“Got a pen?” I asked, reaching for a cocktail napkin. “I need directions.”
The bartender humored me, and I doodled landmarks until a burst of laughter erupted from the cabana behind me.
A group of Snowbelt agents lounged in the shade, singing a chorus of reimagined carols, with lyrics guaranteed to get you on Santa’s naughty list.
I applauded the ingenuity of a very R-rated line, then did a double-take. My teeth clenched when I spotted Grant Delaney holding court, drink in hand, conducting the risqué orchestra like he'd written the sheet music.
I shrank in my seat, grateful for the sunglasses, but wishing I’d packed a floppy hat too. The only thing scarier than overpaying for three judgmental spirits was anyone finding out the severity of my glitch.
And by anyone, I meant Grant. Snowbelt’s rogue prince and next in line to inherit their frosty little empire.
Grant had been born into his role while I’d clawed my way up the magical ranks, case by case. But we’d both become the faces of our divisions. Which meant quarterly run-ins at high-level meetings, holiday parties, and a near-daily barrage of passive-aggressive emails that spanned time zones.
He hated my color-coded spreadsheets and rhinestone-encrusted water bottle. I hated his smug, wing-it charm that never seemed to fail. Reckless with a side of destruction, the man was one improvised stunt away from a canceled Christmas.
I still remember when I’d told him over video conference tothink of the children.His gaze had sharpened into icicle daggers so fast, I thought the Wi-Fi froze. If live streams could kill, I’d have been buried under six feet of snow, with a frozen smile on my face.
Except—I swallowed hard, the memory of my frigid smile thawing. It hadn’t always been this way. For one brief, stupid moment, I’d thought—
A snort caught in my throat.
No. Out of all the meet-cutes that had blown up in my face, Grant’s was nothing short of the apocalypse.
Since then, sabotaging each other had become a mystical sport. I rerouted his case files and“accidentally”sent him to the North Pole. Though somehow, he’d turned the floating scientific research station into a virtual save-the-polar-bears charity event. I grudgingly made a sizable donation—for the bears. Then he retaliated, and I spent New Year’s stranded in the desert.
We hijacked assignments, traded dueling press quotes, and during one regrettable award ceremony speech, he announced me as Sunbelt’s tiny toy soldier. A dig at my five-four-in-heels height.
Which wasn’t fair, because everything about Grant was big. His towering ego. His laugh that carried across a crowded room. Even his shoulders, which fueled intern gossip, and annoyingly, lived up to the hype.
Not that I cared.
I was just… conducting societal research. It was science-esque. With an occasional curse to the universe that my sworn enemy could star in every woman’s meet-cute fantasy.
I popped another cherry into my mouth and twisted in my chair, preparing to glare him into silence.
Buthe wasn’t there.
And then—
“Hey, Spells.”
Grant Delaney's smooth, deep voice slid over my shoulder as his shadow stretched across the bar.
Spells.I hated that nickname and the way it dripped off his tongue, spiking my blood pressure. Worse, my magic had to be broken, because lately I’d catch myself replaying it in a different tone, rough and low, living rent-free in my head.Ugh. I really needed to get back in the dating game. ASAP.I wrinkled my nose and sucked on my frozen cocktail until the brain freeze hit.
Grant dropped onto the barstool beside me, dark hair perfectly windswept, tropical shirt sleeves showing off tanned forearms that had the lifeguard staring, no blinking arrow needed. He scooped up the rest ofmycherries from the fruit tray, then flashed me a grin that had probably broken more hearts than he’d ever matched.
“You weren’t going to finish these, were you?”
He ate every last one.
My smile was pure corn syrup. “Grant. I thought you had to skip the retreat because you were too busy starring as the villain in a made-for-TV holiday special.”
“And miss catching up in person with my favorite cross-country coworker? I wouldn’t dream of it.” He licked cherry juice from his thumb. “You know, I heard they never recovered your Mustang. Hope you still have your broomstick.”
“Wow,” the bartender said, caught in the polar vortex that swirled around us, no matter the location. “Couples therapy meets on the other side of the island.”
I scoffed. “Couples therapy won’t help. You’d have better luck sitting him down with an exorcist.”
