Chapter One-Bella
Okay, so Spring in Castor’s Corner used to be my absolute favorite season.
Call me crazy, but I loved the mood swings of Mother Earth during that time of year.
Hot, cold, dry, wet.
Like she was throwing climate tantrums, and I was here for it.
It made me feel connected somehow. Just knowing that I wasn’t the only hot mess around kinda helped, I guess.
Technically, Palm Sunday was a disaster, but by the time Easter had come and gone, I’d managed to salvage some treats and chocolates for the actual holiday.
Fact was, I put that fire out of my mind almost as soon as it happened.
I mean, I’d thought I’d already seen the worst of Spring on that cold, crappy morning.
Oh, but bless my clueless heart, I was wrong.
Between Mother Nature’s bipolar disorder and not knowing what natural, or unnatural, disaster might strike next, well, let’s just say my closet was a fabric avalanche waiting to happen.
I had short, flowy dresses tangling with thick sweaters and flannels, and all of it was mixed up with my plethora of pink chef’s pants.
This time of year, you kinda needed to be ready for anything.
And believe me, I thought I was.
Anyway, I wasn’t about to put away my cozy knits just to get frostbite when April decided to pull a fast one.
But the truth was just lately?
The cute unpredictability of the weather had lost its charm.
We had five inches of snow in the last week of March.
Then a hurricane in mid-April that smacked our shoreline like it had a personal vendetta.
The week after that?
Eighty-degree heat for five days straight, sending everyone scrambling for their window AC units—only for the temperature to plummet back into the fifties overnight.
May was a dreary, wet, muddy mess.
And now, with June here, I was starting to wonder if summer had Ghosted us entirely.
Normally, I loved the not-knowing.
It kept things interesting.
But lately, I’d been off my game.
Restless. Like my magic was sitting just under my skin, waiting for trouble.
And Castor’s Corner always, always, delivered on trouble.
“Maribella Strega, keep it together,” I muttered, massaging my temples.
Where had it all gone sideways?
But that question was rhetorical.
I knew exactly when, where, how and most importantly who.
Less than a year ago, I was plain old Bella—owner of The Tasty Tart bakery, proud member of the town’s Witch Trifecta, and reigning blueberry pie queen of the Summer Solstice Festival.
My life was predictable in the best way—sugar, spells, and Saturdays with my girls.
Then Evie was late to our monthly bonfire where we recharged the town’s wards, and everything went straight to Hell in a magical handbasket.
Kidnappings.
Cemetery hauntings.
An evil Warlock trying to take over.
The Chicky twins hexing Grandpa Al’s remains and hoarding hair clippings to control half the town like some kind of dark-magic HOA.
It was like living in the Witchy Wild West—gunslingers swapped for spell-slingers.
Things had quieted down since then. Well, for a while, they had.
But Castor’s Corner trouble is like a hydra—you cut off one head, and two more sprout up, usually carrying pitchforks and a curse.
Let me back up and give you the quick-and-dirty history.
Castor’s Corner is home.
Always has been.
This tiny coastal New Jersey town has been a supernatural safe haven since the U.S. flag only had thirteen stars.
Our founding Witches laid down wards so strong they nudge humans away from our borders without them ever realizing it.
And me? I share a bloodline with two of the most powerful women in town—Evie and Donny.
We found out we were cousins not too long ago.
It was the kind of soap-opera twist that made my mom clutch her pearls, but I thought it was awesome.
Our mutual grandfather, Al Castor, was a total dog—literally and magically.
He strayed outside his marriage and fathered at least two illegitimate kids, one of them my dad, the other Donny’s.
Magical men. They’re charming until they’re not.
Mostly not.
Which is exactly why I’m single.
Okay, partly.
The other reason is that once your heart’s been drop-kicked into oblivion, you get a little gun-shy.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice? Not happening, Buster.
Besides, my life is full—baking, casting, and hanging with my girls.
What else does a Witch need?
Okay, fine.
Maybe I missed having someone to keep the bed warm.
But options? I had them.
Plenty of them.
I just wasn’t biting.
Well. Not unless you counted him.
Which I didn’t.
“The glass is gone,” Petyr grumbled, dragging me out of my mental spiral.
“Thanks, Petyr,” I said, patting his shaggy head.
My Domovyk familiar was all big eyes and bigger attitude.
We’d clicked instantly, unlike Evie and Donny with theirs.
Honestly, I think that was their fault, not the familiars’.
“You’re welcome, my Witchy,” he said, hauling a trash bag to the dumpster like a furry little mafia enforcer.
I sighed.
Time to see what I could salvage from the latest disaster.
I’d just had the whole store repainted after the Palm Sunday fire, and here we were again—a few days away from the Summer Solstice Bash and some firebug had decided my bakery was a repeat target.
You heard me.
We’d been hit.
Again.
My phone buzzed with texts from Evie and Donny, both offering to come down. But why should they? What could they do?
So, no, I didn’t answer.
This was small scale compared to some of the messes we’d handled.
I wasn’t dragging them out of bed at 2 AM for a little mess.
Okay, fine, it was more than a little mess.
But it was mine to handle, and I was a big girl now.
“What else could go wrong?” I muttered.
And right on cue, the Fates heard me and cackled.
A patrol car rolled into the lot, and like an instant replay of what happened on Palm Sunday, six and a half feet of trouble unfolded from the driver’s seat.
Broad shoulders.
Blond hair.
Eyes that could hypnotize a girl into making very, very bad decisions.
Plus, he wore a concerned expression that made me want to kick him in the shins.
The snake! Pun intended.
I groaned. “Of course it’s you.”
Because my girly bits clearly hadn’t gotten the memo about my no dating Shifters policy—they perked up like he was bringing cupcakes and an apology.
Memories from our night together—sweaty skin, his low growl, the way his hands owned me—flashed, and I had to lock my knees to keep from puddling at his boots.
“Can I have a moment, Maribella?” Conrad asked, his voice a deep rumble.
And just like that, I remembered exactly why I didn’t trust springtime in Castor’s Corner.
Or myself.
I pursed my lips and waited, because if I opened my mouth too soon, something stupid was bound to come out.
Last time Conrad had shown up here in uniform, I’d made the catastrophic mistake of thinking he wanted to talk about us—or rather, the utter lack of an us—because I’d shut him down more times than a health inspector in a cursed kitchen.
Egads. The man was so freaking hot it ought to be illegal.