Chapter Thirteen-Donny
Celeste was waiting behind the front desk of Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow with a hopeful expression and a plate of oddly lumpy cookies.
“Want to try some peanut butter biscuits?” she asked, practically bouncing with excitement, which—considering how tight her rhinestone-studded jeans were—was a public safety hazard.
I gave the cookies a side-eye so judgmental it could’ve peeled wallpaper.
“Thanks, but better not. I’ve got the Chicky twins first thing.”
“Ah,” she nodded wisely. “Nut allergies. Good thinking. I can check the break room and see if there’s something fruity and nut-free for you.”
“It’s fine,” I lied smoothly. “I’m not hungry.”
Lies.
Lies and slander.
I was always hungry.
But now was not the time to indulge.
Not with Denice and Candice Chickazola on the schedule.
Those two octogenarian hellcats were legendary in Castor’s Corner—and not in a good way.
They were like the Sour Patch Kids of the supernatural community. Chaotic, terrifying, deceptively sweet-looking, and a guaranteed sugar crash waiting to happen.
Every single month, they showed up at the salon in perfectly matched outfits—pastel sweater sets, plaid tea-length skirts, nude knee-high stockings that defied weather patterns—and teal-tinted bouffants that required a level of hair engineering bordering on the architectural.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
No, the worst part was Denice’s rare magical allergy to peanuts and tree nuts that triggered literal fireball sneezing.
Ask me how I know.
Last time someone brought a peanut butter granola bar into the salon, we had to call in the local fire department—which if it happened now, would include him.
Ryan.
My Bear-shaped walking distraction with a firefighter’s uniform and a beard that made me consider decisions I’d only make during full moons and ovulation.
But we were not thinking about Ryan right now. And we weren’t going to do anything that made him appear in all his firefighting glory.
Nope.
Focus, Donny.
Work, not peanut butter cookie substitutions or hot Shifters who make you want to shave your legs daily just in case.
“By the way,” Celeste said, dragging me out of my spiral. “You got a letter from the property manager. Something about your lease—Donny? Earth to Donny?”
“Huh?” I blinked.
My brain had wandered off again, probably in the direction of Ryan’s biceps.
Celeste narrowed her eyes at me.
“I said you have mail. But you’ve been staring into space and scratching your head for like, five minutes. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, even as my scalp continued to itch like a cursed jockstrap.
Celeste tilted her head.
“You sure? Your aura’s doing that weird static thing. And your energy spikes every time I say the word cookie.”
She smirked.
“Watch the store,” I snapped, heading toward the back. “I need to use the potty.”
“Donny, wait—oh my Goddess!”
That shriek was the kind of noise reserved for breakups, Ghost sightings, and surprise glitter bombs.
“What?” I demanded, freezing mid-step.
“Your hair!”
My hair? Goddess, no!
I bolted to the closest mirror—conveniently located exactly two feet from my face—and let out a gasp so loud, a nearby shampoo bottle rolled off the counter in fear.
Because my hair?
Was actually—oh my shit!
ON. FORKING. FIRE.
Not metaphorically.
Not in the you’re a smoke show kind of way.
Literal. Forking. Flames.
Orange-blue sparks danced at my roots, and wisps of smoke curled around my scalp like I was about to ascend to Witch heaven or maybe summon a very fashionable Fire Demon.
My mouth opened and closed.
I blinked. Twice.
And then?
I let loose.
A filthy, spell-scorching, soul-cleansing stream of cursing flew from my lips like a verbal exorcism.
My employees ducked for cover.
I saw Gigi drop her flat iron.
Marigold dove behind her chair like we were under magical siege.
And me?
I was too far gone.
“AHHHHHHHH! I’m gonna kill that ASSFACED-MOTHERFUCKING-TREE-HUMPING-DICKFACED-BUNGHOLE-GIGGLEBERRY-LICKING-COOTER-SNIFFING-STANKASS-DOUCHE-CANOE-PRICKLESS-ARMPIT-brEATH-HAVING-UNIbrOWED-SWEATER-UNRAVELING-FUCKWIT!”
Dead silence followed.
Even the hairdryer stopped whirring.
A Ghost might’ve moaned in agreement.
Gigi’s client, poor Kallie Gold, looked like she was about to clutch her pearls and faint.
Delilah Dolittle whispered, “My stars,” and crossed herself, even though she was Pagan.
Celeste’s mouth hung open. “Donny,” she whispered. “Your hair is, like, sizzling. Oh wow, it’s, it’s BLONDE!”
Something snorted off in the corner, and I turned my glare to the only creature who could be responsible.
GRYN.
That furry demon in Domovyk form was here. In my salon. After sitting in my sweater nest all damn day, cackling like the little bastard he was, clutching his sides and pointing at the strands of my magically imbued hair like he’d just won some victory.
Oh, he wanted a war?
He just got one.
“YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
“Not shit. Domovyk. Better put that out Witchy, or Hair Now, Gone Tomorrow will be the real deal for you!”
He was right. The jerk.
First—I needed water, or a fire extinguisher, or possibly Ryan’s number on speed dial.
I dunked my head in the nearest sink, gave it a good, angry scrub, and flipped it up like I was in a forking shampoo commercial directed by Quentin Tarantino.
Ready to summon fireballs and vengeance, I whirled around, prepared to drag that tiny turd-dropping freak to the fifth layer of magical hell by his tail—but the Domojerk was gone.
Of course he was.
Slippery little bastard probably sensed my rage spike and dimension-hopped into someone else’s linen closet.
I barely had time to breathe before CRACK-KABOOM—a bolt of forking pink lightning tore through the ceiling like the wrath of a glitter-obsessed goddess and zapped me square on my sore ass.
“OW! SONOFA—!”
That was as far as I got before Celeste, quick as a caffeinated cat, crammed a cookie in my mouth to save me from another verbal sin—and another divine zapping.
I bit down in rage.
Chewed in fury.
Okay, okay.
The cookie was actually decent.
A little dry, but this one was surprisingly peanut-free, so at least no spontaneous combustion from Denice Chicky was in my future.
“It’s chocolate,” she whispered, answering my unspoken question.
Still. Not. The. Point.
I glared at my receptionist as if I could set her eyebrows on fire with sheer willpower.
And judging by the way her eyes widened, and she zipped her lip, she might’ve believed it was possible.
The rest of the salon was dead silent.
Gigi and Marigold were crouched behind their styling chairs like I’d turned into a magical landmine.
Their clients, Kallie and Delilah, looked ready to evacuate through the plumbing if necessary.
And that’s when the bell above the door jingled.
Because of course it did.
Because, of course, now is when he would walk in.
There stood Ryan Forking McLeod.
Decked out in full fireman regalia—big boots, suspenders, tight shirt clinging to muscles sculpted by the gods of emergency response.
The man looked like a centerfold for Hot First Responders Who Want to Ruin You in the Best Way Possible.
And he was staring at me like I was his forking dessert.
Could be the way my wet hair had soaked through my blouse, but I’d never know because I wasn’t asking.
I gulped so hard, I almost choked on a cookie crumb.
No. Nope. Nuh-uh.
Maybe? But no. Better not.
I was so not going down that road.
Not when Evie was floating around on cloud nine with her mate and Bella had her smugly efficient Domovyk helping her bake award-winning pastries and charm the entire town.
No, thank you.
I had trust issues.
And trauma.
And absolutely zero emotional bandwidth for some giant, brooding, smoke-scented Shifter who could carry me like a bridal bouquet and ruin me with one hand.
Nope. I was keeping things professional.
Even if I could practically smell the maple and bear pheromones radiating off him like sin-flavored cologne.
“Someone said there was a fire?” he asked, his lips twitching as he scanned the room—and then very purposefully lowered his gaze to my hair, keeping those brown beauties away from my wet shirt.
“Yeah? Well, it’s out,” I snapped, crossing my arms tightly to hold my composure, and my boobs, which had decided this was the moment to heave like I was on the cover of a trashy romance novel.
“It’s um, blonde,” he whispered, seemingly awestruck.
“It’s fine!” I snapped. “I can fix this.”
I pulled out my phone, flipped the camera, and glared at the back reflection of my suddenly not-brunette self.
With a wave of my fingers, a few golden sparkles, and a wiggle of my nose and my hair dried quick as lightning. I ran my fingers through it and inspected.
Honey blonde.
Ash blonde.
Gold-tipped layers with dimensional waves.
I looked like I’d stepped out of a high-end editorial shoot for Haunt Couture: The Magical Edition.
It was phenomenal.
Too phenomenal.
“I will murder him with a rubber spatula,” I hissed through my teeth.
“Honestly, Donny,” Celeste whispered, trying for damage control. “It looks—kinda amazing.”
I zapped a warning spark out of my fingertips, and she shut up like a good little receptionist-in-training.
Ryan was still staring at me.
That same weird, soft look on his face, like I was the last donut in the box and he was on a low-carb diet.
I didn’t like it.
Well, I did, but I refused to acknowledge it.
“Thank you, but the fire is out. And you can tell your pal Petyr to tell his pal Gryn,” I growled, stabbing a finger in the air, “that his days are numbered. Numbered!”
Thunder cracked in the sky.
Everyone froze.
I held my pose, then slowly dropped my hand.
“See? Even the weather’s on my side.”
Ryan blinked. “I think that was an airplane landing at the municipal airport—”
“Shut it, Smokey. I’m on a roll.”
And with that dramatic exit line, I pivoted on my heeled boots, stormed to the back of the salon, and left a trail of tension, judgment, and chocolate cookie crumbs in my wake.
I didn’t have any more coffee.
I didn’t have any more snacks.
My scalp still tingled from all the fire, and my ass was sore from the Goddess’ lightning. Plus, my thighs were clenched so hard whenever he was around, I very seriously regretted every missed yoga class.
But I had a job to do.
Hair to style.
Witches to appease.
And a three-foot demonic furball to destroy.
Blonde or not, I was gonna survive the day.
You’re darn tootin’!