Chapter 3 Rosie
Rosie
There are thirty-three steps across the cobblestone road between Meet Cute Magic and the Gaming Den. I know because as I walk over, shoulders back and a friendly smile plastered on my face, I count them.
According to Phillip, his family’s magic line ended with him, so he kept his warlock status a secret.
Magic is typically inherited, so it’s incredibly rare for a warlock to be born unless both his mother and father hold magic.
Because Phillip married a normal, mortal woman, neither of Jack’s parents held magic.
That helped me sleep a bit better, knowing Jack did not have any magic in his veins to curse me with.
Jack Haggerty has hated me since I opened Meet Cute Magic three years ago.
The Gaming Den had been there for a little over a year when I opened up shop, and he wasn’t very impressed when I started painting my storefront with the happy teal color I had chosen.
Every time I waved hello, he would grimace, grumble under his breath, or ignore me altogether.
I figured he was shy, so I said hello every time I saw him, but it never changed.
And with each passing day, his attitude got under my skin more and more.
No one has ever disliked me. I’m perfectly, undeniably, supremely likable, in fact.
As I take the thirty-third step, my heart pounding in my chest, the small red sign in the corner of the front window catches my eye—the one that says No Mayfields Allowed.
This sign appeared about two years ago, not long after I came over to try and be a friendly neighbor with a popular dragon smut book as a kind offer.
I had simply wanted to offer a collaboration of sorts, since everyone knows a gamer boyfriend and a romance-reader girlfriend are a match made in heaven, and we had some content overlap since he sells games with dragons, but he was outraged.
Apparently, the mere idea of the genre irritated him.
In fact, he told me it was a crime against the gaming world to assume my dragon porn could ever be in the same league as his intellectual-based role-playing game.
He also didn’t appreciate it when I told him I have books with role-playing that might be a better fit for a collaboration. And, sure, maybe I said that bit just to piss him off. I knew it did because his face went all red, and he pointed to the door, ordering me to leave.
Despite my kind gestures (I’ve tried to bring him treats from Vi’s and even flowers from Poppy’s a few times), whenever Jack Haggerty sees me, he glares in my direction.
Though now that I think about it, the sign bans all Mayfields.
As I reach for the doorknob, I find myself wondering if he had his temper tantrum with me and decided all Mayfields were poison, or if maybe Poppy or Violet came in at some point and got similar treatment.
I’ll have to call my sisters and ask one of these days. But right now, I’m on a mission.
As I open the door, a cheery bell jingles overhead. “Hey, welcome to—” the tall man with black-rimmed glasses and messy dark hair starts to say. For a split second, his face is kind and welcoming, and his wide smile is almost, dare I say, good-looking.
Until it’s not.
“No. Out,” he deadpans, standing from where he’s setting up a replica of a castle built with trading cards.
It’s impressive and much more intricate than I would do even with books, which would probably be a bit easier.
Last year, I made a Christmas tree with books after seeing someone do it on social media, and it was such a pain in the ass I kept it up until February because the mere idea of undoing it was daunting.
“Hey, there, Jack,” I say with a friendly smile. He stands straighter, taking a step toward me, his jaw going tight.
“I’m not having you destroy another display, Rosemary. Get out.” I cringe, forgetting that last May, I was wandering around the street fair, and when I was looking at his table, trying to think of some kind of small talk, I accidentally sent his display of cards and action figures tumbling.
He was really unhappy with me that day.
“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I say with a friendly smile, even though this rivalry of sorts has been going on for nearly three years now. “Maybe we should get to know each other better.”
He looks at me with a bewildered look. “I don’t want to get to know you better. I want you out of my shop before you create some new catastrophe.”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “Okay, fine. I get it, one time I—”
“One time?” he asks, standing tall and crossing his arms, which forces me to notice that Jack Haggerty has nice arms. Toned and tanned, with wickedly broad shoulders and a fine dusting of hair along his forearms. And for a nerd, the man is built. I bet he could carry a lot of books.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I know I knocked your display over at the street fair, but—”
“What about the first winter you were here, when you had a snowball fight with your sisters?” I cringe, suddenly remembering the day there was a huge snowstorm, and Violet, Poppy, and I all had a snowball fight.
I’d thrown one with much more force than I thought I could muster, but Vi ducked long before it hit her.
My snowball zoomed over her head, smacking into the glass front door of his shop and cracking it.
“I paid for that! I gave you more than enough to cover the expense and someone to replace it,” I say. “And I apologized. I didn’t realize there was a rock in the snowball I made. Even the repairman said that was completely out of my control.”
“What about the fall festival two years ago?”
I cringe again, remembering the time our tables were placed too close to one another. When I tried to slide between our tables, my foot caught on the leg of his table, collapsing the table and everything on it. But I refuse to back down. “You were the one who didn’t lock the leg in place!”
He throws his hands up in irritation. “I didn’t expect someone to come kicking the legs.”
“You stacked your stuff so it was nearly impossible to get behind my table!”
“I was creating a barrier so I didn’t have to deal with your bullshit.”
I glare at him but then close my eyes and take a deep breath, remembering I need something from this man.
I find some form of inner peace before slapping my best customer service smile on and forcing my voice to sound friendly.
“You’re right. I’m a bit clumsy sometimes, and I know our combating…
” I smile, trying to land on the right word that won’t be rude, “… aesthetics make us seem a bit like rivals, but it doesn’t have to be that way.
Here, let me help with your tower,” I say, stepping forward and reaching for a card.
“And I can tell you all about why I came over.”
“No,” he says sharply, hands moving up as if to cast a spell to freeze me. My hands raise in surrender, about to beg him to just listen to me, when it happens. My pinky grazes the very edge of a card, and slowly, like a goddamned horror movie, I watch it shake.
“No!” he repeats, but it’s too late. The first card tumbles, the tiny reverberation taking down another and another until there’s just a messy pile on the table. My mouth hangs open as I stare at the rubble.
“Maybe we could use tape?” I say in a squeak. “I could help—”
“Every. Time,” he says low, eyes still on the pile.
“What?”
“Every time. Every goddamn time you come by, you ruin something! That is why there is an incredibly clear sign on the front door saying, ‘No Mayfields allowed’!” he nearly shouts, finally looking up at me, his face red with anger and his eyes burning.
He still looks kind of hot, which is annoying, if I’m being honest.
I feel bad about his castle. Really, I do.
Okay, and the window and the street fair and whatever other crimes he thinks I committed, but it’s not like I lit his building on fire!
Even though I should play nice—I need to play nice, if I ever want him to give me Phillip’s flask so I can defeat this stupid curse—I can’t resist stoking the fire.
“Honestly, Jack, you sound like a little boy in a tree fort.”
“Fine! Then this is my tree fort and you’re not allowed in it!” he shouts, arm pointing to the door. “Now get out!”
“Look, I get it, you’re mad—”
“I was working on that for two weeks!” Jack says, cutting me off. “And it was nearly finished last week when your sister came in and did nearly the same exact thing.”
I roll my lips into my mouth, trying to fight the urge to laugh, imagining this being the second time he’s had this conversation with a Mayfield in a month. “Which one?” I ask, unable to resist as I bend down to try and help gather up the cards.
“What?” He’s standing, looking down at me, and I move to my knees, scooping the cards in my hands and making tidy little stacks.
It has to be a thousand cards at least, and a small part of me pangs knowing he’s had to do this twice.
But also, what does he expect? It’s a gaming store, not a museum.
If it wasn’t me who knocked it over, it would have been someone else.
Would he scream at a child if they did it?
Or is his fury reserved just for Mayfields?
“Which sister came in? Blonde or brunette?”
“Oh. A blonde.”
“Poppy,” I say with a nod, my mind running through the image of Poppy, my sweet, docile youngest sister who talks to flowers more than humans, knocking over this guy’s tower.
If he looked at her with this much venom, she probably went home and cried over it.
“She’s delicate. Probably felt terrible about it.
Please tell me you didn’t yell at her.” He sighs deeply before moving to his knees, helping me grab the cards, shuffling and sorting them.
“I didn’t, but before I even said anything, she yelled a ‘sorry!’ at me and ran out the door. The next day, there was a box of scones on my step with an apology.”
“That sounds like Poppy,” I say, grabbing the last card and handing it to him as we stand.
“Tell her I’m sorry,” he says low, and my eyes widen. “It wasn’t her fault.” His hand goes to the back of his head, and he sighs. “I should have taped them. People come in here and I can’t yell at them the way I did you, or her.”
I smile and shrug. “Probably, but being annoyed is valid. It’s pretty impressive, doing all that without any glue or tape. I couldn’t do it.”
“It’s not as hard as it looks, just takes some patience.”
“Which I don’t have,” I say with a laugh, bubbling with excitement over what might be our very first positive conversation. I stand as he gathers the last card, then hand him my stack, our fingers brushing as they do.
“Why did you come over here? Did you need help with something?” he asks, with a half-smile.
I smile with relief and start to begin my rehearsed speech when my ass, well fed by Vi’s baked goods, shifts, knocking into the wizard cutout I saw in the window yesterday.
As it falls, I realize the cutout isn’t some mass-produced piece of merchandise, but a cutout someone—Jack, I assume—hand-painted intricately.
It falls backward, and Jack and I both reach for it, but instead, we stumble, falling into each other.
Jack catches me in arms that are much stronger than any nerd’s should be, but I don’t have much time to think about that.
Not when panic is written all over his face.
I quickly look over at the cardboard wizard precariously hanging over the ledge of the display—but thankfully unharmed, not even a dent to him.
I let out a sigh of relief.
It’s a goddamned miracle.
For once in my life, the worst-case scenario didn’t come to fruition.
Maybe my luck is already changing.
My body is loose when I look up at Jack, our eyes meeting, his arms wrapped around me, and for a moment—a split, fleeting second—I think I see something. A flash of… I don’t know. Something warm that makes my belly a bit fluttery.
But it’s gone as soon as I hear a too-familiar meow, Percy trotting into the store through the door I stupidly left open, like he wants to protect me or come to my aid.
“Percy,” I whisper, watching him and somehow knowing how this is going to end.
In absolute misery.
“Is that your cat?” Jack asks, confused, watching the black-and-white cat move toward us. Percy’s eyes move from me to Jack, to the ledge before us, and the wizard hanging there.
“Yes,” I answer quickly, my eyes still locked on my stupid fucking cat. “Percy, no!”
“What the—” Jack starts, still holding me, and then it happens.
Percy jumps, landing on the head of the wizard. The cardboard bends and then rips along the metal edge of the display, making for a quick, clean decapitation.
“Not the Third Warlock of the Night Realm!” Jack shouts, pushing me aside and moving to his knees, lifting up the cardboard head like he’s a lost comrade on the battlefield.
“I worked on this for four months!” Percy, sensing the vibes have taken a nosedive, jumps away and leaves me with the disaster he created, and I mentally remind myself not to get more treats next time I’m at the pet store.
“Oh, my god, Jack. I’m so, so sorry. He’s really a sweet cat, he’s just kind of…” I start, then restart. “He follows me and he’s a bit protective, so I guess when he heard you shout, he came to check on me and—”
“OUT!” Jack shouts, eyes still locked on his headless wizard.
“What?”
“Get out!”
I lift my hands placatingly, taking a step back but not leaving. I still need to get that damned flask, after all.
“Jack, I know this—”
“Get out!” He stands then, holding the head of the wizard, and I try. I really do. But the man is standing there holding the decapitated head of a fictional, grinning wizard and… I laugh.
“Are you laughing?” Jack asks, anger rippling through the words.
“No, I… it’s just…” I start, choking on another laugh because this entire situation is ridiculous, and I’ve always been a nervous laugher.
“Every time you Mayfields come in here, disaster strikes. No more! Get out!” he yells, pointing to the door.
I stand, putting my hands up. “Jack, I’m sorry. I really am, but I really need to talk to you, I need your help with something and—”
“You need my help?” he asks incredulously. “Ha! You’ll get my help when the fucking dead rise.” The irony of his words does not escape me as he continues to step toward me and I continue to walk backward toward the door.
“Jack, you don’t understand, it’s very—”
“Goodbye, Rosemary,” he says with bitterness, right before he slams the door in my face, locking it and flipping the open sign to “CLOSED,” and flipping me the bird.
I sigh deeply before walking back to my place, where Percy is sitting at the foot of my steps. “Come on, you little shit,” I grumble to him, opening up the front door to figure out what the fuck plan B could be.