“Electricity,” corrected the girl with braids. “But only enough to like, power a lightbulb.”
“You two are such nerds.” The blonde rolled her eyes.
“Do you want this to work, or not?” Braids huffed.
“Fine.” The blonde lifted her chin defiantly. “We hold hands.”
With only a small amount of muttering and a few complaints of clammy skin, the girls held hands, took deep breaths, and began reciting the spell.
“We call on the Magick of North, South, East, and West
To make her awkward a girl who was blessed.
Remove her charm, remove her grace,
Make her fall flat on her face.
Destined for a clumsy life until true love’s professed.”
They repeated the mantra three times, then lit the ingredients on fire. A hush fell over the room. Nobody moved. They didn’t dare breathe.
A sudden wind whipped through pink polka-dot curtains, sending the bowls of chips and stacks of magazines flying. The girls screamed as a torrent swirled around them, snuffing out the candles and blowing their handwritten spell across the room. A lamp was knocked over, shattering on the floor, leaving the girls in complete darkness.
Just as quickly as the wind came it subsided. The girls clutched one another, breaths heaving in and out of their small frames. Quiet settled over them, along with a sense of awe and wonder.
The teens gaped at the disarray about the room, from the pentagram on the floor to the book of spells now slammed shut, then back to each other.
“Did it work?”
chapter one
Hello Awkward, My Old Friend
I didn’t expect to meet someone like him here. He should be downtown at that fancy martini bar where the lawyers and finance bros gather, not in some random Irish pub with wan yellow lighting, sticky floors, and an ancient jukebox playing modern country.
The man sitting in front of me is far too handsome. Bronzed skin boasting of either an unlimited membership at a tanning salon or a recent tropical vacation. Thick, wavy brown hair pushed back over his forehead for a covetous amount of volume. Blue eyes framed by long lashes, set by brows that make him look amicable and confident, like he could befriend anyone in the room. A wide, sharp jawline—no beard to hide a lack of chin, either. Nope, his chin is excellent. Captain America level, even.
His sense of style is also on point, if a bit too dressy for our location. His linen button-up shirt is crisp, paired with dark-wash denim jeans, and the Rolex on his wrist screams good taste and money. He probably has a good job. People at his job probablylike him there, too. Charisma and charm waft from him, along with whatever expensive sandalwood cologne he’s wearing.
On top of that, he actually seemsnice. He’s a good conversationalist, asking polite yet interesting questions, focusing his attention on my eyes rather than the cleavage I deliberately have on display. He’s far too perfect—too close to the type of guy I’d always imagined, hoped, I’d end up with. I’ve been talking to him for all of twenty minutes and can already picture a tiny baby cradled in his big hands, imagine his smile looking over his shoulder as he pushes a child on a swing, popping a bottle of wine while I relax and he cooks me dinner.
Seriously, this guy is bad news. I shouldn’t even be talking to him.
I obviously intended to meetsomeonewhen I came out tonight; it’s evident by how I dressed—faded high-waisted jeans paired with a scoop neck crop top to tease my cleavage, my freshly dyed blond hair straightened and layered to frame my face, and thegoodmakeup highlighting my features, including that expensive red lipstick I got on my birthday three years ago. I’m on the prowl, and this pub is my hunting ground. The only problem is, I didn’t expect to see someone likehimhere. Someone that checked all my boxes.
Someone that would get my hopes up.
I should be flirting with one of the other pub patrons. Someone whose hair doesn’t belong in a magazine, whose chin doesn’t jut out like a Marvel hero’s, whose banter doesn’t make me delight at every turn of phrase. The self-preserving part of me is yelling to get out of here while I still can, before it’s too late, to retreat to my couch with my sweatpants and my dog. That’s what I’ve done every single night since moving back to Langley. But I can’t live in my safe little bubble forever. Eventually, I have to come out of it.
It’s been months since I’ve felt the touch of another person.If I want that to change, then I have to come out to the real world, converse with real people.
Speaking of which. I turn my attention back to the guy chatting me up.What was his name... started with anO. I’m pretty sure. Oscar? No. Oliver. Hmm.
It doesn’t matter. The less I know about him, the better. As perfect as he is—and as good a husband and father as I’m sure he’d make—I’m not in the right place in my life to meet someone like him. I came here for one reason and one reason only: to feel the comfort of another human body and give my vibrator a break.
I smile and nod at all the right moments as he talks, not bothering to commit anything he’s telling me to memory. I’m not here to get to know him, or for him to get to know me. I want one thing from him and one thing only. The problem is, it’s been so long since I’ve done this I’ve almost forgotten how. I need to transition this conversation into something more salacious as soon as possible. Every moment we’re together increases the risk of something terrible happening. It’s time to make my move.
“So, what is it you do, Aubrey?” Perfect Guy asks, the low thrum of his voice warm and enticing.
