Chapter Eight-Donny
My thoughts continued to swirl around my head as I walked and chewed.
The past was done, right? I should let it go.
I mean, Grandpa Al was gone, onto the Next Amazing Journey—just one of several Witchy euphemisms for the great beyond.
Grandma was probably judging angels now.
And I had more important things to worry about—like how the hell we were going to fix the real problem, i.e. whatever was draining our wards so quickly, so that we could protect our town before something really nasty snuck in.
So yes, we’d messed up a bonfire.
It was supposed to be a full moon strip-and-cast ceremony—your standard naked dance around a fire under the stars kind of thing.
You know, just another weekday for a Jersey Witch.
But Evie had been late, Bella forgot the rosemary (again), and I had been mid-curse when the Goddess herself decided to zap my ass with a lightning bolt of divine disapproval. Which, ow.
Okay, so Evie did solve some of the crap that cropped up—like outing her ex-boyfriend Dickless Dick as the idiot not-so-mastermind behind a weak plot to seize mayorship from her.
Also, we saved some kids, which was all like yay.
But for the last few weeks we’ve been stumped. No progress had been made at all.
And this morning?
Well, let’s just say the streak was continuing.
My magic was twitchy, my familiar was a no-show (except when he needed to defecate, which apparently, he only did in my shoes, the little cretin), caffeine was underwhelming, and I had a whole list of appointments and things to see to at the salon that included—gulp—Ryan McLeod himself.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the Bear Shifter wanted an appointment with me.
By personal request, if the note Celeste jotted down was true.
Hint: It was.
Ryan wants to see me.
Oh. My. Gaia.
Butterflies? Please. I had a whole fleet of combat drones doing aerial maneuvers in my stomach. They were dropping magical anxiety bombs and glittery confetti like they were on parade duty.
This was getting out of hand.
Ridiculous, even.
I couldn’t believe one oversized bearded Bear Shifter had me more wound up than a teenager waiting to be asked to prom—which, by the way, totally sucked.
I mean, if we’re being honest here—and when am I not—I asked out the foreign exchange student because he was cute, mysterious, and had a magical accent.
Also, the local options were meh.
What I didn’t realize? He was a Wombat Shifter going through his first heat cycle.
Yep. Heat. Cycle.
The boy spent the entire night attempting to twerk me into submission on the dance floor.
And I don’t mean cute, club-style twerking. I mean violent, territorial, possibly ancestral Wombat-wooing gyrations that nearly threw out my lower back and summoned a Lust Demon from the astral plane.
It was like Dirty Dancing if Patrick Swayze had been replaced by an over-caffeinated marsupial.
But hey, how was I supposed to know it was some sort of mating ritual?
I just wanted to dance and eat my weight in finger sandwiches.
Not end up betrothed to a sweaty exchange student with a pouch.
Never again.
Anyway, back to the present and my current existential crisis.
Ryan McHotStuff McLeod wanted me to cut his hair.
Just a haircut. Totally normal. Professional. Harmless.
Lies. All lies.
Because I knew when that man sat in my chair, all broad shoulders and smoldering bear eyes and massive thighs that made my salon smock feel like lingerie?
My brain was going to short-circuit faster than my curling iron during a thunderstorm.
Calm the fork down, Donny. It’s just a haircut. Not other things.
Not that I’d mind the other things. If he offered them.
Casually.
Respectfully.
Shirtlessly.
FOCUS.
I clapped my hands together like I was breaking a spell. Because I probably was.
Haircut. That’s all.
Snip snip, Bear boy. Snip snip.
I took a deep breath, fluffed my locks, and told myself for the hundredth time that I could handle this.
I was a Witch, damn it. A powerful one. A professional.
I just hoped the Goddess didn’t decide to zap me again if Ryan said something grumbly and sexy and I accidentally let an f-bomb fly.
Because let’s be real—I was definitely gonna fork that up.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah. Munching and walking at the same time. Kudos to me.
So, it’s Fall. Autumn.
Weeks after what the town lovingly referred to as the Witch Trifecta’s latest little mishap. And you know, the usual was happening.
Cinnamon scented chaos to take in.
Updates on our pecker-happy Grandpa Al to be found.
Magical misfires to correct.
And Zap-happy Goddesses to avoid.
I should have been happy that I managed to miss a certain smexy Grizzly at The Tasty Tart.
Lucky me, right?
Only I felt disappointment rather than relief.
What was wrong with me?
I was already headed back to the salon, looking forward to imbibing some of the hot coffee and crumbly deliciousness I’d acquired, but of course the universe had other designs.
I readjusted my oversized sunglasses as I strolled down Main Street, purse in one hand and my newly filled travel mug in the other.
The crisp air smelled like cinnamon brooms and crunchy leaves, and despite my general aversion to sunshine and happiness—and, let’s be honest and add responsibility to my list of aversions—I had to admit it was pretty forking glorious outside.
The shops along the street had begun to decorate for the Fall Harvest Bash, which, in Castor’s Corner, meant the following.
Pumpkins.
Pumpkins everywhere.
Some with smiles, some with fangs, one that winked at me every time I passed, and I swear I’m not imagining it.
Apple cider stands popping up like magical zits.
Cobwebs—real and fake—decorating every corner.
The real ones courtesy of the local Spider Shifters, who saw the season as their time to shine.
And of course, an alarming uptick in basic Witches trying to sneak pumpkin spice spells into every baked good within reach.
Note to self: Talk to Bella about the incident from last year.
She’d sold bake-at-home muffin kits, which—when in the hands of some of these supes who insisted on adding too much pumpkin spice to the already perfect recipe—accidentally got a little out of control.
See, the muffins were magicked with just the right amounts of every ingredient, and when more got added to the mix, well, they did everything from levitating to moaning for hours.
Some actually exploded, destroying an entire cul de sac in one instance.
I took a bite of a chocolate croissant with mocha icing—no, it didn’t last very long—and moaned as sugary goodness trailed down my fingers like glitter from the heavens.
While I chewed, I tried to ignore the prickle of awareness crawling down my spine.
There it was again.
That sensation.
Like someone was watching me.
Thinking about me.
Obsessing over me, maybe.
My nipples did not need this level of alertness on an average afternoon, thank you very much.
It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly.
Not like the one I got when our wards hiccupped, or when a Demon accidentally slipped into the dry cleaners and turned all the dress shirts into crop tops.
No, this felt warm. Tingly. Like someone had dipped my aura in chocolate fondue and whispered, “Dessert’s served.”
No prizes for guessing who it was.
Ryan. Forking. McLeod.
The brooding Bear firefighter-baker who haunted my dreams like a sexy carbs-and-lumberjack-themed Ghost.
Ever since he and his shifty Shifter bros crash-landed in our town like a supernatural boy band on a bender, things had been complicated.
Sure, Evie was all paired up, and even Bella was starry-eyed now.
And sure, the wards had started purring again like a well-fed kitten.
But me? I was still single. Still frazzled. Still trying not to set my eyebrows on fire every time Ryan looked at me like he wanted to lick icing off my soul.
And speaking of licking.
No. Nope. Fork no.
Not going there. My hormones had enough fuel without adding Bear Boy’s buns to the mix.
Still, it was a truth universally acknowledged that I was deeply, undeniably, frustratingly attracted to the man.
And did he notice? Probably.
Did he care? Unclear.
The guy made sourdough look like a less complicated rise-and-fall situation than the tension between us.
Which brought me back to the whole Fated Mates theory.
Ugh.
There was something about the way Ryan looked at me.
Not with lust (although that definitely factored in), but with this quiet, unwavering certainty that unnerved me more than a pixie on espresso.
Like he knew something I didn’t.
Like maybe he’d already made up his mind.
Like he was just waiting for me to catch up.
Honestly? Rude.
I mean, come on.
How was I supposed to function when I had none of the info?
How was I supposed to get my concentration back when the man baked pastries like they were love letters and smelled like bourbon, vanilla, and campfire?
With great difficulty, that’s how.
My phone pinged, and I looked down at an incoming text message from Evie.
Uh oh.
It was marked urgent, and I knew what that meant.
Disaster was likely about to strike, but that was nothing new.
I kept on walking, determined to keep my cool.
After all, I was Donatella Andrews, thank you very much.
Local legendary stylist. Co-leader of the town’s magical defense squad. Hair goddess. And proud owner of a drawer full of high-end vibrators and zero regrets.
Okay.
Maybe one regret.
That I hadn’t kissed him when I’d had the chance. That time he’d accidentally-on-purpose flour-dusted me at the bakery and offered to lick it off my fingers. I'd nearly combusted on the spot.
But I didn’t kiss him.
Instead, I ran.
Like a chicken.
A magical chicken in cute boots.
Why? Because if I let myself fall, really fall, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back up.
Ryan wasn’t just some hot hookup or crush.
My magic knew it.
My gut knew it.
My freaking ovaries were sending engraved invitations.
But my heart? She’d been through some shiz, okay?
She was cautious. She was a little bruised. And she wasn’t looking to get dragged through the romantic wringer without backup.
Besides, if this whole Fated Mate situation turned out to be one big cosmic prank, I’d have to get Evie to hold my earrings while I cursed the Goddess herself.
Speaking of Evie, I spotted her outside the flower shop, waving me down like a lunatic.
“I brought snacks!” I yelled, lifting my turnover like it was a peace offering.
She grinned and held up her coffee.
“I brought caffeine. Bella’s bringing scarves—she’s knitting again.”
“Oh no,” I said, slapping a hand over my mouth.
“Come on. Let’s go save the town.”
“Again?”
She shrugged. “You know the drill.”
And I did.
Because no matter how messy, dramatic, or downright weird life in Castor’s Corner got, I had my girls.
I had my town. And they had me.
And honestly?
That was enough—for now.