Chapter Two-Evie #2
And this was all about the same time my relationship took a big fat crap on me, also known as my boyfriend dumped me, stating I was too demanding and had no time for him.
Losing my ex was nothing compared to losing Stanley.
Love truly sucked balls as far as I was concerned.
It never worked out for me.
And to add insult to injury, love went and took the only person I could ever fathom working with for any amount of time—oh hell no!
Okay, fine.
I had a teeny-tiny people problem.
See, I hate them. People. All of them.
As for love?
Yeah, um, well, to hell with that shit.
I had no use for that starry-eyed, chest-aching, stomach-flipping nonsense.
Just thinking about it made me itchy.
Like, full-blown break-out-in-hives, hand-me-the-calamine kind of itchy.
And no, it wasn’t because I’d grown up unloved. Quite the opposite. I came from a big, loud, affectionate family full of spell-slingers, sauce-stirrers, and unsolicited advice-givers.
I knew what love could look like.
I just also knew what it looked like when it turned sour.
Because some of my relatives—bless their spellbound hearts—had a real problem keeping that love in the family.
And I don’t mean in a creepy cousin way.
I mean committing to the damn thing.
Nonna had loved Grandpa Al with everything she had.
Like epic romance, write-a-novel-about-it level love. And then? He skipped town.
Disappeared into the mist—or, more accurately, the Pine Barrens—with barely a note and a promise to find himself.
Newsflash: he didn’t find himself.
Unless yourself is code for twenty years of zero contact and ghosting the entire family before literally ghosting.
Nonna mourned the old bastard till her dying day.
Never looked at another man.
Never wanted to.
That kind of grief? That changes a girl.
It leaves residue. Sticky emotional goo that clings to your soul and whispers, Don’t you dare fall in love. You’ll end up stirring soup for one and crying into your cannoli.
So yeah. Love had a lousy rep, at least from where I was standing.
But enough of that. Back to Stanley.
“Okay, your honeymoon was sooooo long,” I drawled dramatically, flopping back into the seat of his glam-as-hell car. “Now spill. I want details. How was Europe?”
“Old. Gloomy. Overpriced,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I missed me some good old Jersey Shore sunshine and overpriced cotton candy.”
Then he gunned the engine and made a sharp U-turn across a double yellow line.
“That’s illegal, you maniac,” I hissed.
“It’s fine. I know people,” he replied with a wink.
God, I’d missed him.
I didn’t want to say it out loud—not yet—but seeing him again made me feel like I could breathe.
Being mayor of a supernatural town was like running daycare for magical creatures with access to alcohol and explosives.
And since my name was literally Castor, people expected me to sacrifice every part of myself for the town’s wellbeing.
And I did. I do.
But some days, it felt like no one saw me.
Except for Donatella. And Maribella. And Stanley.
Stanley, who was equal parts admin assistant, sass-fueled life coach, and emergency wine supplier.
He was the rare soul who’d tell me I was being ridiculous and re-alphabetize my potion files while I sulked about it.
He was also the only person on Earth who could call me out with flair and Gucci.
I studied him, bracing myself for the news I didn’t want to hear. That this was just a quick visit.
That he and Stephen were flying off to some moonlit beach where the champagne sparkled and the air didn’t smell like salt, bonfires, and slightly burned magic.
I couldn’t handle losing him again. Not when I’d only just started pretending, I was okay without him.
Stanley looked over, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. “Alright, young lady. I know exactly what’s going on in that Witchy little head of yours.”
Note to self: steal those shades the second he leaves them unattended.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniffed, prim and defensive.
“Sure you don’t. Which is why I’m just going to say it—dramatically, of course.”
He took a deep, showy inhale like he was about to belt out a Broadway number.
“After a luxurious three-month honeymoon across Europe—during which I was adored, pampered, and stuffed with sinful cheeses—Stephen and I have decided to move home. To Castor’s Corner. Permanently.”
I blinked. My heart stuttered.
I wanted to play it cool. Truly. But I lasted all of two seconds before squealing and bouncing like a caffeinated pixie on his plush leather seat.
“Really? Like really really? You. Here. Back home. For good?!”
Stanley grinned. “OMG, yes, Evie. Holy Gaia, you reek of desperation.”
I gasped, scandalized. “How dare you.”
But I was glowing. I could feel it.
The tension in my chest cracked open like a bad spell jar, and all that hope and joy came pouring out.
I’d missed him so much it actually hurt.
He reached over and gave me a quick hug. The kind that was brief but grounding—warm arms, lavender-scented cologne, the hum of Wizard magic crackling like champagne bubbles around us.
I was so moved I nearly dropped my doughnut.
Nearly. Let’s not be dramatic.
“Stephen knows how I feel about this place, cupcake,” Stanley said softly.
“He gets it. So, we’re staying. And we just hired a contractor to restore the old Gardner mansion.
Between helping you run this town and rebuilding that creaky palace, I’ll be plenty busy.
And when Stephen’s off kicking ass on Wall Street, I’ll be holding down the supernatural fort. ”
His magic danced around the interior of the car in twinkling shades of lilac and silver, dusting the air with sparkle and peace.
That was Stanley’s magic—always a little fabulous, always a little fierce, and always just what I needed.
We’d been inseparable since preschool—back when friendship meant snack swaps, secret pinkie pacts, and a shared obsession with sparkle.
Stanley had asked to try on my pink plastic princess heels during dress-up time, and I’d said, “You better slay if you wanna rock them.”
He did.
And honestly? He’s been slaying ever since.
My mother, of course, had a fit every time I wore those heels, certain I was one step away from snapping my ankle like a dry wishbone.
She wasn’t wrong.
To this day, I still couldn’t walk in anything higher than an inch without risking my dignity and skeletal alignment.
Stanley, on the other hand? The man could sprint in stilettos. Backwards.
So yes, I was now a flats-only kind of Witch—and that was just too damn bad for any tall guys I dated.
I’d already sacrificed one prom night and a week of mobility to the evil gods of platform heels.
Never again.
Some things were simply not worth the pain.
Like high heels.
Or Wizards named Richard.
But I digress.
“Hmm, nice loafers,” Stanley remarked, giving me an approving once-over.
“Thank you,” I replied with a humble nod, as if I didn’t spend forty-five minutes picking these out this morning.
They were my favorite pair. Aquamarine-dyed vegan leather with tiny magenta tassels, gold beading, and teal rubber soles.
Magical, comfortable, and obnoxiously cute—like me.
Stanley, for his part, was decked out in at least four different shades of purple—including a silky lavender button-down and eggplant slacks so sharply creased they could cut through dimensions.
The man was a peacock and proud of it.
“Did the city council finally revoke that idiot’s permit to move the fire hydrants?” he asked casually, like we weren’t still recovering from that magical traffic nightmare.
“Yes and no,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve been sneaking around at night putting them back one by one.”
Our former fire chief—bless his aggressively useless heart—had gotten the brilliant idea to optimize response times by shifting all the hydrants six inches into the street.
All he did was create a hydra-headed hydra of parking tickets, fender benders, and angry citizens threatening to sue the town.
Stanley rolled his eyes. “Idiots.”
The city council was mostly made up of Wizards, so yes—idiots was accurate.
Not that Stanley was a traitor to his own kind.
He just had eyes.
And common sense.
Honestly, he was more Witch than Wizard, anyway.
The whole penis thing was just a technicality.
We chatted as we climbed the stairs to my office, coffee in one hand, fried carb deliciousness in the other.
I was basking in the warmth of having Stanley back.
One of my best friends, my sass backup, my scheduling savior.
And now that he was here, it actually felt like I had a shot at surviving this week with my soul intact.
His husband Stephen was a gem, too. A half-Goblin financier who managed hedge funds like a battlefield general.
He adored Stanley, respected his magic, and had once threatened to sue a hotel into oblivion for overcharging us on a coven retreat.
My kind of guy.
“So, did I mention I just hired a contractor to redo our new place?” Stanley said, practically vibrating with joy. “I still can’t believe we’re moving into the old Gardner mansion. I mean, I’ve always known I was meant to be the lord of a manor.”
I snorted. “Please. You’ve been playing that role since preschool. All you’re missing is a butler and a wine cellar full of mood lighting.”
“All I’m saying is,” he went on, striking a dramatic pose, “after work, I plan to greet my very busy, very sexy husband—fresh from conquering Wall Street—in a silk robe and velvet slippers, cocktail in hand. Maybe even a monocle. Haven’t decided yet.”
A shimmer of lilac-hued Wizard magic burst around him like glittery confetti, all sparkle and smug satisfaction.
“Okay, TMI, pal,” I laughed, pretending to gag but secretly soaking up every second.
And yeah, maybe there was a teeny-tiny flash of envy—gone as fast as it came.
I wasn’t proud.
But truth? I felt lighter just being near him.
We reached my office, coffees in hand, spirits high.
Finally. A good moment.
“I was thinking,” Stanley said, flipping open his enchanted tablet. “We tackle the new rec area permits first, then review the fire chief applicants—Oh my Gaia, Evie, do we still not have anyone to replace Daniels and his crew?”
“Still vacant,” I muttered.
It had been a hundred years since the great fire that decimated half of Castor’s Corner, and we still hadn’t found a permanent fire crew willing to stay.
We had volunteers, sure, but no one wanted the job full time. Not since the last squad mysteriously aged thirty years after one too many magical flare-ups.
And let’s not even talk about the sheriff. The man was ready to retire and had already started crocheting in his office.
I was one emergency away from appointing a talking raven as interim law enforcement.
“Yeah, well,” I sighed, “Daniels wasn’t right for the job, anyway.”
Or for me.
Stanley glanced at me but didn’t comment. Bless him. He could have.
I knew he wanted to say something about my tragically bad taste in men.
Especially Richard “Dick” Daniels—the Wizard ex-fire chief with all the charm of a tax audit.
Stanley simply cleared his throat and said, “So, what shall we tackle first, Madam Mayor?”
His chipper tone yanked me out of my pit of regret. I opened my mouth to answer—and that’s when the yelling started.
A chorus of voices exploded from the lobby like a banshee chorus in a blender.
“Madam Mayor!”
“Evie!”
“I am still waiting on my appeal!”
“You said you’d hex my neighbor’s squirrel infestation!”
I turned the corner to see a dozen angry townsfolk crowding the lobby, shaking scrolls and petitions and—was that a floating ferret with glowing eyes?
“Holy shitballs, Evie!” Stanley hissed. “What the eff went on here while I was gone?”
He immediately launched into assistant mode, waving his hands and tossing out calming spells like candy.
I slammed my office door shut behind me and slid to the floor, muffin crumbs on my skirt and doom in my heart.
It was Thursday.
But make no mistake.
It was the Mondayest Thursday ever.
And I had a bad, bad feeling it was only going to get worse.