Chapter Six-Donny
The next day started out like any other—which, in my world, meant a small domestic disaster was at least probable, but I was riding the high of optimism.
First, coffee.
Always coffee.
I shuffled into the kitchen of my slightly haunted bungalow in my favorite silk pajamas and fuzzy bunny slippers (glam meets cozy), hair in a dark pineapple bun, and muttered my daily mantra.
“If the Goddess loves me, the coffee will be strong, and the Ghosts will keep quiet till noon.”
The kettle went on.
I scooped a cup full of rich, dark Colombian beans—roasted locally by a Fire Fae who may or may not be in a polycule (a romantic entanglement I don’t think I could survive though I did ask about it once) with two Banshees and a disgraced Cupid—and dumped them into my grinder.
The second I hit the button and that glorious vrrrmmmmmm filled the air, I moaned like the heroine in one of those spicy paperbacks Stanley, Bella and I passed around like contraband.
There is nothing—nothing—like that first hit of fresh coffee bean aroma.
Forget spellwork.
This was the real magic.
Now, don’t get me wrong.
I know those little pod things are all the rage, but I refuse.
Sacrilege.
Coffee deserves foreplay.
It deserves effort.
So I grabbed my pour-over carafe and waited patiently for the water to boil like the classy, caffeinated Witch I was.
Exactly ten minutes later, I held the steaming chalice of my salvation.
I added two teaspoons of Italian sweet cream (non-negotiable), steered clear of the sugar, and last, added a delicate dash of cinnamon.
Perfect. Flawless. Sublime.
I took a sip and made a noise that probably summoned at least three lust Demons to my doorstep.
“Oh, baby,” I whispered to the mug like it was my ex who’d just gotten hot and realized he was wrong.
Now, before you start asking, I didn’t do sweeteners in my beverages—never had, never will.
I preferred my sugar to come in the form of something fried or baked and preferably filled with fruit or cream.
Like the decadent cherry turnover with triple berry icing I planned to inhale on the way to work.
It was already boxed and ready to go on the kitchen counter like a faithful feline friend—the kind of familiar I should have been given instead of the furry little freak I’d been shackled to, but that was a complaint for another day.
Right then, I had better things to think about than Gryn the Domodork.
Like coffee.
Rich, delicious, life-giving coffee.
Come to mama.
It was the start of a brand new work week, which meant the salon schedule was packed with my usuals.
Mrs. Yao wanted another perm (her third this quarter), Ms. Furlong needed her root touchup (again).
The Chickee twins were due for synchronized haircuts.
And cranky old man Carol was coming in for a shave and a gossip sesh about the Werewolf HOA drama.
The man had opinions.
I sipped my coffee while scanning my phone.
Thank the Goddess for enchanted smartphones!
Mine had a specialty app that synced to my salon’s bookings, weather ward alerts, lunar cycle forecasts, and local gossip threads.
WitchTok, who?
My assistant, Celeste (half Elf, half Gremlin, full chaotic magical energy), had access too, which meant changes happened in real time.
I trusted her. Well, mostly.
But then I saw the two last-minute appointments she’d added to my calendar this week, and I choked.
First up, Evie. Now, I loved the woman with all my heart, but the woman was simply boring when it came to her hair.
Only what was this?
She wanted highlights.
Highlights. Ooooh.
This was monumental.
I mean, here was a Witch who treated her hair like a national treasure and didn’t even own a flat iron.
If she wanted to mess with the color, she must be deeply in love or completely unhinged.
Knowing how things were with her and Jaxson, I was guessing it was probably both.
Okay, so first new appointment, not so bad.
But the second one?
That’s when the agita hit.
Yes. Agita.
If you’re not Italian American, let me enlighten you.
Agita is that soul-deep, stomach-churning, throat-clenching, heart-fluttering mix of stress, indigestion, and irrational emotional distress that makes you want to scream, sob, and possibly fight someone. Or eat cake. Or both.
In layman's terms? Magical heartburn, baby.
And yes, I used it correctly. So, don’t come at me.
And no, I didn’t learn it from Drusilla’s Witchy World Language Video Tutorials?, tagline: “You too can speak like an Orc and curse like a Warrior Princess!”—although, let the record show, I am a loyal subscriber.
Drusilla Bartholomew Frankenstein Yaganova is a national treasure. Period. Full stop.
Her tutorials are part educational, part spiritual awakening, and part chaotic disaster.
Think Martha Stewart meets Elvira in a haunted YouTube studio with low lighting and zero editing skills.
She’s been referred to as “unfiltered brain soup for the up-and-coming magic user,” which is honestly the best review I’ve ever read.
She also holds the supernatural world record for “most accidental familiars summoned on camera,” and is besties with Magdelena—yes, the Magdelena, La Befana herself, and this year’s likely Coven Award winner for Best Witch Who Does Not Accidentally Set Her Broom on Fire While Trying to Cleanse It.
Icons. Legends.
Both of them.
I follow their supernatural socials religiously—like, actual candle-on-the-altar level devotion.
Because those two? They’ve got more secrets than a Vampire’s search history after a blood moon rave.
Anyway, back to the cause of my agita.
Ryan McLeod.
Firefighter. Baker. Behemoth. Bear.
A walking, talking carbohydrate with shoulders the size of a Buick and a voice so deep it could trigger an earthquake.
The kind of man who looks like he could throw you over his shoulder, carry you up a mountain, build you a cabin, and then make you cinnamon rolls from scratch while whispering sweet nothings into your very flushed ears.
So yeah. Agita. Lots of it. Right in the chest.
Fork my ever-loving life.
I nearly burned my tongue on my scalding hot coffee when I saw his name. And just like that, my perfectly calm morning turned into a full-blown emotional crisis.
Because after last night’s firehose incident and the whole smoking-hot-Shifter-douses-me-in-cold-water humiliation, I was not ready for round two.
Unfortunately, the Universe didn’t care.
Golden sparks zapped from my fingertips like I was some deranged magical Tinkerbell on a caffeine bender.
My beautiful coffee carafe tipped over, splashing its dark nectar of the gods everywhere.
“Goddess!” I groaned, slapping a dish towel over the mess like it was going to fix anything.
Then I paused.
I had just screamed the G-word with enough emotion to warrant punishment.
I looked up at the ceiling.
“Goddess, I did not mean that,” I whispered. “I swear. Well. Not swear swear. I mean, I promise. That’s better.”
My neck craned as I peeked toward the rafters, fully expecting another pink lightning bolt of divine judgment to fry my butt like last time.
A snort brought my attention to the very short, very hairy nuisance I’d been stuck with for the past few weeks.
Gryn, my freaky familiar, actually hated me.
He shook his head at me, mumbling something in Polish, or Croatian, or maybe Russian—I had no idea.
And if I needed any actual physical confirmation that he disliked me intensely, well, he’d been leaving turds in my shoes, there’s that.
Yep, actual turds. Glowing green, sometimes orange, and always horribly stinky turds.
It was all I could do not to try to blast him to pieces.
Truth was, the little fu—um forker, that’s right—the little forker was powerful. Used to be worshiped as a minor household god or something like that.
Anyway, I just ignored his furry butt and continued with my conversation.
“Please believe me, Goddess, I am so very fuc—forking sorry. Forking. That’s it! That’s the word now!”
I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to breathe like Bella taught me in that one yoga class we did before we realized downward dog made our boobs try to suffocate us.
“Goddess on high, I promise to do my best to not swear and to be a true and courteous Witch. Please do not fork with my day any more than it is already forked.”
Honestly, it was becoming a theme.
The Divine didn’t care much for vulgarity, especially from magicals.
And apparently the Goddess was multilingual.
Evie heard it from La Befana herself.
The Goddess was also known as She Who Must Not Be F-Bombed.
According to Drusilla’s vlog (which I watched like a religious soap opera), the Goddess was fluent in Italian, French, Latin, Greek, and Mandarin.
That eliminated 90% of my foul-mouthed arsenal. I was down to using kitchen utensils and onomatopoeia.
So here I was.
Caffeinated.
Flustered.
Slightly damp from the coffee incident.
And repeating the word “fork” like I was possessed by a Betty Crocker Demon.
Forkity fork fork fork.
I shook my head and placed my mug in the sink. As a result of my unfortunate coffee tragedy (RIP, magical brown elixir), I was now operating on approximately half my regular caffeine intake.
Which, for a normal human, might be fine.
But I was not normal.
I was a curvy, caffeinated chaos Witch running on glitter, sarcasm, and exactly 16 ounces of dark roast.
Luckily, salvation was just a short broom-ride—er, walk—away at Bella’s bakery.
The Tasty Tart had everything a growing Witch needed.
Sugar, carbs, sass, and espresso shots strong enough to revive the dead.
Or at least reanimate my motivation.
My alarm buzzed from the living room, and I jumped like someone had set off a hex bomb.
“Fuh—” I started to yell before slapping a hand over my mouth and glancing nervously toward the heavens.
I saw a pink crackle. Or two. And I cringed.
“I mean, forking hell!” I hissed. “I’m gonna be late!”
I scrambled to my bedroom like a poltergeist was chasing me.
I’d already wasted fifteen minutes mourning my coffee, and now I had approximately seven minutes to transform myself into a salon goddess before the doors of Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow opened for business.
Yes, that was the name of my shop.
Pun absolutely intended.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for wordplay and dramatic flair.
My regulars knew me as a top-tier stylist with a talent for layering both hair and trauma responses.
Sure, I had my share of male clients—usually the laid-back type or the ones married to my friends—but they were few and far between.
So what in the sparkly hell was he doing booking a last-minute trim?
Ryan McLeod was starting to be a real thorn in my side.
Seven feet of gruff, muscular, beard-sporting Shifter with arms like tree trunks and a scowl like a Viking warlord who’d lost his ax.
The man had no business being that attractive. Or that big. Or that growly.
And now he was coming to me? For a haircut?
Why?
Had Bella run out of Bear-sized croissant orders and forced him into a grooming intervention?
I pulled open my supply drawer and eyed my clippers.
Nope. Not good enough.
That beard of his looked like it had its own zip code.
If I was going to tackle that facial forest and the mop of shaggy curls on his head, I’d need divine intervention.
Or at least some high-power magical tools.
Raising one eyebrow, I considered summoning the Wahl Professional 5-Star Detailer—a cordless legend in the hairstyling community, known to make even the surliest Shifters purr like pampered Pomeranians.
But alas, enchanting professional-grade equipment without the proper permit was a punishable offense.
And the last thing I needed was a visit from the Magical Licensing Board.
Again.
I closed the drawer with a sigh.
Nope. No magical smuggling today.
I’m going in raw.
Oh my Goddess. I heard it as soon as I thought it.
My cheeks heated.
My girly bits perked up.
Even my nipples got hard.
“Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. That’s a bad sentence,” I muttered, smacking my forehead.
Because of course my brain went there.
Pull it together, Donny.
I could do this. I was a professional. I could give this giant walking temptation a haircut without flinging myself into his lap and begging him to braid my hair and tell me I’m pretty.
Probably.
And let’s be honest—anything I did would be an improvement over what Doc from the old-timey barbershop down on Willow Street had to offer.
That man was still out here giving Elvis pompadours and calling it modern.
His musical taste was killer, though.
I’d never say no to a little Sinatra.
Today, however, I was feeling a bit more gangsta Witch.
I popped in my AirPods and let Tupac bless me with West Coast magic while I slipped on my most Witch-chic outfit.
Black skinny jeans, a deep purple tank top, and my favorite leather ankle boots.
Add in a smear of dark plum lipstick and a protective sigil drawn in eyeliner on my collarbone?
Bam. Ready for battle.
I took a deep breath, then another.
I had made a promise to keep my language clean and my hexes to a minimum.
I needed all the divine goodwill I could get if I was going to survive this week’s surprise appointments.
Because Ryan McLeod?
He was not just a firehouse-flipping, croissant-baking, mountain-of-a-man problem.
He was my problem.
The man had only ever said, like, eight words to me since crashing into our town with his two equally uninvited friends.
And somehow in that time, he’d managed to do the improbable.
He’d seen me naked.
Given me a ride on his Bear—not a euphemism, although we could change that real quick.
And he’d hosed me down like an overexcited Dalmatian at the county fair.
Honestly, if he wasn’t madly in love with me by now, I didn’t know what else I could do.
Yeah. Right.
I rolled my eyes and grabbed my salon bag. This wasn’t a romance novel.
The big, broody Bear wasn’t going to fall on his knees and declare his undying love while running his fingers through my non-existent split ends.
Nope.
This was not a fairytale.
I was a Witch.
He was a Shifter.
And this was going to be the most awkward haircut of my entire forking life.
Let the chaos begin.
And that, dear diary, was how my morning started. Again.