Stupid Spellbound Love (Stupid Love #2)

Chapter 1 Coco

Coco

The morning I start my dream job, my mom calls to remind me of something: She’s forgotten I exist.

“Brittany just hit one million YouTube subscribers,” she gushes about my sister while I sit on the roadside in my Camry, the engine idling.

“That’s fantastic.”

I try to match her enthusiasm, but all I can think is, it’s the first day of my new job and Mom has forgotten about the details of my life—again.

“We’re throwing a big party for her Saturday. I need you to bring the potato salad.” That’s me, the potato salad daughter. “How do you make it so good?”

“Pickles,” I remind her, deflating.

My family likes the crunchy pickles.

“Great. Talk soon!”

She hangs up, leaving me with a hole in the pit of my stomach.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Okay, I’m exaggerating.

But it is when my hands decide to act like living sparklers. Painful pops of magic flicker from the tips of my fingers.

“Ouch! No!”

To stop the fire, I pop my fingers into my mouth. The taste of pennies zings on my tongue, and my throbbing fingers smart for a second before the power fizzles out.

Here’s the thing no one tells you about living in a town that recently reclaimed its magic: Sometimes it comes back in you. And while everyone’s cool with unicorns and piggycorns (pigs with unicorn horns) prancing around, they’re not so keen on humans with magic.

Surprisingly, that’s where the townsfolk draw the line.

I tap the GPS screen until the stupid thing comes back to life and nose my Camry onto the two-lane highway that runs out of Mystic Meadows, Georgia—my hometown.

The landscape blooms on both sides with green meadows, rolling hills, tall pines. And running over them all, standing out like an accent pillow in a perfect living room, are ley lines.

These are rivers of power that shimmer like gold. They snake over the earth, crisscrossing one another and tumbling on top of rocks, down hills, and weaving around trees.

As I pass a glowing thread of power dancing alongside the road, my phone rings.

It’s Mom again! This time she’s calling because she remembered, for sure. I clear my throat like I’m preparing to give my Oscar acceptance speech.

“Hey! Did you forget something?”

“Did you get your grandmother’s engagement ring sized yet?”

I glance down at my left hand to the antique emerald-and-diamond ring that fits loosely on my finger. It was a gift from my grandmother and swivels every time I move, so I’m having it sized for my right hand—my non-engagement, single hand.

“I’m dropping it off at the jeweler’s today.”

“Great. Can’t wait to see how it fits you.” There’s a pause. “Honey, is something wrong?”

Worse than being forgotten is coaxing someone into remembering you. So I say, “Nope. I’m all good.”

“Well, see you soon. Bye!”

First Brittany, then the ring. Not me. Not how I am.

It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I’m used to it.

Even though I try giving myself the pep talk to end all pep talks, it must really suck, because a familiar ache bubbles inside me, pushing up my throat like I’ve swallowed a rock.

My fingers spark again. As I shake my hands to snuff out the magic, in the distance one of the ley lines turns red and pulses weakly.

My lack of control is not good. I’ve got to get this power under wraps before someone finds out and my life and job are ruined.

Or worse.

For the past few months, my fingers have put on a fireworks show when I’m angry or sad or frustrated—anything but happy. The one emotion maybe they should celebrate, they ignore like it’s the last shirt on a sales table, the dingy SpongeBob SquarePants tee nobody wants.

As soon as my emotions pull back together, the humming power in my fingers dies and the red ley line returns to its normal state—a dim, yellowish-white strip of magic.

I take a deep breath and focus on why I’m here in the first place. “Okay, where is this site?”

The GPS dings for me to take a right at the next stop sign. As I slow to a halt, a John Deere tractor approaches on the opposite side of the road.

Clarice Sinclair bounces atop the seat. She’s older, easily in her seventies, though I’m not sure of the exact number. She has a curly mop of silvery hair that’s mostly hidden today by a Braves cap. She wears jeans and a jacket to shield herself from the bite in the early-spring morning.

“Hey, Clarice!”

She rumbles to a stop. “Morning, Coco. Where’re you headed?”

Finally. Someone I can humblebrag to! “I’m going to the Maddox resort on the hill.”

Her eyes brighten with intrigue. “That’s right! You’re in Zoning now. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“I sure did!”

See? Clarice remembers. Why is it easier for her to remember than my own mother?

The older woman rubs her chin, reminding me of a sinister villain strategizing her evil plan.

“Speaking of the Maddoxes, now that Rowe married Pane Maddox, it looks like you’re the most eligible bachelorette in town.

The Collins boys are still looking for girlfriends.

” She pumps her brows excitedly. “The oldest got rid of his acne. Except for his back. He still has that problem, but I’d be happy to set you up with one of ’em. Maybe two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Is eighteen too young?”

“Bye, Clarice.”

As I roll up the window, she shouts, “Just think about it!”

The last thing I’ll consider is a boyfriend who’s barely out of high school. No thank you.

But she did have a point about the Maddoxes.

It was big news several months ago when Pane arrived in town.

His mother wanted to name the next CEO of the Maddox Group, the family’s chain of luxury hotels.

To win the company, Pane competed against his brother to see who could best save a dying business.

He wound up rescuing a struggling piggycorn farm that belonged to his now wife, Rowe.

So Pane won, but from what I understand, he left the company and, alongside his brother, decided to open a resort in town.

Which is where I’m headed for the first assignment of my brand-spanking-new job.

Have I mentioned how excited I am?

As the sedan climbs the hills outside Mystic Meadows, the resort reveals itself from behind a curtain of trees—steel beams, loud construction equipment, men in hard hats.

And standing just off-center is a tall guy with good, strong shoulders, the kind that could hold a steel beam for hours.

With me sitting on top.

Not that I’m fantasizing. But . . . um, I might be a little bit. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs and notice he wears a pair of Carhartt pants and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. Even from this distance, his forearms appear solid.

Wisps of sandy hair peek out from under his hard hat. My gaze drifts and I recognize some of the men on the site—Isaac from Sparkle Bar, and Ron. Ron’s wife, Jennifer, owns the pharmacy.

But what’s sitting at the man’s feet makes my breath catch. A small, woolly creature with a delicate golden horn erupting from the center of its forehead takes a step, loses its balance, and falls against the tall man’s shin.

Oh my gosh.

Is that a lambicorn?