeling that the world is far bigger and more magical than most people ever allow themselves to believe.

I know.

That probably sounds a little woo-woo—especially considering I own an occult bookstore. But I swear the woods have a soul.

Every evening I walk this path, I feel myself let go of another piece of stress. And by the time I reach my little rental apartment that sits atop a detached garage, I can finally breathe again.

Maybe that's why I moved to Barvale in the first place.

Five years climbing the corporate ladder at one of the country's biggest pharmaceutical companies had nearly broken me.

Business trips.

Connecting flights.

Hotels.

Conference rooms with no windows.

Twelve-hour days spent chasing numbers that never seemed to matter.

I was constantly exhausted.

Constantly anxious.

And despite making more money than I'd ever dreamed possible, I wasn't happy.

My love life wasn't exactly thriving either.

Let's just say dating apps and airport lounges aren't where soulmates are made.

The turning point came somewhere over Ohio.

My connecting flight had been delayed for the third time that month, and I wandered into one of those tiny airport bookstores looking for anything to distract me.

Instead? I found a little book called Finding Your Inner Peace.

Cheesy?

Probably.

Life-changing?

Absolutely.

It talked about slowing down.

Listening to your intuition.

Building a life instead of simply surviving one.

By the time my plane landed, I'd already decided.

I was done.

Within six months I'd quit my job, emptied my savings, bought Moon & Mug, and moved to a town I'd never even visited before.

Everyone thought I was crazy.

Maybe I am.

But for the first time in my adult life, I wake up excited to go to work.

I know my customers by name.

I drink tea instead of energy drinks.

I spend my afternoons recommending books instead of sitting in meetings that could've been emails.

The only thing still missing? Is someone to share it all with.

Because despite believing in magic...

Despite believing in destiny...

Despite stubbornly refusing to give up on love...

That part hasn't happened for me.

Not yet.

I smile to myself as I step onto the narrow trail.

Maybe someday.

Tonight, though? Tonight feels different.

The forest seems quieter somehow.

Expectant.

Like it's holding its breath.

A cool breeze stirs the leaves overhead, carrying with it the scent of pine and something else I can't quite place.

Warm.

Wild.

Almost like cinnamon.

I laugh under my breath.

“Okay, Universe.”

I look up through the canopy.

“If you've got something magical planned...”

A strange flutter dances through my chest.

“... I'm listening.”

Because somehow, I don't think whatever the universe has planned for me is going to be found in one of my books. It’s frustrating not being able to go out and grab it.

Hell.

Sometimes it feels like all I can do is wait for it to find me.

And with that, I continue deeper into the woods, blissfully unaware that destiny has already caught my scent.