Chapter 1

 

Love potions are the bane of my existence.

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Fiddly, time-consuming and bloody annoying. Add one ingredient a little too early or a little too late, and the whole thing blows up in your face. Literally. And then you’ve lost another pair of eyebrows and are left scraping pink goo from the ceiling.

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When you’re a freelance witch whose current star-rating on Witch-Bay is the difference between surviving on toast or nutritious and well-balanced meals, there’s no room for error.

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Especially when, for the first time since I started this gig four years ago, business is booming. 

Maybe it’s this heatwave, sending everyone into a lust-fuelled frenzy and resorting to desperate measures. Maybe it’s that rave review from one very satisfied customer. But requests for love potions are blowing through the roof. 

I’m inundated. I may actually be able to afford to buy avocados this month.

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It’s also why I’m brewing this current love potion in my kitchen on a Saturday lunchtime despite the sweltering heat and without the relief of AC. 

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Not that I’m complaining.

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I’m in no position to turn down orders. Besides, this may be the start of something great. Expansions, empires, and eventual worldwide domination.

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A witch can dream!

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McGruff has retreated to the relative cool of the bedroom, abandoning me to my fate. I’ve opened all the windows and stripped down to my bra and a pair of hot pants, but I am still melting like an ice cream in the sunshine. In fact, I didn’t think it was possible for one person to sweat this much. I’m probably creating puddles on the floor.

I drag a tepid cloth around my face, my neck, and between my boobs, then squint down at the concoction slowly bubbling on my stove. It’s a deep purple colour, but any moment now it’ll turn pink, and that’s when I need to add the moth wings. They’re ready in my hand, crushed to a fine powder and smelling frankly revolting. Just like the aroma spinning around my small kitchen-living room. I can hear McGruff gagging in the bedroom. I’ve fastened a peg on my nose to stop the worst of it.

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I stir the potion. It’s definitely on the cusp of turning. I bite on my lip, hand hovering in anticipation.

And the buzzer sounds, nearly startling me right out of my skin. In fact, I jolt so hard, the powder flies up into the air and all over the floor.

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McGruff immediately comes charging out of the bedroom, barking manically in the direction of the door and skidding on the wooden floorboards.

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“Oh yes,” I say to him, rolling my eyes, “you’re so big and scary.” 

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In fact, McGruff is about a foot tall, white and fluffy like a sheep, with a round tummy that just about fails to scrape the floor. The lazy grump may like to sound all tough and mighty, but he’ll run and hide at the first whiff of danger.

I inherited him five years ago, like I did this flat, when my Aunt Beryl died in a freak broomstick flying accident.

The buzzer sounds again, McGruff yaps in response and I flick my gaze between my potion and the door.

It’ll be the parcel guy. I’m expecting a delivery of frog’s eyeballs. I’m running dangerously low. 

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“Urgh!” I say, flustered, wiping my powder-stained hands on a tea towel and yanking the peg off my nose.

Fred the delivery man is psychopathically impatient. If I don’t answer the door in precisely three seconds, he’ll take a sick delight in returning my delivery back to the depot. 

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“Coming,” I yell, racing across my apartment and flinging myself at the door. I twist back the collection of locks and latches and yank open the door, coming, not face to face with the delivery man, but face to chest with a very solid, very muscular frame.

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Not Fred.

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I tip my head back slowly and peer up into the startled face of Mr H. Shaw – a man who has made it his mission to ring my doorbell at least once a week with an ever-growing list of complaints.

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As well as this delightful personality trait, he also happens to be outrageously hot. Think pulse-quickening, knee-buckling, cheeks-flushingly attractive - what with his perfectly chiselled jawline, his dazzlingly blue eyes and his sun-kissed tan. He looks like he stepped right out of an advertising campaign for a dating app.

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I should have known it would be him. Saturday. One of the few days the man is actually home. And when he is home, he is usually buzzing on my door with one of his complaints – my music is too loud, McGruff is barking too much, I’ve left boxes in the hallway, I’ve dared to exist!

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I grimace in anticipation of his latest moan-fest. However, the frown that usually hovers on his ridiculously handsome face is absent. Instead, his pair of dark brown brows have leapt up his forehead and he’s staring down at me in horror.

It takes me a moment to realise what’s wrong. Then I remember the bra situation.

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“Oh,” I say, attempting to shield my boobs with my arms, “I was just …”

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He shakes his head and drags his sky-blue eyes from my cleavage and up to my face – and oh, if only those eyes weren’t quite so pretty. They really are wasted on a man like this.

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The startled look lasts a fraction of a second longer and then his brows descend in unison, down into that all-too-familiar frown.

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I don’t actually know his first name – he probably told me that first day we met almost eighteen months ago when he moved in across the hall, and, being the friendly neighbour I am, I skipped over to introduce myself. But, as always, my little introduction soon descended into chaos as I tried to stop McGruff from humping his leg (I guess I’m not the only one who finds the man attractive) and his name passed me by. 

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He works in banking or finance or something equally as ludicrously well-paid. He’s most likely a Henry or a Harry, but Damien nicknamed him Mr Hottie and that has stuck.

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My neighbour swallows, his gaze flickering across my face, and even though I find the man an incredible annoyance, heat crawls up into my cheeks. I am standing here in nothing but underwear after all.

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“There’s a strange sme–” Mr Hottie begins in his American drawl. 

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But he never finishes that sentence, because in the next moment, a thundering boom rips through my apartment and a cloud of purply-pink smoke blasts both of us right off our feet. 

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And then that purply-pink cloud comes wafting towards us both.

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I stare down at Mr. Hottie in horror.

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Merlin’s toenails! The love potion!

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Chapter 2

 

I’ve landed, not on the hard black and white tiles of our communal hallway, but the equally hard body of Mr Hottie.

Very hard.

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All those early mornings at the gym have definitely paid off. The man is built of solid muscle.

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Unfortunately, that means my landing isn’t a soft one, and I grunt, the breath knocked momentarily right out of my lungs.

I gasp and wriggle around on top of him like a little piggie stuck in the mud, all too aware that my sweaty, very much on display, breasts are pressed right into his chest.

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He doesn’t seem as alarmed as he did two minutes ago, though. Mr Hottie is clearly calm in a crisis. He glides his hands – large hands, I note in my oxygen-starved state of mind – up and down my bare arms, causing unnecessary goose pimples to break out across my skin despite the oppressive heat.

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“Are you okay?” he asks.

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His blue eyes are not irritated for once; instead, they search my face with concern. 

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They really are incredibly blue – like a cloudless sky on a bright summer’s day.

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“Fine …” I gasp, “just … need … air!”

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“You’re winded,” he informs me, seemingly unbothered that my sweaty form is sprawled over his neatly pressed Ralph Lauren polo shirt. “Concentrate on breathing.”

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I nod. He’s right. Breathing: good advice.

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Damien thinks I should have told Mr Hottie to fuck right off with his never-ending list of complaints. I’ve tried on numerous occasions. But faced with his bewildering beauty, coupled with his great height and dominating persona, I’ve failed every time. 

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“What the hell was that?” he asks, peering over my shoulder as pinkie-purple smoke wafts our way and I watch in horror as he takes a deep inhale.

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Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no!

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“Rat’s bollocks, that smells revolting!” He crinkles his nose, and, as if in slow motion, turns his head, his gaze inching back towards my face.

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I try to scramble away, but I’m far too slow. Those blue eyes connect with mine and his dark pupils blossom wide.

 

Rat’s bollocks indeed!

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The love potion! Activated by eye contact.

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We stare at each other. I can feel the firm beat of his heart thumping against mine and I can hear the faint whistle of his breath. I can smell his cologne – smoky, with citrus notes, something expensive. I can see the pulse racing in his neck.

Maybe it didn’t work. I mean, the potion only works when there’s already a glimmer of attraction and I hadn't finished brewing it either.

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But the way he’s looking at me … The way his gaze falls to my mouth and his hands are still stroking up my arms …

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“I’m so, so sorry,” I mumble.

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“It’s fine,” he says with what I think may be a seductive curl of his lips. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

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Oh sweet warlocks!

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I peel myself off the man and scramble away. A decision that was probably not thought through because Mr Hottie raises his head and has a perfect view of me dressed in my candy-pink bra and black hot pants while braced on my hands and knees. 

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His expression darkens further.

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Shit!

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I leap up onto my feet.

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“Are you okay?” I ask, realising I never even asked him that, and he not only landed on the floor, I also flattened him. Then again, Mr Hottie probably doesn’t feel pain and has probably done more damage to the art déco tiles than they have to him. “I’m so sorry.”

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He jumps up neatly onto his own feet and I try not to check whether I’ve left a sweaty imprint of my boobs on his chest.

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“Do you think it could’ve been a gas leak?” he says, brow crinkling as he peers up at the multi-coloured cloud lingering at the ceiling. 

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“No,” I say, “just a little cooking accident.”

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“Cooking accident?”

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I walk towards the door and he lunges for me, attempting to grab my hand and pull me away.

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“I don’t think it’s safe.”

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I dodge him and jog inside, calling McGruff’s name. The mutt shuffles out from under the sofa, tail between his back legs, white fur now a dusty shade of pink, and bundles into my waiting arms.

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“Are you alright, boy?” I ask him. He whines dramatically, milking the attention, because, despite the drastic dye job, it’s clear he’s fine.

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“I don't think this is safe,” Mr Hottie says, following me inside and swinging his gaze around my kitchen. “Look at the mess this has caused.”

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I peer up from where I’m smothering McGruff in kisses. “Mess?”

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“Yes, look,” he says, pointing. “Look at all that carnage.”

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The cauldron I was using has exploded across the worktop and the floor, which is definitely a mess. But Mr Hottie is also surveying the array of wooden spoons and opened ingredients scattered across the work-surface and the dirty crockery stacked in the sink. 

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“Yes,” I say, nodding. “All that mess was most definitely caused by that explosion.”

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“I think we should call the fire brigade.”

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“Absolutely not. It was an accident. Everything is fine. I am very sorry.”

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I attempt to hustle him towards the door, but the man is very big and very solid and apparently stubborn. He doesn’t move. “I can help you clear up,” he says, staring down at me with that look in his eyes once again.

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I nibble on my lip.

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Has the potion worked? I’m trying to devise a suitably subtle question I can frame that might discover whether it has, when there’s another loud pop from the kitchen.

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McGruff yaps and dives under the sofa again and Mr Hottie snatches my wrist and yanks me towards him, sheltering me in his arms.

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Which is both alarming and … nice?

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“It’s okay,” I say, my voice muffled on account of the fact he’s squished my face into his chest. “It’s Damien, my friend.”

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Damien and I met three years ago at a wellness retreat my mum insisted on sending me to along with my two sisters. While they’d embraced the sadistic torture of forcing our bodies into ever increasingly dangerous back-bending positions, I’d retreated to the bar and found Damien hovering there too. By our third mimosa, he’d convinced me my current boyfriend was a colossal tosser and a compulsive liar who was probably cheating on me and was definitely never going to treat me right. I dumped him soon after. Fortunately, Damien broke me out of a habit of dating toss-pot liars. Unfortunately, that means I’ve been single for a crazy-long time.

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“What the …?!” Mr Hottie shrieks, his voice several octaves higher than it was.

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“Am I interrupting something?” Damien says.

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“No,” I say, extracting myself from Mr Hottie’s hold and turning to face my best friend. One of his carefully manicured eyebrows is arched, and his arms folded across his chest.

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“Are you sure?” he asks with a mischievous grin. “You’re not wearing very much clothing.”

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“It’s hot!” I protest, trying not to blush as I scamper across the flat towards my friend. “Please don’t tell me you’re here on account of the …” I point towards the remnants of the explosion, grimacing.

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“I am.”

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I bury my face in my hands and try not to hyperventilate as my throat constricts. “How long do you think we have?”

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Damien glances towards the digital clock on my oven. “I’d say three minutes if we’re lucky.”

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“Warlock’s testicles!” I cry, the constriction in my throat tightening. “Can you clear it in time?”

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“Hmmm,” Damien says, tapping a long painted claw against his lips, “possibly. But it’s going to cost you.”

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I love my best friend dearly, but sometimes his demon-instincts get the better of him.

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“Damien!”

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“I can try,” he says, tossing his mane of red hair over his shoulder.

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For a fraction of a second, I almost feel relief. Then, a voice stutters from across the flat,

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“H-h-h-how … w-w-w-what?” 

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Shit, for a moment, lost in my pit of despair, I’d forgotten about the hot neighbour standing in my apartment, who may or may not have been doused in one of my love potions.

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A love potion, I failed to mention, is not … quite … technically legal. Which is a problem considering that the explosion will have alerted the Witching Authorities to some magical misdeed and one of their officers will be arriving any moment to investigate. I’m severely fortunate Damien made it here first.

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Mr Hottie is staring at Damien in absolute horror – his mouth so far open I’m surprised I didn’t hear his jaw hit the floor.

To be honest, Damien is looking particularly outrageous today. He’s dressed in tight leopard-skin trousers that don't leave much to the imagination, he’s backcombed his thick red hair and painted the horns that curl over his head a neon pink colour to match the polish on his claws.

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“Oh no!” I whisper out of the side of my mouth towards Damien, “I’d forgotten about him.”

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Damien sniffs the air and peers towards what’s left of my potion congealing on the floor.

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“Please don’t tell me that was a–”

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“Uh huh,” I gulp.

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Damien’s gaze swings back towards the horrified-looking man still standing in shock in my flat. “And was he–”

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“Uh huh,” I admit.

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He narrows his eyes. “Do you think it worked?”

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“No idea.”

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“Did what work?” Mr Hottie says, finally seeming to have regained his senses. “And, sorry, how did you get here? And are you … going to one of those comic-cons or something?”

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“Rude!” my friend snorts.

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“Damien, tidy up,” I say, trotting back towards Mr Hottie. 

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“Sorry to be rude, but you … errr … have to go,” I tell him.

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“Is that wise?” Damien mutters, already using his magic to sweep away all the evidence incriminating my kitchen.

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I ignore him, continuing to address Mr Hottie. “I need to clean up and I’m expecting–”

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“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell is going on here!” he demands in that intimidating manner that has my knees buckling.

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“Tick tock,” Damien says helpfully.

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I look up into Mr Hottie’s resolute face. If there was a moment I could muster the courage to stand up to the man, this would be it. Unfortunately, he’s too scary.

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 “I’ll explain everything in just a moment. I promise,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine. “But would you mind just waiting for me in the bedroom? Just for a moment. I won’t be long, I promise. And then …” I hesitate, attempting a reassuring smile, “I’ll come join you.”

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I tug on his arm, attempting to lead him in that direction.

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“You want me to wait for you in the bedroom?”

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“Yes.” I nod my head eagerly and pull at his sleeve.

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“And then you’ll be,” he peers over at Damien, “joining me?”

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“Yep,” I say, relieved when his body slackens and I’m able to move him across my flat and through the doorway into my bedroom. As I push him through and slam the door closed behind him, I pray to every pagan god that I picked up the pile of dirty washing from my floor and placed it in the laundry basket this morning, and that my trusty vibrator is tucked away in my makeup drawer and not charging by my bed.

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I lean against the door and sigh.

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“I think the potion worked,” Damien says, twirling his fingers around as my kitchen cleans itself.

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“Why do you say that?”

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“That man was way too eager to enter your bedroom.”

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“That doesn’t mean–”

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“Molly, exactly how many men have you been able to tempt into your bedroom over the last twelve months?”

I give him the finger and remind him there would be a lot more men in my bedroom if he’d let me continue my penchant for bad boys.

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“Bad boys are good for a quick, not-necessarily satisfying fuck,” he reminds me once again for the one billionth time, “but you want something more than that.”

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“Do I though?” Truth be told, I may own the Ferrari of vibrators, with twenty different speeds and fifteen different modes, but I’m becoming a little bored of my bedroom companion.

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Damien opens his mouth to argue with me, but then his horns start to twitch.

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“Incoming!” he warns, and I dive across the sofa to retrieve my discarded Stones t-shirt.

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I’m struggling to pull it over my head when there’s another loud pop! in my kitchen, which can mean only one thing.

The Magical Enforcement Officer has arrived.

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I take a deep inhale and pray a second time in as many minutes.

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Unfortunately, as I yank my shirt down my body and get a look for the first time at the officer inspecting my kitchen, I find my prayer has not been answered. Because the officer scowling right at me is none other than my older sister, Primrose.