Page 24 of Meet Cute Magic

“To get what I want.” She reaches up to pull down the visor, checking herself in the small mirror.

“Isn’t that what the magic is for?” I ask, suddenly confused. She smiles and shakes her head negative, pushing her hair behind her shoulders and running a finger over the edge of her already perfect lipstick before turning to me.

“You ready to go, Jack Attack?”

I let out a heavy breath before shrugging. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.” She punches me in the arm with a wide smile.

“That’s the spirit,” she says before stepping out of the car and moving toward the door. And watch is all I can do: in the dimming sunlight, her figure is clear, curves I’ve rarely taken the opportunity to observe since I’ve always been so annoyed with her, legs that seem to go on for miles despite her short stature. Her strawberry blonde hair is loose, the ends curling down her back, and my mind goes places it’s never gone when thinking about my neighbor: what that soft hair would feel like in my hands, grazing over my skin, wrapped around my fist.

It shocks me, taking me aback, and I physically shake my head to get the thought out.

No fucking way, Jack, I tell myself. Get your mind straight. She’s pretty, but she’s also out of her mind. And trouble. So much fucking trouble. I don’t like trouble. I like normalcy and reliability, even though my entire world turned upside down in the last week.

After a moment, I realize she’s ahead of me, and I speed my steps to catch up with her as I remind myself we’re only here because we’re on a mission. Once I can safely and securely sleep at night knowing I did everything to help my grandfather cross to the other side, I’ll be free of this and her. Rosemary Mayfield is nothing but trouble, and I need to keep reminding myself of that.

A point that is proven when the doors to the bar open and Rosie steps in and… the entire bar goes quiet. All eyes move to her, and when I follow in behind, Rosie already ten feet ahead of me, I realize this is not just a bar. It’s what one might classify as a biker bar.

I really need to make sure I’m asking better questions on these future tasks we have. Or at the very least, take in my surroundings instead of Rosie’s ass. If I had, I probably would have noted the dozen or so motorcycles parked in the lot opposite ours. But I didn’t, so now I’m here. Big men in motorcycle cuts stare at Rosie as she walks with purpose along the far side of the bar, some stopping to look at her ass, others shifting to look eagerly at the bar as if they know something I don’t.

“Heeeeey, Jake,” Rosie drawls with sugar in her words as she saunters up to the bar counter.

“No,” the tall, broad man with short blond hair says. If I were to say who Rosie’s type would be, knowing little to nothing about her and never actually seeing her with a man, I’d say this was it: a G.I. Joe–looking guy with shoulders twice as wide as his head who looks like he can barely count to ten.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Rosie says, sidling up to the bar, putting her elbows onto it, and leaning in. Knowing how low her top is, I’m pretty sure she’s showing off her cleavage. The man at the bar, Jake, confirms my assumption when he falls for it, eyes dipping before shaking his head.

“I’m not playing your games,” he says.

“Me? Games? Never.” Even I know that’s bullshit. Jake sighs, then leans a hip on the bar, crossing his arms on his chest and making his too-big muscles bulge alarmingly.

“What do you need from me, Rosie? You’re banned from this place.” Well, that’s something she managed to leave out. Though, somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that Rosie would somehow get herself banned from a rough-and-tough biker bar, despite her sweet appearance.

“What, I can’t just come in to see an old friend?” He continues to glare at her before she sighs, and her voice veers from the sugar-coated sweet tone to a different one altogether. “Fine, I need a to-go cup of the oldest scotch you have in this place.” Silence fills the space for a beat before the man replies. Exasperation, I’m thinking, follows Rosie with whoever she interacts with.

“You can’t get a to-go cup, Rosie. Then you’d be driving with an open container.” Her nose scrunches up, contemplating her next move. When she lands on her new tactic, she pouts before speaking again.

“The whole bottle?” she says with a raise of her shoulder.

“Our best bottle is going to cost you fifteen hundred dollars. Is the bookstore doing that well?” She grimaces, and I try and wrap my head around a bottle of alcohol that costs fifteen hundred dollars, much less it being at a place like this.

“Maybe with a friends and family discount?”

“Friends!?” he says aghast. “We are not friends, Rosie.”

“Oh, come on. Remember that time I dog-sat for you while you went to Denver? Or when I made you chicken soup when you were sick?” Rosie tries, but Jake just glares at her, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down his nose at her.

“I don’t know, when I think about you, I mostly remember how you told everyone we were mutual friends with that I was shit in bed and I cheated on you.” I cringe at that, but Rosie barely even shifts her face, no look of remorse or pity crossing it.

“And?” Damn, the girl is brutal.

“And that’s messed up! I should sue you!”

It’s clear she’s either going to try a new angle or completely give up on playing nice when her eyes roll, arms crossing on her chest in a mirror of his. She looks so incredibly unfazed, I’m almost envious.

“For what, Jake?”

“Libel or something!” He throws his hands up in the air, clearly frustrated, and Rosie pouts at him, as if she feels bad for the man.

“That’s for printed lies, bud. God, maybe I should have also told everyone that you were a dumbass,” she mumbles under her breath.