by Eliza Daly
Monica nibbled nervously on her fingernail. Hope wouldn’t seriously go through with casting the spell, would she? A big part of spell casting was psychological, focusing all your energy on making something happen. Monica had never seen Hope look so determined, or vindictive. Hopefully, if she did cast the spell, the negative energy didn’t return threefold.
What was the worst that could happen?
Chapter One
One Week Later
It was after eight A.M., and Monica was definitely running late. She grabbed a white cotton blouse from her closet and dug a pair of pink capris out of the hamper. She hung the clothes on the back of the bathroom door and when she’d finished showering, the wrinkles had virtually disappeared. At least the capris didn’t look like they’d been rolled in a ball ten minutes earlier. Concealer did little to hide the dark circles under her eyes, so she gobbed on mascara to distract from them.
Once again, Hope had kept her up until the wee hours of the morning, eating chocolate, lemon, carrot, and a few unknown kinds of cake and plotting ways to destroy Kyle’s life. Monica should have been brainstorming engagement proposal ideas for a client rather than adding five pounds to her butt.
Monica zipped downstairs and into the kitchen to grab a Frappuccino.
Hope stood over the stove, looking perky in her yellow floral sundress—only her bloodshot eyes betrayed the two-hour crying jag she’d had before going to bed. Her emotions were all over the place. “I’m making eggs Benedict.”
Mmm . . . The aroma of melted butter and hollandaise sauce made Monica’s stomach growl. She was already late, so another fifteen minutes was no big deal. She glanced down at the button threatening to pop on her capris. She’d skip lunch.
Hopefully, their living situation was temporary. Besides needing to rid her home of Hope’s cooking and negative energy, Monica wanted rid of her cousin’s cows grazing all over the kitchen. From the cow magnets on the fridge, to the cookie jar that mooed when you opened it, the entire kitchen was done in country crafty crap and blue and white gingham.
Yet, she could hardly kick Hope out when the townhouse belonged to their grandparents. Last month, when the couple retired to Florida, Monica had moved into their groovy retro pad. The kitchen, done in yellow and orange, opened up into the dining room, painted a bright red. Her grandma had left psychedelic patterned drapes on the patio doors, along with the appliances and an electric blue sofa with lime green daisies. Not having the funds to decorate, Monica had only contributed a small TV, a computer, and her bedroom set, allowing plenty of room for Hope’s stuff.
The phone rang on a pedestal table in the dining room and Monica grabbed the receiver.
“Monica, ya bitch!” the man on the other end roared.
“Ah, Kyle?” She should have looked at the caller ID.
“You’re not getting away with this.”
“Wanna clarify that?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. My cell phone’s dead and I just got home to find a half dozen messages on my machine checking to see if I’m alive. My mom about had a heart attack when she read my obit in the paper.”
Eight in the morning and he was just getting home? What a slime. Wait a sec, she hadn’t sent Kyle’s obit to the newspaper. She glanced over at Hope fidgeting with a metal spatula and nibbling at her lower lip. Whoa. Quite assertive for Hope. No wonder Kyle assumed Monica had done it.
“Yeah, well too bad it didn’t give you a heart attack.” Monica slammed down the receiver and looked at Hope. “I can’t believe you put Kyle’s obit in the paper.”
“I know, it was immature. I did it in the heat of the moment. But better than running him over six times with my car, crushing every bone in his pathetic body, so he’s in excruciating pain and a body cast for years.” A flicker of doubt shone in Hope’s eyes and Monica made a mental note to hide the woman’s car keys. Better that Hope lived with her than in the state pen.
“I’m not saying it was the wrong thing to do. I just can’t believe you did it. So what did he die of?”
“Necrotizing fasciitis.”
“What’s that?”
“A flesh-eating disease.”
Monica grimaced. “Sounds perfect.”
• • •
It was almost nine when Monica pulled her powder blue scooter up in front of her office, located in an old brick building on Milwaukee’s trendy Eastside. Jordan’s friend, a corporate real estate agent, had rented her the space for a steal when the previous tenant vacated overnight, leaving behind a mess and no forwarding address. Monica agreed to clean up the office and take over the lease through the end of the year. If she hadn’t landed such a great deal, she would have been working out of her home. Right now, Hope would be sewing a blue gingham cushion for Monica’s desk chair and advising her clients on the negative consequences of romance and marriage.
Monica lifted the seat on her scooter. She removed her purse and purple briefcase then stuck her helmet in. As she walked toward her office, she foofed her shoulder length hair and read the specials board in the window of Chico’s Mexican restaurant, reminding herself that she was skipping lunch. An early dinner was always a possibility.
The song “As Time Goes By” sang out above the door as she walked into her business. Monica thought it more welcoming than a jingling bell, and it tied in with the vintage Casablanca, Gone with the Wind and Sabrina movie posters on the wall. Comfy red upholstered chairs invited clients to sit down and relax while waiting.
Now, she just needed people to sit in them.
Her friend slash assistant, Jordan, sat at her desk, tarot cards laid out in front of her.
“Looks like business is booming,” Monica said.
Gaze narrowing, Jordan slid a pair of lime green glasses on top of her head, sweeping back the sides of her short bob—a light brown with streaks of pink. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. Good to know I look as bad as I feel. I was up all night again with Hope.”
“If anyone is keeping you up all night, it should be some hot guy, not your cousin. And yes, business is booming.” Jordan smiled wide, snatching a pink note off her desk and handing it to Monica. “You spoke to some guy last week at the Brewers game about getting engaged at a Packers game. He’s stopping by around ten. Didn’t get his name. His girlfriend must have come into the room since he hung up on me.”
That would make only two bites from the engagement proposal Monica had conducted at the Brewers game. The sold-out stadium held over forty thousand people. Where were all her new clients? She’d done just six events in two months, but after that baseball game, she’d been certain her company was about to take off.
“I don’t think that career spell is working,” Monica said.
“Oh ye of little faith.” Jordan tapped a gold nail against a tarot card on her desk. “The Ace of Pentacles means financial reward is on the way.” She flipped the card around so it was right side up.
“Why’d you turn that around?” Monica had had enough readings to know there was a different meaning if the card was upright or reversed. “Upside down means I’m financially screwed, doesn’t it?”
Jordan let out a defeated sigh, looking busted. “You are not financially screwed. I’ll lend you more money if you need it. No big deal.”
Jordan ran a lucrative psychic business and worked part-time helping Monica get her business up and running. Since graduating from college seven years ago, many of her friends had achieved successful careers and had joined Jordan in investing in Monica’s business. One day they would see a hefty return on their money. Her friends had faith in her, and for that, she was forever indebted.
“That’s okay, I have money,” Monica assured her.
If her credit cards weren’t all maxed out.
Jordan grabbed her purse. “I’m making a latte run. You want one?
”
“Whatever has the most caffeine in it.”
Jordan breezed out the front door.
Monica walked into her office. She booted her computer, scanning the slew of pink sticky notes lining the perimeter of the monitor. One reminded her to buy more sticky notes, several others had ideas for future events, and one noted an appointment that afternoon with a girl from the Brewers game, who wanted to propose to her boyfriend at the upcoming French festival.
Monica snatched up the smiley face foam ball on her desk and tossed it between her hands, brainstorming ideas. The girl could perform in the can-can dance and then at the end lift her skirt and have Will you marry me, Tom? written across her frilly undies. Very sexy, and unexpected, but was it romantic enough?
Fifteen minutes later, Jordan returned and Monica decided to run out and buy a French music CD for inspiration. Sitting on her scooter, she turned the key and pressed the ignition button. Rather than humming to life, it sputtered, then died. Great. She’d just bought it three months ago from a college kid, who now owned a brand new reliable Mustang. She couldn’t afford any major repairs. No way was she going back to borrowing her dad’s pickup truck with a yellow hard hat on top that read Jackson Construction. Talk about bad for a girl’s self-esteem.
“Come on,” she pleaded, rubbing a loving hand over the handlebars. “Don’t do this to me, Frankie.” She’d named the scooter after old blue eyes himself, Frank Sinatra, since the blue scooter had a retro look, and she was obsessed with swanky fifties lounge music. “Come on baby, please start.” She tried starting it again, but nothing.
Her fingers tightened around the handle bars then relaxed as she started softly singing “The Way You Look Tonight,” one of her favorite Sinatra tunes. “Yes, you’re lovely . . . and your cheeks so soft . . . but to love you . . . ” She swept her fingertips lightly down the shaft of the bike and back up. “ . . . your tenderness grows . . . and that laugh . . . ”
Noticing someone watching her out of the corner of her eye, she straightened, glancing over at a tall, dark-haired guy. He had on a boring black designer suit, but with a lavender-striped oxford and coordinating tie. Her favorite color. An amused smile curled the corners of his mouth. A dimple creased his cheek and lines crinkled around his blue eyes.
How long had he been standing there watching her serenade her scooter and practically feeling it up?
“Do you work here?” He gestured toward her office.
She nodded, sliding off the scooter and stepping onto the sidewalk next to him. “I’m Monica Jackson.” She removed her large white sunglasses and slipped a bow down the front of her shirt. His gaze remained glued on her sunglasses. She glanced down at the glasses weighing down her shirt’s neckline, exposing the tops of her breasts.
His gaze darted up and met hers. Busted. Yet, he didn’t look the least bit embarrassed or apologetic. “Reed Walker. I was just coming to see you.”
Oh, the Packers fan, a half hour early. A client. Figured. Gorgeous, sexy, a stylish dresser . . . too good to be single. Every guy who walked through her office door was either married or looking to get married and already had the prospective bride in mind. This definitely wasn’t a job for finding a husband.
“Problems with your scooter?” he asked.
She glanced over at it. “I have no clue what’s wrong. Drove it to work a half hour ago and now it won’t start.”
Thoughts of her dad’s pickup truck caused her entire body to tense. She took a calming breath, inhaling the scent of Reed’s cologne, the essence of jasmine and something exotic. Had to be Eternity. Mmm . . . Her body slowly relaxed. She stopped just shy of inhaling another deep breath. Get a grip. The guy was a client. And he really wasn’t her type. He was too perfect with his crisply ironed oxford and pressed suit. A total control freak no doubt. She couldn’t picture him at a Packers game downing beer, dressed head-to-toe in green and gold, cheering the team to victory.
“I had a scooter like this in college,” he said. “Not baby blue, or I’d have gotten my ass kicked on a daily basis. It was black.” He stared reminiscently at the bike, sweeping a strong hand across the seat. “Sold it after I graduated. Sort of miss it.”
“I’d let you take it for a ride, if it were running.”
“Probably just a bad plug and now it’s flooded. I’ll take a look at it.”
She studied his pressed suit jacket, unable to find a speck of lint or the slightest wrinkle. “I don’t want you to get all dirty.” She certainly didn’t want him upset over ruining a designer suit and taking his business elsewhere. Although, there wasn’t another romantic event planning company in the city.
So why didn’t she have more business?
Reed smiled, slipping off his jacket. “I won’t. If you could just hold this.”
He held out his jacket and Monica took it, wanting desperately to slip it on and cover herself in the scent of jasmine. Jasmine was the best. She used it in all her spells.
Wait a sec, besides jasmine, lavender was also a key ingredient in her soul mate spell and this guy was wearing the color lavender. Were these signs? He couldn’t be her man if he was already involved with someone else. Was this the universe’s idea of a cruel joke, or merely a coincidence?
Monica carefully draped the jacket over her forearm, massaging the material—a silk blend—between her fingertips. Faint wrinkles appeared on the jacket and she quickly smoothed a hand over them. Reed rolled up his sleeves and she gawked at his muscular forearms. If he could stare at her breasts, she could admire his arms. He lifted the scooter seat and removed a small plastic tool bag attached to the underside. She’d forgotten that was even there. He took out a socket wrench.
“So, did you go to college around here?” she asked.
“Marquette.”
He obviously had some dough, or major student loans.
He popped the side panel off the scooter and set it carefully on the street next to him.
“Wow, I didn’t know that came off.”
Rather than looking at her like she was a total ditz, he kindly gave her an overview of the engine and how to check the oil. She nodded with interest, hoping he couldn’t tell her eyes were glazing over.
“I went to UW-Milwaukee,” she said.
For a year, before she’d dropped out to pursue her business idea for Singles Day. A day to celebrate singledom. To gather with friends at fancy restaurants and exchange gifts or cards—a line of which she’d designed. Unfortunately, every major, and obscure, greeting card company had rejected her idea. Rather than going back to college, she’d worked a slew of temp jobs and started planning her next business venture.
“Used to work at Marco’s by UWM.” With each crank of the wrench, his arm muscles flexed then relaxed, and Monica inhaled an appreciative breath. “You ever go there?”
“Oh, yeah, Marco’s.” Marco’s was a hole-in-the-wall true Italian restaurant and bar. By eight o’clock at night, the regulars were plowed on Sambuca and singing along to Tony Bennett and Dean Martin on the jukebox. “He makes the best Capellini Toscana. Reminds me of my grandma’s. She makes her pasta from scratch.”
Monica rarely even made pasta out of the box. She had every delivery restaurant on the Eastside on speed dial. According to her grandma, that was why Monica hadn’t yet landed a man. Her grandma claimed her cooking, filled with love and a fair amount of Chianti, was partially responsible for fifty-two years of marriage. However, Monica’s mom could barely make a frozen pizza and had just celebrated her thirtieth wedding anniversary. So she figured long marriages ran in the family DNA, even if good cooking skills didn’t.
“You must be Italian. My grandmother made her pasta from scratch also.”
“You’re Italian?” She studied his bright blue eyes and fair skin, which barely showed a hint of a tan.
He nodded. “My grandmothe
r was born in Tuscany.”
Be still her heart. Her mom would buy her a new scooter if she brought home an Italian guy. For years her mom had been unsuccessfully fixing her up with the sons of her bocce ball partners at the Italian Center. Monica’s last blind date showed up in a satin disco-era shirt and a red Trans-am with flames painted down the side. Not only had that been her last blind date, but her last date period, six months ago.
Quite depressing.
But this guy . . . was a client! Talk about bad for business if she started breaking up their relationships. She couldn’t afford to lose a client. They were even more difficult to find than boyfriends.
Reed removed the spark plug from the engine. He stood, bringing the plug to his mouth, blowing on it several times. When he lowered it, a blotch of grease remained below his bottom lip. Monica stepped toward him and brushed a finger gently over the spot. Their gazes locked, her finger still below his lip. She continued brushing it back and forth as if she couldn’t get rid of the stubborn spot. She wanted to let her finger trace over his lips then along his strong jaw line, and the tiny scar that was likely this guy’s only flaw. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile, and she smiled in response.
“A spot of grease.” She lowered her hand. “It’s gone.”
“Thanks.” He glanced down at her hands. “Nice nails. Do you have a file? I need it to clean out the plug.”
She grabbed her purse from inside the scooter’s seat, rummaged through it, and finally produced a file.
Using the file, he meticulously scraped the gunk out of the plug. Before putting the plug back in the engine, he pressed the ignition button. “Need to clean the gas out of the cylinder.” He put the plug back in, then once again attempted to start the scooter. It hummed to life.
Monica practically did a tap dance. “Thank you so much. This is wonderful. Don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“You’ll still need to replace the plug. There’s an auto supply store up the street. If you want to pick one up, I can replace it for you.”