The Mechanics of Broomstick Racing (Pumpkin Hollow #2)

1. Chapter 1 The Start Line

R ed had always been her color. Not baby blue . It might have been the official uniform of the Pumpkin Hollow post office, but it just felt wrong. Like she was wearing camouflage. Like she was hiding.

Technically, Zephyr McAllister was hiding.

Unsuccessfully. Being a former world-renowned broomstick racer made it difficult to remain incognito.

With her face plastered on the label of every potion bottle made by her former racing sponsor, Blackened Salt Apothecary, there was no anonymity.

Even after a rather drastic and sort of regretted haircut, she was still instantly recognizable.

Who had talked her into that brand deal again?

Probably her stupid, money-obsessed ex-fiancé.

Zephyr rubbed her fingers on the back of her neck, the spiky blond hair tickling her.

Her hair now ended at her chin instead of her waist, but the residents of her hometown hadn’t been fooled by her disguise.

Guiltily, she wished she remembered any of them .

She thought working at the post office would help jog her faint memory, but while the streets and quaint shops of Pumpkin Hollow hadn’t changed—the people had.

Pumpkin Hollow was a small New England town, hidden away from the humans who lived unaware of the witches, vampires, werewolves, and more who shared their world.

The magical barrier that surrounded Pumpkin Hollow kept witches like Zephyr safe and invisible—at least, from mortals.

But even as secluded as the magical residents of the Hollow were, they had all grown.

They had built real and cherished lives here—something her younger self had thought impossible.

It was why she had left so unceremoniously for her racing career, and why she had believed she would never come back.

Welp. Here she was, only a few years from thirty, working at the Post while donning a baby-blue button-up, a navy, pleated skirt, and a name tag that had spelled her name wrong. Earlier that morning, Zephyr had taken a marker and scribbled over her misspelled name until only the “Z” remained.

She refocused on her current failure.

“Roger?” she asked, a sudden static in the air lifting her short hair a few inches.

Zephyr bounced from one foot to the other, hovering between steps.

As an air witch, it was hard to remain fully rooted on the ground.

She levitated until she forced her magic to rest, touching back down on the old wooden floor.

On the other side of the dark cherry counter, polished so well that Zephyr could see her reflection in it, stood a man.

A scowling, scruffy, dark-mustached man.

He wore a mechanic’s navy-blue coveralls with the sleeves rolled up—an outfit her pit team had not filled out as well as this man did.

He also possessed very nice forearms, but she wasn’t wasting time thinking about that .

Okay, maybe she was a little.

“Not Roger,” he replied. He dropped a cardboard box onto the counter with an impressive thud .

Zephyr recognized the package. She had delivered it that morning as she zipped through the small town on her new—and irritatingly slower than her last model—broomstick.

Her old racing broom was currently in a cardboard box of its own. In pieces .

She grimaced and squinted at the man. He was her age, and they probably had attended school together, and still her mind was blank.

In her racing career, she had met a lot of men.

She only bothered to learn their names if they placed above her in races.

And that was a short list. She tried again. “Bill?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fernando?”

“Now you’re not even trying.” He sighed, running a hand through his thick auburn hair.

He had the kind of hair that waved and curled in all the right places, and he probably woke up that way.

Lucky bastard. With her new haircut, every morning became a war zone in her bathroom.

Shorter hair was supposed to be easier, wasn’t it?

And yet, it absolutely was not. The man added, “Dammit, Zephyr, I was your Potions class partner all throughout high school.”

She laughed at the absurdity of his claim. “You’re not Finnegan! The kid who zapped me every time we touched—”

Her eyes widened. The static in the air messing up her hair suddenly made sense.

Neil Finnegan had been a storm witch, and the grandson of the town’s magical tinkerer and only mechanic.

And he had been awful at controlling his powers, especially his lightning abilities.

When they were Potions partners, all it took was a simple brush of their shoulders or their hands, and he’d accidentally zap her.

Zephyr took an exaggerated step backward.

Neil rolled his eyes, holding his gaze upward as if searching for patience. “I’m not going to shock you. We’re both adults now. Well, I am.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” With a hand on her hip, Zephyr taunted, “Want to compare bank accounts?” Zephyr hadn’t just raced . She had won . And she did not mind reminding people of that fact—repeatedly.

“A very mature response.” Neil pushed the box toward her. “Since your memory is so terrible, maybe you don’t recall hurtling this at my chest this morning? Sometime around five a.m.?”

She winced. “That doesn’t sound like me.

” It was exactly like her. Delivering mail, working the same boring route day after day, was already wearing on her after only a few months.

So, to liven things up, Zephyr had timed herself.

How fast could she fly through Pumpkin Hollow while delivering the mail?

Even though she was her only competitor, it was Zephyr’s only distraction, and she took it very seriously.

That was why, when retrieving a box from her endless mailbag (a magical satchel she wore that could fit a whole house inside it, if she so wanted), Zephyr had caught Neil on his way out of the garage, plain coffee mug in his hand, and had simply thrown it at him.

Every stop cost her time. And the citizens of Pumpkin Hollow loved to chat .

It seemed she might have thrown Neil’s delivery too hard.

“I ended up ass over teakettle and crushed my grandmother’s hydrangeas,” he complained. “It’s been a decade since you lived here, but that isn’t how we do things. We don’t hurl missiles at our neighbors. A sentence I can’t believe I have to say.” He patted the top of the box.

“I’m sorry, you looked sturdier this morning,” Zephyr quipped. “Now that I’m not looking at you through a morning mist, I can see how wrong I was.”

“Brat.”

“Oh, I could prove you so right.”

Neil blinked at her. Zephyr wanted to fly out of the nearest window. Why did she always need to escalate things? To always win? She wanted to break his stoic demeanor. As he scolded her, Neil’s tone had remained even. Unbothered. Making her seem like the ridiculous one.

Well, he is a storm witch , a quiet part of her logic piped up. Zephyr frowned, realizing her mistake. A storm witch’s mood directly affected the weather. Which didn’t exactly encourage strong or volatile personalities.

He interrupted her ashamed musings. “ Slow down , Zephyr. Or I’ll have the sheriff put a boot on that broom of yours.” He grabbed his box off her counter and turned toward the door.

Zephyr shouted at his back, “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Neil didn’t acknowledge her as he left, the bell at the top of the post office door tinkling as it swung shut. Zephyr let her forehead fall until it hit the counter. It was only ten in the morning, and she had just been lectured by her high school Potions partner .

What was she doing back here? If she wanted to fade into obscurity after her retirement from racing, why would she choose the town where everyone knew her?

And they didn’t know the racer version of her, the woman who had dominated and partied and flirted.

They knew the smart-mouthed teenager who had vowed never to return. It was all so embarrassing .

She shut her eyes until the nightmare returned—the free-falling and spinning, the memory of her vision switching from open blue sky to the quickly advancing ground. Her stomach sank as she righted herself, shaking her head violently.

She was not falling. She was on solid ground. She was safe.

But she was lost.