Chapter Ten-Donny
Okay, so I managed to avoid the furry giant for the last few days, which honestly should’ve qualified me for some kind of magical endurance medal.
But it looked like my luck—and my caffeine reserves—had officially run out.
Celeste, bless her color-clashing little heart, is to blame for all of this.
For my last few sleepless nights. And my agita.
This mother-humping agita that’s making me regret eating the raspberry preserve-slathered rye toast I had this morning.
Him.
Ryan McLeod.
The Grizzly Godzilla who haunted my dreams, my fantasies, and the one time I got caught sniffing a cinnamon roll that suspiciously smelled like his beard.
He was booked for a haircut. With me.
And it was for tonight.
The last slot of the day, which was usually reserved for my favorite clients—aka the ones who tipped well, didn’t try to flirt, and didn’t stare at my boobs like they were enchanted talismans.
So, yeah. This was my life now.
Thanks a fork-ton, Celeste.
I contemplated letting out a primal scream or possibly whacking her upside the head with a rolled-up copy of Witch Weekly, but I controlled myself.
Barely. Or was it bearly?
Ugh, I was already punning, and he wasn’t even in the chair yet.
I needed more caffeine. Stat.
Celeste, for all her magical potential, had the attention span of a fruit bat on espresso.
The young, glitter-obsessed Witch had just hit her second decade of life and believed crop tops were a personality trait.
Her hair was currently the color of a Montana sky at high noon, and her eyebrows? Hot pink lightning bolts.
Because of course they were.
She dreamed of being a famous influencer—posting spells on WitchTok and trying to get sponsored by cauldron brands that hadn’t been relevant since the fifties. I didn’t mind her hanging around.
She was a decent shampoo tech, a disaster with the appointment book, and apparently allergic to sweeping.
Still. She meant well. I guessed.
No, the real menace to my peace, my sanity, and my favorite sweater was currently in the living room, unraveling said sweater like it was yarn spun from the hair of a blessed unicorn.
Gryn.
My so-called familiar.
Some joke that was. A familiar was supposed to make a Witch’s life easier.
They were supposed to focus their Witch’s magic.
To aid and temper.
Not annoy and destroy, for fork’s sake.
But Gryn was simply a mangy, attitude-ridden ball of magical fur and judgment.
And because my life was a circus without a tent, he’d decided today was the perfect time to rediscover his love for obscure Eastern European punk rock.
From the eighties. Played at ear-bleeding decibels. On vinyl.
I swear on my stash of high-quality clippers, if he scratched another one of my records, I was going to toss him into the backyard and let the Garden Gnomes decide his fate.
My nerves were frazzled, and my hair was only seven out of ten today—I know, right?
What was the world coming to?
But I was in no shape to answer that question. No, I knew what I needed.
Coffee and chocolate.
Right forking now.
The line leading into The Tasty Tart, Bella’s amazeballs bakery, was already wrapped around the corner like a glittering, colorful boa of townsfolk.
I huffed out a breath but refused to use my bestie privileges to cut.
That kind of chaos wasn’t worth the calories, and besides, skipping the line at Bella’s was basically asking to be hexed by a caffeine-deprived Dragon Shifter with control issues.
And I liked my skin un-molted, thank you very much.
I scanned the queue and counted. Three Coyotes in athleisure, two bickering Warlocks (probably still fighting over that shared familiar from last month), six Witches (three of whom were trying to pretend they hadn’t just magically plucked their under-eye bags away), one twitchy Gopher Shifter in a trench coat, a Troll with rhinestone glasses, and two Fae arguing about gluten.
A colorful cast of characters, but this was Castor’s Corner.
We were nothing if not festive in our dysfunction.
No way I was stepping in front of that group.
Bella would have the line moving faster than a Gnome on espresso.
According to the chalkboard sign in the window, the chocolatey chippers were the cookie of the week, and those babies were the stuff of legend.
Warm, gooey, sprinkled with fairy sugar and just enough attitude to bite back.
I’d wait. I could be patient. Mostly.
Besides, it gave me time to mentally prepare for the circus that was my Wednesday salon schedule.
Most people treated Thursdays like a happy Friday Eve. A precursor to a fun weekend.
But for me, it was the equivalent of magical DEFCON 1.
Thursdays signaled my busiest workdays were just beginning.
They were the prelude to prom updos, bachelorette hair emergencies, and last-minute shapeshifter grooming appointments from beings who forgot their high school reunion was tonight.
The wind whipped around the corner, sending goosebumps skittering up my arms. I shivered.
Of course, my mind went right to the fuzzy thief currently nesting in my favorite fall sweater.
That little fork-weasel.
Gryn, was technically a Domovyk. Ancient, mysterious, powerful.
In my case? Disrespectful, rude, and aggressively territorial over my wardrobe.
That rat-tailed, horn-headed menace had shredded the sleeves of my pumpkin spice cashmere and turned it into a makeshift nest in the middle of my living room wall.
Not near the wall.
Not against the wall.
In. The. Wall.
I’d woken up this morning to the sound of screeching punk rock blaring from what I could only guess was his ancient demonic Walkman, followed by the delicate sound of yarn unraveling in real time.
If I hadn’t already downed half a cup of coffee, I might’ve committed a capital magical crime.
And Gryn? He’d just cackled like a Gremlin, spat some profanity in Domojerk, and bolted through the hallway dragging what used to be my sleeve behind him like a trophy.
“Damn Domovyks,” I muttered, rubbing my temple and resisting the urge to call a spiritual exterminator.
Evie and Bella had lucked out.
Their familiars were perfect.
Evie got Ivan, who seemed to purr spells in his sleep and was always there for her. Seriously, those two were a force when they worked together.
And Bella? She had the sweetest little familiar in Petyr, who made perfect cupcakes with the best marshmallow frosting I ever had.
Me? I got a tiny Slavic trash goblin who threatened to shave my eyebrows in the middle of the night.
“Maybe I can trade him on eBay,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
Magic flared in my fingertips at the thought, my anger pushing forward like a sneeze.
My hair, which I’d spent forty-five minutes styling that morning, frizzed out around my head like an electrocuted lioness.
I patted it down and took a deep breath.
He wasn’t worth getting zapped over. Again.
I had scars on my butt from the last magical rebound incident.
One little zap, one mispronounced banishment spell, and boom—week-long reminder that the Goddess has a wicked sense of humor and a zero-tolerance policy for accidental curses.
I groaned as I reached the front of the line and stepped inside, instantly wrapped in the scent of warm sugar, vanilla bean, and pure serotonin.
Heaven. Pure, delicious, belly-rumbling heaven.
I was so focused on the baked goods display case—eyeballing a turnover that was definitely giving me the eye—I didn’t notice the figure behind the counter until he spoke.
“Can I help you?” a deep, rumbly voice asked, smoother than melted chocolate and just as dangerous.
I looked up and immediately regretted it.
Oh no.
There he was.
Ryan.
The. Bear. Shifter.
He had a jawline that could cut glass, arms like tree trunks, and the soulful brown eyes of a man who’d write poetry about your thighs. And he was wearing an apron that said “Bake It Til You Make It.”
“Fork me,” I muttered, eyes closing in embarrassment as my body flushed with a mix of heat, horror, and oh-for-the-love-of-all-things-magical why now?
When I opened them again, he was still there.
Still gorgeous.
Still not noticing that my brain had short-circuited from sheer proximity.
I cleared my throat and tried to act like a functional human Witch.
“One cherry turnover,” I croaked. “Please.”
“Just one?” he asked, lips twitching like he knew exactly the effect he had on me.
I raised an eyebrow and gave him my best don’t-mess-with-me stare. “Unless one comes with a side of sanity and a new sweater, yes. Just one.”
Ryan chuckled.
It was deep. Warm. And dangerously close to sounding like it belonged in my fantasies.
He handed me a wax paper bag and our fingers brushed.
Cue the fireworks.
Literally.
My fingertips sparked with a soft glow of magic, and a tiny static crackle popped in the air between us.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“Was that—?” he started.
“Nope!” I blurted. “Nothing. Static. It’s dry out. Gotta go!”
And just like that, I turned and marched out of the bakery like it hadn’t just turned into my personal shame spiral.
Fork. My. Life.