Leighann Dobbs's Blog

I've put up a new boxed set for the Lexy Baker Series - Lexy Baker Cozy Mystery Series Boxed Set Vol 2 (Books 5 - 7). The series is now in Kindle Unlimited so if you wanted to binge these books here is your chance!

Also the first box set with books 1-4 is only .99 - Lexy Baker: Books 1-4

Here's a little teaser from Claw and Order ....

“I sense there is a disturbance. Has another relic been found?” Inkspot’s deep baritone filled the barn.

“A key was found hidden in an old recipe book in the bookstore,” Pandora said.

“And where is it now?”

“Well…. That’s where there is a bit of a problem.”
Several other cats had joined their circle. Snowball with her long white fur, Hope with her half orange have black face, Kelly, the Maine Coon.

“Problem?” Sasha asked.

Pandora swallowed hard. Everyone was looking at her. “My human has hidden it out of reach.”

“Hidden? Why?” Inkspot’s eyes practically glowed.
“Does she know that it is magical?”

“No.” Pandora told them how it fallen out of the recipe book and how she’d been caught trying to hide it under her tail. “Willa thought one of the customers might have dropped it and she wanted to hold it for safe keeping.”

“We need to get that key.” Inkspot’s tone was kind but firm.

Pandora looked down. “I know, I have a plan.” Well, sort of a plan, hopefully no one would ask for details.
Otis leapt down from the loft trotting onto the circle. “If you could only communicate with your human you could simply ask her for it.”

Pandora’s fur bristled and she resisted the urge to hiss at him. Leave it to Otis to act so condescending. She bit back a sarcastic reply, remembering that there was a time when Otis had risked his own life to save hers. She knew his bark was worse than his bite.

“I know, but she seems unwilling to receive my telepathic messages.”

“Are you sure the problem is on her end?” Hope tilted her head. She was a chimera and looked like someone had taken two cats and mashed them together. Half of her face was black with a blue eye and the other half orange with a green eye. It looked unusual at any time, but even more so with her head tilted.

Pandora stared at her. She’d never considered that the communication problem wasn’t on Willa’s end. Willa was smart enough with regular things, but she was a little slow on the uptake with the magical properties of Mystic Notch. And, since Pandora had been able to communicate with Willa’s grandmother Anna perfectly, she’d just assumed the problem was with Willa. But what if it wasn’t?

Finally another Mystic Notch book is coming out! Claw and Order will be released in September!

Preorder Claw and Order now at Amazon

Add Claw and Order to your Goodreads TBR list!

Homicide in the Hydrangeas, the third book in the Moorecliff Manor Cat Cozy Mystery series is up for preorder now!

https://www.amazon.com/Homicide-Hydra...

CHAPTER ONE

“Really, Alice, don’t you think the tang of arsenic would be detectable in a strawberry scone?” Hazel Martin cocked her head and watched her long-time cook, Alice Duprey, as she vigorously mixed batter in a yellow stoneware bowl.

Alice scrunched her face. “Well, now you mention it, ma’am, it does have a bitter after-taste, don’ it?”

“Technically, the arsenic itself is neutral, but it can change the flavor of the food. Most people say it creates a metallic taste.” Hazel rifled through one of the two notebooks which lay open on the scuffed pine table in front of her.

As a novelist, Hazel kept copious notes on various methods of murder and poisoning was her favorite. She found the page on “arsenic” and verified her statement, then tapped her green celluloid fountain pen on the other notebook while she thought.

A misshapen blob of ink splattered onto the middle of the empty page as if to taunt her that she had yet to come up with a satisfactory opening scene for her next murder mystery. “Perhaps we could put the arsenic in something else instead. Marmalade has a strong natural taste. That might hide it.”

“Indeed.” Alice looked thoughtful as she turned the dough onto the floured stainless steel counter, kneaded it slightly then plucked plump, red strawberry slices from a bowl and incorporated them into the dough.

Hazel knew that most ladies of the manor didn’t hang around in the kitchen consulting the help on matters of murder, but the kitchen at Hastings Manor had been one of her favorite places since childhood. She took comfort in the familiarity of the meticulously scrubbed black and white tile, the golden glow of the finely polished oak cabinets and the copper jelly molds that glinted in the sunlight streaming down from windows set high on the wall.

Even the stacks of yellow glazed pottery mixing bowls that lined the pine shelves on the large hutch that dominated one wall reminded her of carefree childhood days when she would have naught to do but hang around the gardens and kitchen, hoping cook would let her lick the batter bowl.

But Hazel was no longer a child, nor was she carefree. She was a widow. A grown woman with a book to write and precious few ideas on how to start it.

Alice looked at Hazel out of the corner of her eye. “Detective Chief Inspector Gibson would know the best way to use arsenic.”

Hazel looked down at her notebook, not wanting Alice to see the pang of sadness that stabbed through her. Alice’s mentioning of the inspector had become more and more frequent and, while she knew the cook only had her best interests at heart, Hazel’s late husband, Charles, had only been dead three years. Just the thought of anyone else being interested in her—which Gibson clearly was—made her anxious with guilt. It was much too soon for Hazel to think about someone else, even if Inspector Gibson did have kind eyes.

An inspector with Scotland Yard, Charles had been killed while chasing down a dangerous suspect and the empty hole he’d left behind was like a raw wound that wouldn’t heal. The pain had lessened slightly over the past three years, but it was still there front and center as a reminder of what Hazel would never have again.

Hazel missed him terribly and not only because they had truly been in love, but also because he’d been invaluable for the consultations in various methods of murder that he often supplied for her mystery novels.

And now, here she was trying to write the first one after his death and coming up mostly empty. What if she couldn’t write one on her own without his guidance? Did Alice think she couldn’t and was that why she kept mentioning Gibson?

No, of course not. Alice had all the faith in the world in her as did her entire staff. And they were depending on her as were her publisher and millions of readers, so she’d better get cracking.

Hazel absently wiped at the ink splotches that seemed to permanently stain her fingers. The ink stains reminded her that she needed to get some words on paper soon or her publisher was going to start to nag at her. Her current mystery involved a poisoning during breakfast and she was currently trying to decide between arsenic, strychnine or hemlock. “Maybe hemlock would be better. It tastes like carrots. We could disguise it in a root dish. Of course, then I might have to change the venue from breakfast to dinner,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

“Mew.”

Alice whipped her head around at the sound. In the doorway sat a sleek Siamese cat. His intelligent, pale blue eyes were striking in contrast to the dark brown mask that covered most of his face. His body was a creamy mocha color and his legs, tail and ears matched the mink-brown color of his face. His gaze darted from the broom in the corner to Alice. The cat, whose name was Dickens, was Hazel’s constant companion and somewhat of a sleuth in his own right. He also delighted in tormenting Alice, who felt that cats did not belong in the house, much less in the kitchen.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Alice lunged for the broom and Dickens hissed at her. “Not in my kitchen, you overgrown rat.” Alice swatted the broom in the air like a swashbuckler wielding a sword. Dickens ran around the kitchen, weaving and dodging around the swooshing broom, apparently finding the game fun.

“If you weren’t so good at catching mice around here, I’d have you banished!” Alice yelled.

“Meow!” Dickens gave a haughty cry as if to tell Alice that Hazel would allow no such thing and then scampered out of the kitchen. Alice, her face beet red with the effort, put the broom back with an exasperated sigh and smoothed her apron before returning to her task of shaping the dough into triangles.

“I don’t know why you like that creature so much.” Alice opened one of the large ovens, letting out wisps of steam and the sweet aroma of fresh-baked scones.

Hazel laughed. She knew Alice would never do anything to harm the cat. In fact, she suspected Alice secretly liked Dickens and had even once caught her slipping a morsel of fish to the feisty feline.

“Come on, Alice, you know that Dickens is my confidant,” Hazel said. “He knows all my secrets and has helped solve a few mysteries of his own.”

“Speaking of which…” Maggie, Hazel’s housemaid, appeared in the doorway. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that mysterious invitation.”

Hazel’s hand flew to her pocket, the crisp paper crinkling as her fingers brushed against it. She took it out, a frown creasing her face as she glanced down at it. “Yes, that’s right. This is rather mysterious, isn’t it?”

The lavender-colored paper had become wrinkled in the pocket of her dress. She placed it flat on the table and smoothed it out. It was a pretty paper—heavy quality stock, lavender in color with a cluster of vibrant lilacs stamped in the top right corner. A subtle, flowery aroma wafted up as she looked down at the spidery writing, which looked to have came from a Parker dip pen with a wide nib. An early model, if her guess was correct. And Hazel’s guesses about pens were almost always correct. She was somewhat of an expert on the topic.

Dear Hazel,

I implore you to attend the weekend celebration of my eightieth birthday starting this Friday, 25 July, at Lowry House. I need your help as I fear one of my relatives wants this birthday to be my last. Please tell no one you received this letter and make it appear as if you simply stopped by to bring your birthday wishes on a whim.

Sincerely,

Myrtle Pembroke

Maggie had come to stand beside her, wisps of brown hair sticking out from her cap, her face eager with excitement. Mysteries were not only Hazel’s vocation in writing, but somewhat of a hobby for her and her whole household staff. “Indeed, it does seem mysterious.”

“But Myrtle is quite old. Why would someone want to do her in?” Alice asked as she slid a tray containing large triangular pieces of dough into the oven.

Hazel tapped her lips with her index finger. “Myrtle is wealthy, but it hardly seems worth it to kill her when she is already eighty years old.”

“True, but something must be going on or she wouldn’t have written and you haven’t had a mystery to solve in quite some time. This could be just the thing you need,” Maggie said.

“And you know looking into other mysteries always helps with the writin’ of ye books.” Alice nodded toward the empty notebook where Hazel had scribbled out several scenarios. She was a bit stuck on her plot and Myrtle was a dear old friend of her parents. It would be terribly rude of her to ignore the woman’s request.

Alice slid a plate of strawberry scones on the table in front of Hazel, who eyed them dubiously considering their recent conversation.

Alice raised a brow. “Scone, mum?”

Hazel’s eyes flicked from the scones to Alice and then Maggie. She could see by the anxious looks on their faces that the two women were just as eager for her to get “unstuck” with her writing as she was. These women cared about her. They were more than staff, they were her family and the success of this book—the first one since Charles’ death—meant a lot to all of them. And if a little change of scenery and a mystery to solve helped get her unstuck, then she was all for it.

Hazel pushed away from the table. “Thanks, Alice, but I don’t think so. I have packing to do. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow for Lowry House and if Myrtle is right about someone trying to kill her, you can bet I will get to the bottom of it.”

Chapter Two

The next day, it took Hazel nearly the entire morning to finish packing both herself and Dickens as well as field Maggie’s persistent suggestions that she take her along. She could hardly bring a maid and still pretend that she was just popping by for a quick visit.

Myrtle had instructed her not tell anyone about the letter, so she planned to act as if she had been vacationing at Dunelawn By-The-Sea and had stopped by Myrtle’s on the way home since Lowry House was halfway between Hasting Manor and the famous hotel.

It was mid afternoon by the time Hazel stood at the imposing oak door of Lowry House with Dickens’ red and black houndstooth carrier clutched in one hand, the other grasping the cool, smooth brass of the lion’s-head door knocker.

A black-suited butler answered the door and before she could announce who she was, Myrtle swept into the polished mahogany foyer, her eyes lighting on Hazel in surprised recognition.

“Lordy, if it isn’t Hazel Martin!” Myrtle rushed over as if she hadn’t been expecting Hazel at all and Hazel smiled and nodded. Myrtle was putting on a good act. A pretty, young green-eyed woman with copper hair, dressed in a slate blue chiffon chemise—the style that was so popular with young people and that made Hazel feel positively matronly in her dowdy, navy blue traveling outfit—appeared beside Myrtle. Hazel recognized her as Myrtle’s grand-niece.

“You don’t look a day over seventy, Myrtle. Are you sure you don’t have your birth year wrong?” Hazel teased.

The truth was, Myrtle looked, and acted, much younger than her eighty years. Perhaps Hazel should try to discover her secret. The old woman was positively glowing and wore a chiffon dress similar to that of her grand-niece but with a few more ruffles to hide her more mature figure. Beaded necklaces of several layers sparkled in the light from the overhead crystal chandelier. Her red hair was cut in a curly bob. Both the style and the color—which Hazel assumed came from using henna, a natural hair dye made popular by Clara Bow—would have looked ridiculous on another woman of that age, but somehow looked just right on Myrtle.

Myrtle smiled at Hazel’s compliment, her hand self-consciously fluffing her hair. A cameo ring boasting a deeply carved scene of angels and cherubs framed by tiny rubies—a family heirloom that Myrtle had once told Hazel was extremely valuable—looked gigantic on Myrtle’s slim finger. “Do you like my hair? Gloria gave me a little make-over. She tries to keep me young with these newfangled outfits and health elixirs.” Myrtle turned to the younger woman. “Gloria, you remember my friend Hazel Martin?”

“Of course, I do. Nice to see you again.” Hazel thought she detected a flash of a knowing look in the other woman’s green eyes. Perhaps Myrtle had confided in Gloria about her suspicions… or perhaps Gloria was the one she was suspicious of.

“Where are my manners?” Myrtle clamped on to Hazel’s elbow and steered her toward the drawing room, her heels clacking on the black and white marble floor as they crossed the foyer. “Do come in and say hello to everyone.”

The drawing room was steeped in rich colors—burgundy drapes, Cobalt blue, ruby and gold Oriental carpet and mahogany-paneled walls. The furniture consisted of highly carved walnut frames and sumptuous velvet cushions. Gold-framed oil paintings decorated the walls.

A marble fireplace adorned with carved angels dominated one end of the room. A tall, lanky man in his mid-fifties leaned one elbow against it, admiring a painting that hung on the wall. Across from him, a much younger man with a large bandage on his right hand snoozed in a chair. Next to that, a woman in her early to mid-twenties with red hair and scarlet lips lounged on a divan, inspecting her ruby red nails.

“Everyone, this is my friend, the novelist, Hazel Martin,” Myrtle said proudly as she propelled her into the room.

“Meow.” Dickens, not one to be left out, chose that moment to let his presence be known.

“Oh, and her cat, Dickens” Myrtle added.

The man turned from the fireplace, one brow quirked as his eyes fell on the carrier. Hazel glanced down to see that Dickens had his face pressed to the screen in the front, his intelligent eyes keenly surveying the room. She adjusted her position so the carrier was behind her. No telling what kind of shenanigans Dickens might get up to later on if he were allowed to take inventory of the entire room from within his carrier. Truth be told, she should have left him in the car which idled in the driveway, but the last time she’d done that he’d coughed hairballs up on her pillow for the following two weeks. It wasn’t common practice to bring one’s cat in on a visit but as a novelist, Hazel was expected to be a bit eccentric and, since she was somewhat of a celebrity, people didn’t seem to mind when she brought Dickens along. Some had even come to expect it.

Undaunted, Myrtle continued with the introductions. “Hazel, this is my son Edward…you’ve probably met before…my grandson Wes and his wife Vera.”

Hazel’s and Myrtle’s families had been close at one time, so of course she’d met Edward many times before. And she knew Wes was the son of Myrtle’s daughter Sarah. Thinking about Myrtle losing Sarah reminded Hazel of her loss with Charles and she was overwhelmed with a rush of compassion and a feeling of camaraderie for the older woman—they’d both suffered the loss of a close loved one. Hazel was now even more determined to get to the bottom of Myrtle’s suspicions, be they real or not.

Hazel nodded at Edward, Wes’s sleeping form and Vera.

Edward said pleasantly, “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Martin.”

Vera stood, her lavishly beaded deep blue dress sparkled in the light and large diamonds winked in her ears. “Nice to meet you.”

Wes shifted position in the chair and let out a snore.

Vera approached the cat carrier and bent down to peer inside. “Don’t mind my husband. He spends most of his days asleep.” She slid a fingernail through the mesh in the front and scratched Dickens. “What a darling creature. I should get a picture.”

She picked a square leather box off the table that Hazel recognized as a box camera similar to the Brownie camera that was all the rage in the States. She’d used the same model often to capture images of scenes she wanted to depict in her novels and Charles had used much more complex models in his police work.

Vera stood back from the carrier and held the camera at her waist, looking down to take the shot. Dickens hissed and promptly presented her with his backside, to the laughter of Myrtle and Edward.

“Looks like he doesn’t want his picture taken,” Edward said.

Vera shrugged. “Maybe next time. We could use a cat at the cottage… get rid of the rats.”

“Rats!” Myrtle seemed shocked.

Vera straightened. “Yes, I told you I have to keep all the food in the ice box for fear they’ll eat it.”

“There are no rats. You’re lucky Mother is nice enough to let you live there,” Edward cut in.

“Yes, you are lucky. The rest of us have to fend for ourselves.” Hazel turned to see a dour-looking young woman standing in the doorway. She had mousey-brown hair and, though she looked to be around the same age as Gloria and Vera, her clothing looked more suitable for a woman twenty years her senior. Her lips were turned down as if in disapproval as her dark eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on Dickens’ carrier which by now was starting to get rather heavy in Hazel’s hand.

“Merow.” Dickens voice was loud and Hazel figured he was probably trying to signal that he was tired of being cooped up.

“Oh, Hazel, this my granddaughter, Fran. Edward’s daughter.” Myrtle gestured between Hazel and Fran. “Hazel is a dear friend of the family.”

Fran looked at her and squinted. “Yes, I remember. The novelist, right?”

Hazel nodded. She readied herself to fend off a potential fan as happened all too often, but instead, Fran pressed her lips together then crossed to a chair on the opposite side of the room and sank into its lush, velvet-tufted cushions.

Hazel sensed a tension in the air. No wonder Myrtle thought someone was up to no good. It seemed most of the family couldn’t stand each other.

She shifted the cat carrier to her other hand. “Well, you certainly have a houseful, Myrtle.”

“Yes, indeed. Everyone is staying for my birthday celebration. Oh, you simply must stay, too!” Myrtle clapped her hands together and turned wide eyes to Hazel as if she’d just thought of Hazel staying.

“Well, I don’t know…” Hazel looked around uncertainly so as to add credence to Myrtle’s act.

“Oh, but you must,” Myrtle insisted. “We have a whole weekend of activities planned. It will be great fun. And how many times do I get to turn eighty?”

“That sounds lovely,” Hazel said. “I do have my bags from vacation in the car , but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble…”

“It will be no trouble at all,” Gloria cut in. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Naughton can make you up a room and I’ll have your driver bring your bags up.”

Edward scowled. “Mother, I hardly see how Hazel would want to be included in our little family celebration. I’m sure she has better places to be.”

“Nonsense. Hazel is an old friend. I’m sure she’d love to spend the weekend with us.” Myrtle turned and winked at Hazel. “We have a nice tea planned and outdoor games. Walks in the garden and even a formal party with a jazz band and champagne tomorrow night.”

“Not tomorrow, dear,” Vera said. “The party is Saturday. Tomorrow is Friday.”

A look of confusion contorted Myrtle’s face, then it cleared. “Why, of course it is. That’s exactly what I meant. Saturday.”

“Well, if Hazel wants to stay then she is certainly welcome.” Edward picked up Staffordshire statue off the mantle and turned it over in his hands, looked at the bottom then shook his head and replaced it. “Exquisite work always amazes me.”

“If you recall, Edward is an antique dealer. Always picking things up and looking underneath. Rather annoying, if you ask me,” Myrtle whispered.

“I heard that,” Edward said.

“It’s no wonder Daddy is always looking at the items in here. Most of them should belong to him,” Fran said softly.

Edward clucked. “Now, now. Mother has been very generous to us. I don’t know why you say such things.”

Fran shrugged, her fingers fiddling with a deeply carved cameo at her throat which bore a resemblance to the ring on Myrtle’s finger. Hazel was just about to ask about it when a servant appeared at the door.

“Mrs. Martin’s room is ready.”

“Wonderful. That was very fast, Mrs. Naughton.” Myrtle turned to Hazel. “I’m sure you want to freshen up. Mrs. Naughton will show you the way.”

Hazel nodded to the others in the room and followed Mrs. Naughton toward the wide, sweeping staircase, pausing just below the first step to chance a look back into the drawing room.

Clearly the family was at odds, but that wasn’t entirely unusual. Most families had some sort of tension from time to time. But if Myrtle was right about this family, there was more than just tension in the air…there was also murder.

A Spell Of Trouble – Book 1 in the Silver Hollow Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series. Sneak Peek at Chapter 1:

Isolde Quinn flipped the sign in her shop window, Enchanted Pets, to open. A burst of pride warmed her chest as she looked around at the cages, aquariums, and playpens where she had her beloved charges. Not pets. Not merchandise. Charges. Because that’s how she thought of them—beings that were in her care until the right person came along to give them a home forever.

She loved this time of morning before the streets were full of tourists, when she could come in and check on all her little furry friends.

It was a perfect seventy-eight degrees in the store. Despite the muggy heat outside, Issy made sure it was always pleasant for the animals.

She slowly made her way to the back of the store, inhaling the smell of woodchips and dander, checking on each of her charges, running her fingers over the silky fur of the litter of kittens specially purposed to be familiars to young witches. She used her close-cropped fingernails to scratch the heads of the cockatiels and parakeets who sidestepped their way along their perches to rub their heads against their cages.

In the back, she paused before the very last tank, a special delivery she’d gotten earlier in the week. She bent over, peering into the terrarium, brushing away one of the strawberry blonde corkscrew curls that had fallen into her eyes.

Inside the terrarium, a pair of solstice toads blinked up at her from their bed of moss, their orange eyes bright and alert, their purple necks glowing. The toads were quite rare, coveted by witches who wanted to cast the most powerful spells. They would fetch a pretty penny, but only for the right witch. Issy saw it as her duty to make sure no animal in her care was purchased by a witch—or human—with ill intent.

The saliva of the toads would make any spell ten times more powerful but they had to be handled with care. The saliva could turn poisonous in the wrong hands, which was why Issy had a “lock” charm on the terrarium and also why she kept the toads in the back. Only paranormals looking for something special ever ventured back there.

Satisfied that the toads were in good health, she made her way back to the front, looking over the goldfish, hedgehogs and bunnies that would become familiars to other witches or simply well-loved family pets to humans. She paused to look into a tank full of fire newts. The newts stared up at her in dismay before scurrying under a rock.

“Don’t worry. I’m not after your eyes.” She chuckled and walked away. Witches didn’t really kill newts for their eyes—at least not any witches she knew.

“Yip.” Bella, the tiny red Pomeranian who was her familiar, had been following dutifully at her heels and apparently now wanted some recognition. Issy picked her up and cradled her in her arms, rubbing her cheek against the dog’s silky fur. She plunked a kiss on the dog’s head, her heart expanding at the look of adoration in Bella’s luminescent brown eyes. Bella’s pink tongue darted out, leaving a warm, wet trail on Issy’s face.

She’d been without a familiar for most of her life. One of her first familiars had died young and Issy couldn’t bear the thought of losing another one, especially since she felt responsible for the death. But when she’d seen Bella in a litter of pups, she’d known in her heart that they should be together. Though the dog was still young yet and they couldn’t communicate with each other very well, Issy knew she would be a great familiar and friend in time.

“I don’t know why you coddle the creature. It has minimal intelligence.” The voice came from a chubby gray cat that sat on her counter. Brimstone. He wasn’t one of the pets for sale in the store nor was he her familiar. He was more like a companion.

He’d been hanging around with her and her cousins for as long as she could remember, but unlike a normal familiar he came and went as he pleased and answered to no one. She didn’t know much about Brimstone, just that he was ancient and had the attitude to go along with it.

Bella growled at Brimstone which caused the pudgy cat to laugh. The dog’s growl sounded more like the hum of a bumble bee than the threat of a canine. Issy put Bella down and headed behind the counter to open the cash register and get ready for the day.

As she approached the counter, Brimstone’s orange-golden eyes narrowed and shot to the window. He arched his back and hissed. Issy looked in the direction of his gaze, her heart leaping when she saw the object of his distaste. It was one of her least favorite people, Louella Drummond, and she was heading this way.

Brimstone hopped down from the counter and ran as Issy watched Louella, her dyed auburn hair done up in some sort of modified beehive, charge across the street with bulldog-like determination. Behind her a tall, thin woman in a navy blue suit trudged along as if this was the last thing she wanted to do.

Issy couldn’t blame her. Not too many people got along with Louella. She was just plain mean and she seemed to have taken an extreme dislike to Issy and her cousins—which was odd since most people in Silver Hollow were easy going. In fact, most in the hollow were paranormals themselves. Vampires, witches, werewolves, even demons.

Sometime back in the 1950s, the word had gotten out that Silver Hollow was paranormal friendly and the town had become a mecca for them. Of course there were humans here, too, but for the most part, none of them noticed that some of the residents had special powers. Nobody flaunted their gifts. Heck, most of the paranormals just wanted to live normal peaceful lives. And when something odd did happen, the residents just shrugged it off to quirkiness. Even many of the humans that lived here had a quirky side and they all got along fine.

All but a few. And Louella was one of the few. She liked to get her dander up about a cause and by the way she was heading toward the pet store, Issy was afraid that she was the latest cause.

She reached into her purse, her fist curling around a cold, smooth oval-shaped stone. The stone was her talisman, a polished egg-shaped piece of obsidian. The feel of it gave her comfort and strength.  She clenched it tight then let go, dropping it back into the bottom of her purse just as Louella crashed through the door. She ignored Issy and headed straight toward the back.

“They’re back here, I tell you,” Louella shot over her shoulder to the navy-suited woman.

Issy stepped out into the aisle, blocking their way. “Good morning, Louella. Can I help you with something?”

“I’ve got you this time.” Louella smirked up at her then jerked her head toward navy suit. “This is Lottie Owens from the Board of Health.”

Issy’s eyes narrowed. “Why would the Board of Health be interested in anything in here? This isn’t a restaurant.”

Louella tried to sidestep past Issy, but Issy was too quick and blocked her again. “You know why. You have some rare reptiles back there that are a danger to society.”

The solstice toads. When had she seen those? She must have snuck in the other day when one of Issy’s assistants was minding the store. But how did she even know about them or their danger?

Someone like Louella wouldn’t understand how careful Issy was with the toads or how important they were to have available for the witches. Issy took a deep breath, held it and then wiggled her fingertips in the direction of the back of the store. A little monochrome charm never hurt anyone and she was sure the committee wouldn’t mind her using it, especially for this purpose.

“What’s wrong with you?” Louella demanded.

Issy hissed out the breath. Whenever she conjured up a charm on the spur of the moment, she had to hold her breath. It was one of her quirks, but she certainly couldn’t tell Louella that.

“Hiccups,” she said, then added, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have anything dangerous here.”

Issy stepped aside and gestured toward the back of the store. “You’re welcome to go back there and look.”

Louella frowned. Some of the wind went out of her sails as she proceeded toward the back, the heels of her no-nonsense pumps making squishy noises on the tile floor. She stopped in front of the terrarium that held the solstice toads and stabbed an index finger toward it. “See? They’re right there.”

Lottie bent down and peered into the tank. “These look like regular toads.”

Louella’s frown deepened, her eyes widening as she looked closer at the tank, then jerked her head toward Issy, her eyes narrowing again. “You did something, didn’t you? You knew I was coming and you hid the rare purple horn-back toads and replaced them with these common toads.”

That explained it. Louella had mistaken the solstice toads for purple horn-backs. Of course Issy would never sell purple horn-backs. They were endangered and that was against the law. Issy glanced over Louella’s head at Lottie. Thankfully, the other woman looked like she thought Louella was off her rocker.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Issy said.

“I don’t think she would have had time to do that, Louella. I mean, we only arranged this appointment at the last minute an hour ago. How would she have known we were coming?” Lottie asked.

Louella glared at Issy. “That’s a good question. But she’s not like us. Her and her cousins. They act… weird.”

“I don’t know what toads you were looking for, but if you want to buy some tree frogs I’m having a sale.” Issy plastered on a fake smile.

Louella stormed up the aisle toward Issy with the apologetic-looking Lottie trailing behind her. Louella stopped directly in front of Issy and waved a boney finger in her face. “I know you’re up to no good. Switching toads isn’t going to help you much. Your whole family is evil and now I have something to prove it.”

Her eyes slid across the street to the hair salon, Shear Magic, owned by Issy’s cousin, Graeme. Inside, her cousin was styling the hair of a blonde beauty, the green shamrock tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve of his gray tee-shirt, his large biceps flexing as he cut and fluffed

Gray was a popular hair stylist. Women came from all over New England to experience one of his hair styles and even at this early hour, there was a line of ladies waiting for their haircuts. It was no surprise since women always left his shop with their hair lush and rich with color, the exact color and style to highlight their facial features. It was said his haircuts took ten years off a woman’s age as if by magic. Which, of course, it was.

“What are you talking about?” Issy patted her own strawberry blonde curls, the perfect shade to highlight her sea-green eyes. The medium-length curls floated around her head like a halo. Each curl was a perfect corkscrew and her hair never frizzed. All thanks to Gray. She opened the front door, hoping Louella would get the hint and leave.

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Louella glanced out the open doorway at Gray’s shop again then patted her limp dishwater-colored hair. Issy corrected her earlier thought—everyone that had their hair done at Gray’s came out looking fabulous except a certain chosen few, Louella being one of them. “I know that Graeme is a bad boy and I’ve got pictures to prove it.”

Issy frowned. Pictures of Gray? What kind of pictures could she possibly have? “If you say so.” Issy exchanged another glance with Lottie. Lottie rolled her eyes, apparently coming to the conclusion that Louella was plum crazy. Or at least Issy hoped she was coming to that conclusion.

“Well, if there’s nothing else I can help you with…” Issy raised her brows and gestured toward the sidewalk.

“Fine.” Louella stepped outside, her eyes drifting over to the hair salon again then back to Issy. “You beat me this time but you haven’t seen the last of me. Once I get my computer back and can upload those pictures, I’ll have all the evidence I—”

Her face contorted into a grimace. Her eyes crossed. Her hands clawed at her throat as she tried to suck in a breath. “Arghh…”

She fell to the sidewalk, twitching and gasping. Lottie stared. Issy’s heart took off like a horse at the Preakness as she fell down beside Louella.

“Louella, what is it?” Issy screamed.

The woman’s eyes were practically bulging out of her head as she gasped for air.

“Call 911. She must be having a heart attack!” Issy shot over her shoulder at Lottie, who was already fumbling for her cell phone.

Issy moved Louella onto her back, thinking to do CPR, but as the woman’s mouth fell open she knew it was too late. Her tongue had swollen to several times its size and was a bright blue. Issy recoiled in horror. That could only mean one thing—Louella wasn’t having a heart attack. She’d been killed by magic. Dark magic.

People were starting to gather around and Issy scanned the crowd, which was filled with faceless tourists and a few towns people she recognized. Karen Dickson, another witch who was also not a fan of the Quinns’, stood at the edge of the crowd. Her dark eyes lingered on Louella then darted to Issy.

As a siren split the air, Gray came running from the the salon. He pushed the crowd aside and knelt beside Issy, a jet black lock of hair falling across his forehead, his face tight with worry. His greenish-blue eyes darkened when he noticed Louella’s tongue.

He pressed his fingertips to the side of Louella’s neck for a few beats, then shook his head. Turning to Issy, he said, “This can’t be good.”

The long-awaited second book in the St. Daine family series is almost ready to be born. I know, seems like you’ve been waiting forever, right? It will be worth it… Here’s a little excerpt to for you to think about while you wait (please remember, it is unedited so there might be a few mistakes)

Upstairs in her chamber, Phoebe St. Daine peered through the rose brocade curtains gracing the wide bank of windows that spanned the front of Rothwyn house, her bottom lip pinched firmly between her teeth while she stared down at the man to whom soon she would be wed.

To save Tristan, she reminded herself.

She would marry Edward Claybourne, gentleman and heir to the earldom of Vykhurst not because she had fallen madly, coiffure over skirts in love with him, but rather because doing so, it seemed, was her family’s only recourse if they wished to save her brother from the hangman’s noose. But it was not her brother of whom she was thinking when the man upon the cobblestones below tilted his head upward, his gaze searching the upper floors of Rothwyn House as if he knew she was watching.

Most young ladies of her acquaintance would likely have fled, feeling anxious and perhaps even a bit threatened—by her situation if not the man, Phoebe realized, but not her. Rather, she felt…empowered…which was probably why, quite unlike any other young maid in her position would have dared, she took a bold step forward.

Was he thinking about the kiss they had shared? She wondered.

He started forward, shoulders confidently squared, and Phoebe felt heat fill her cheeks. Her heart jumped excitedly against her ribs and her free hand slid downward to cover the giddy little flutter which had started in her stomach.

“He carries himself well, Phoebs,” her sister, Alaina, murmured over her shoulder from a place just slightly behind her. “Well enough for a future earl, I suppose. But then, the good Mister Claybourne could be an horridly grotesque cripple with a twisted, humped spine and still you would gainsay neither himself nor Lord Vykhurst, would you?”

Startled, Phoebe jumped and let the fabric drop. She had been so engrossed in watching the arrival of her betrothed, she hadn’t heard the younger girl come into the room. The words she had spoken, however, could not be ignored, even had Phoebe had so desired, because they were truth. She would wed Vykhurst with no thought to her own preferences. Her desires mattered naught, Phoebe thought. As long as it meant Tristan would soon be safe and home again, she might well agree to wed the son of Satan himself.

“Phoebe? Mister Claybourne has arrived. Your brother asks that you join them in the study,” Lady Claire Leighton, the future duchess of Rothwyn, announced from the doorway. She swept into the room, took one look at her soon to be sister, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, my. You look stunning.”

A weak smile wavered on Phoebe’s lips and she swept both hands down along the rich fabric of her pale violet gown before bringing her right hand up to toy nervously with the ivory overlaid chalcedony cameo brooch her maid had pinned to the fine, lace-edged velvet collar she wore. “Yes, well, we cannot allow the man to change his mind, now can we?”

Behind her, Alaina chuckled wryly. “As if he had so many better options.”

Phoebe flashed the girl a warning look over her shoulder. Sometimes Alaina’s outspokenness worried her. Her sister was wise beyond her years, true, but someday soon that spontaneous yet rather saucy mouth of hers was like to land her in a right fine muckle of trouble. “Yes, well, let us ensure he has no wish to take himself off in search of those better options.”

After casting one last glance at her reflection in the tall, cheval mirror beside her bed, Phoebe turned to precede her sister and soon-to-be sister-in-law into the corridor while she tried to pretend her knees had not suddenly turned to warm jam, that her fingers did not lay quivering against her skirts, and that she was not intimidated in the least by the duty  to which life had some-wise recently appointed her.

Saving her brother was one thing, but spending an entire afternoon with a man about whom she knew absolutely nothing was quite another.

But you do know, her conscious pressed. You know the full shape of his lips and how nicely they can be fitted to yours. You know the rough texture of his fingers as they trace the contours of your jaw. You know the heat of his body surrounding yours and you know the pleasure of being wholly, completely immersed in his kiss.

Aye, she did, indeed, know.

And he knew the same about her.

Her cheeks flushed and she lifted a hand to her brow in consternation.

If only she had used more of those first weeks of her debut chattering flirtatiously with the gentlemen to which her brother, Lucien, had allowed her to be introduced rather than chasing dead-end possibilities trying to discover Tristan’s whereabouts…

Emily, her other sister and Alaina’s younger twin, met them at the top of the stairs. Her expression appeared far more serious than the occasion warranted, and Phoebe drew up to allow her the moment of private conversation she seemed to need.

With a smile rocked sideways by sympathy, Emily leaned in for a quick hug, and then, with a consoling pat to Phoebe’s shoulder, she whispered, “He is someone’s brother, too, Phoebs. Remember that.”

For reasons she could not fathom at the moment, Phoebe’s bottom lip trembled. She clamped it between her teeth, hard. Pain flared, but she knew her eyes had already filled with the glossy sheen of tears because Emily, bless her, always seemed to know just what to say to bring things into perspective, and now she knew exactly how to approach the stranger who awaited her in her brother’s study.

Chapter One

Esmerelda Seville’s early morning humming lilted softly through the chilly stillness inside the old, three story building that housed the antique shop on the corner of Hawthorne and 7th Street, the sound filling the room with a whimsical air as she slowly made her way among the various rows of shelving, her wandering gaze carefully inspecting each item in turn.

As one of the three co-owners of Seville’s Antiques and Collectibles, it was her job to make sure the polished wooden shelves inside the store always appeared to be fully stocked and today they were brimming with brilliant artwork, unique handicrafts, priceless knickknacks, and lots of high quality vintage pieces—both exotic and mundane—from all over the world.

But it was not the harmless little glamour spell she had cast that Esmerelda was checking this morning. Instead, she was searching for the special bits; pieces which remained outside the enchantment. Specific items with specific purposes; tokens which would allow her and her sisters to complete their latest assignment.

Having already checked every inch of every shelf in the wide open room once, she was just beginning her second pass when a glistening reflection from something in her periphery caught her eye. Excited now, she hurried over to a section of shelving near the back wall and lifted a shimmering, water-filled glass ball from its base, turning it this way and that to stir up the contents inside.

Watching as artificial snow spilled down, cascading over a lovely winter scene, Esmerelda called out to her sisters, her voice easily carrying from the main chamber on the lower floor to the small back room office next door. “What a pretty snow globe! Did you two know we had this back here?”

Enthralled, she turned the fragile glass in her hands again, shaking it slightly this time. She smiled when the falling snow inside settled softly along the curving boughs of several tall evergreens and blanketed the roof before gently coming to rest upon the ground around a lovely house which had been painted a soft, powder blue.

It wasn’t a large house but there was something about the compact, two-story miniature structure that made it seem cozy. It was quaint, Esmerelda thought. Simple, and yet comfortable. The kind of house in which a family might live. A handsome, strong man, perhaps, who wasn’t afraid of things which were different, and an adoring wife who worshiped him.

Allowing her thoughts to wander and the fantasy she had conjured in her mind to continue, she pictured an adventurous little boy with green eyes like his father, an adorable little blue-eyed girl who looked just like her mother, and maybe even a dog, she decided.

It was the type of house she herself might like to live in someday, Esmerelda thought wistfully. Home.

Banishing the fantasy that was beginning to play out in her thoughts with a quick shake of her head before one of her sisters picked up on it, she continued to stare almost trance-like into the glass, taking careful note of the startlingly vivid detail worked into each item inside the ball.

The quaint but cozy two-story house and its snow-covered lawn was surrounded on three sides by a white, intricately worked lattice fence which was covered by the thick and twisted empty vines of several climbing rose bushes.

A stone-edged graveled walk made a relatively straight path from a side door to the gated opening in the fence, its lines marred only by the junction of a second walkway leading to the front of the house. A tiny, white painted mailbox perched just outside the gate and the thick black lines of the house number stood out in stark relief against the bright white of the mailbox: 214.

“Hey, two fourteen,” she called casually over her shoulder to her sisters, her gaze still locked on the scene within the glass, but Serephina and Mortianna were too busy chattering among themselves about the depression glass the lady who was coming by this morning would be looking for to hear her.

“She’s looking for a green piece, Feeny,” Esmerelda heard Mortianna tell her sister. “Green! We have exactly one. All the others are amber and rose—and none of them have our numbers. Can’t we just whip one up? I mean, it’s not like she’ll know magic was involved. Nobody does. People don’t believe in it anymore.”

And it was that simple truth which had allowed the sisters to settle into Hawthorne Grove almost thirty years ago. Well, that and their assignments.

The numbers Mortianna had mentioned just happened to be the girls’ date of birth, and its presence on any of the antiquities in their shop actually meant something—something very specific—but only to them. If an item had the Seville numbers on it, whether painted on or molded in or even carved inside, the girls knew it was the designated piece to be infused with their special brand of magic—one that would ensure the proper results for their assignments.

“No, we cannot whip one up, Morty,” Serephina scolded. “And you keep your naughty little fingers to yourself because you know that’s not true. Remember the Dover girl two summers back? She believed in magic and she knew the afghan we sold her was enchanted. Lucky for us, she didn’t figure out we were the ones who spelled it in the first place. We almost got caught and it was your fault.”

Esmerelda remembered that afghan. It was mauve and pastel pink, crocheted in a hounds tooth pattern. The girls had infused it so that whenever the Dover girl lay beneath it, she would think of her predestined mate. Feeny had given the infusion a little “extra” charge, however, and the lady knew there was something not quite normal going on because her thoughts and feelings were far too strong in relation to whenever she wasn’t wrapped in the afghan.

“Hello? Valentine’s Day?” Esmerelda called to them again, this time from the doorway, but her sisters continued to ignore her. She sighed. One would think her having broken in on their argument not once but twice in as many minutes would have been enough to put a stop to their petty bickering, but no. Not Mortianna and Serephina. When those two got started it was practically impossible for anyone to get a word in edgewise.

“My fault?” Mortianna’s eyes narrowed accusingly and she pointed a finger at her older sibling. “You were the one who gave her the fertility poem and told her to recite it!”

It was days like this that made Esmerelda wonder if being a Seville was even worth it. Did Hawthorne Grove really need them? Was their special brand of matchmaking magic even necessary to bring their lost lovers together? They had Valentine’s Day, after all, and it should have been enough … but she knew it wasn’t. Sure, Cupid had his bow and arrows, but he only worked one day a year. The Seville girls worked all year round. When they weren’t bickering among themselves about who was responsible for whatever mishaps had taken place over the years.

Holding out the glass between her hands like an offering, Esmerelda stepped between her sisters and said, “Ladies! Snow globe. 214. Valentine’s Day. Ring any bells?”

“What? It doesn’t snow on Valentine’s Day, Merry,” Mortianna grouched, barely paying attention, but when she finally glanced in Esmerelda’s direction she seemed to realize there was something important in what her sister had said—something that she had missed. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

Now that she knew she had her sister’s undivided attention, at last, Esmerelda said, “It’s the house numbers, see?”

Slowly, she turned the globe in her hands so her sisters could look inside. “214. February the fourteenth. Our birthday. This is it!”

“Well, bring it here,” Serephina insisted, motioning her forward with an impatient wave. “If it has our numbers inside, this must be the piece we need.”

Mortianna’s expression was doubtful. “A snow globe? She’s looking for depression glass. Green depression glass, remember? This glass is clear as crystal and cold as ice inside. How in the world is something like that supposed to warm her up to the idea of trusting a man again?”

“She has a name,” Esmerelda reminded her sister and then motioned with a quick tilt of her head toward the front door of the shop. “It’s Kaylee, remember? And unless my perfect eyesight fails me, I believe that’s her standing out there on the sidewalk, trying to decide whether or not it is safe to come inside. Hurry up, Feeny! Do it now, before she gets to the door!”

* * *

Kaylee Dean glanced at her watch and then up at the dilapidated building in front of her before speaking into her cell phone, answering her cousin, who was waiting for her to confirm she had located the antique shop in Hawthorne Grove. “This place looks like it has seen better days, Min, but it says Seville Antiques and Collectibles right over the door so I guess this is it.”

“That’s the place, yes. Thanks, Kay. You’re a doll for doing this for me. Mom will never guess!”

“You’re welcome, Min. Talk to you in a bit,” she said and then ended the connection. Sliding her phone into her back jeans pocket wasn’t as easy this winter morning as it was in spring and summer. For one thing, she didn’t wear anything as bulky as the ash gray and black trimmed pea coat currently belted at her middle in the warmer months. For another, she generally wasn’t so distracted by the utter lack of modern anything when she visited a place of business.

Seville’s Antiques and Collectibles looked like a run-down warehouse straight out of the mid-1900’s or, as her cousin Mindy would say: so last century! No wonder Min wanted her to come here to look for the depression glass … it was probably still being freshly made inside!

Kaylee had been told the shop held a vast array of priceless antiquities but she found that hard to believe when the building itself looked like it might fall over if you so much as sneezed beside it.

The two story frame boasted a cracked and badly weathered wooden exterior, nicked and worn hardwood doors—even the window frames were no more than thin bits of old wood—some of it worm-eaten—and panes of plain, clear glass gone cloudy with age.

Not to mention, Kaylee couldn’t see a single shred of evidence the owners had taken any precaution whatsoever to secure the place from thieves and vandals. Didn’t they know anyone could walk by and knock out a window—probably with no more effort than it would take to flick away a noisome fly? With such valuable pieces reportedly inside, how could they risk getting broken into? Granted, Hawthorne Grove was a smallish town but it had its share of bad apples, she was sure. Weren’t the owners even a little bit worried about losing their priceless inventory?

“Maybe it’s not so valuable after all,” she muttered, having finally managed to stuff her phone into her pocket.

Three steps later, she was tugging at the heavy brass door handle, and then she stepped inside. Overhead, the loud jingle of bells caught her attention and she glanced wryly toward the ceiling, expecting to see a string of round, silver bells suspended from bare, maybe even broken rafters, but she was met instead with a view of the store’s interior she certainly had not anticipated.

The main room was much larger than she had thought it would be; it spanned two full stories in height. In the ceiling, wooden beams were exposed, but they were neither worn nor rotting. Instead, they were thick and strong, their surfaces gleaming in the morning sunlight that spilled through the uncovered windows as if they had just been freshly polished. Unlike outside, the mullioned windows were neatly trimmed with more burnished wood, and she could see heavy, lustrous brass latches securing each one.

“Good morning! May we help you?” a voice called from the back of the store and she glanced around, moving instinctively through the tall rows of display shelves toward the sound of warm greeting while her eyes busily scanned the room in both surprise and awe.

“Hello. I am looking for depression glass and an acquaintance said I should check here … ” she explained, her words trailing off as her attention was caught by first one exquisite piece and then another.

Brow furrowed in confused astonishment, she turned, trying to absorb it all but she found the whole of her experience thus far almost too diametrically opposed to take in. The sheer beauty filling every nook and niche inside the shop, after having witnessed the results of what must have been many years of painful neglect on the outside, was almost …

“Unbelievable,” she whispered, her jaw slack as she was still held in a bit of a trance by her reaction to the surprise, but when a woman appeared from the back carrying some sort of glass object, she snapped her mouth shut and offered a nod of greeting.

“Isn’t it?” the lady agreed in passing, and Kaylee felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment from having been overheard.

“We have some lovely Mayfair Pink pieces…” the woman said in reference to her explanation of what she was looking for.

“No, it must be green,” Kaylee said. “It is for my aunt, you see. She has been collecting depression glass for a few years now and green is the color she is currently on about, so Min says it must be green.”

Her words did not seem to trouble the woman at all. In fact, she seemed more concerned with carefully situating the glass object she had been carrying upon the front counter than she was with her customer at the moment, and Kaylee found herself growing inexplicably curious about the piece.

“As luck would have it, we do have the green, but there is only the one piece. I’m sure there will be more soon, but for now—” She held up the glass ball and shook it. Light sparkled through the cut glass, creating dozens of rainbow prisms which seemed to shoot out through the room in all directions. Then, she walked a few feet to the checkout counter and shifted a few bits and baubles to one side before removing something from her pocket, which she placed in the center of the counter. Next, she settled the glass carefully onto the thing—an intricately carved wooden stand, Kaylee realized—before finally stepping away with a look of happy satisfaction on her face.

“There!” she said, her expression positively radiating with glee. She squeezed her hands together in front of her chest and glanced up at Kaylee to ask, “Isn’t it lovely?”

Kaylee wandered over as if she were being summoned, once more feeling inexplicably drawn to the thing, and when she looked inside the ball, she found it difficult to look away. A tiny blue house sat on a bed of snow, and the whole of the scene was surrounded by trees, a fence, and—there was even a tiny mailbox outside the gate at the edge of a snow-covered lane with no end and no beginning.

“Beautiful,” she agreed, running her fingers lightly over the sparkling clear glass. Despite the cold scene inside, Kaylee felt a rush of warmth filling her, spreading from her gloved fingertips to her toes. She did not even lift her head to ask, “How much is it?”

“$225, but if you’re buying the depression glass, I’ll give it to you for half,” the lady said, stepping quickly behind the counter. She bent down to rummage beneath, her hands emerging seconds later with one near mint condition piece of depression glass. “I think your aunt will love this one.”

Five minutes later, Kaylee exited the store with her purchases carefully wrapped and bagged and a happy smile on her lips. Excited, she reached back to fish her cellphone out of her pocket and quickly flicked through with her thumb across the two screens it took to contact her cousin before raising it to her ear.

Mindy answered after only two rings.

“I got it, Min!” Kaylee said in a rush. “A Hazel-Atlas Royal Lace dinner plate. Green, yes. No visible flaws and it isn’t sick, either! Twenty-five dollars, and Min? I bought something for myself, too. It is so beautiful. I can hardly wait for you to see it!”

Chapter Two

“Oh! My bad. My bad,” Jordan Parker said, swiftly reaching out to steady the young woman he’d almost sent sprawling before she lost her balance completely. “I was so busy trying to figure out why anyone would recommend a place that looks like it’s so old it’s about to crumble into the dirt, I forgot to look where I was going.”

“I know, right?” she said breathlessly once she was on surer footing, but he couldn’t tell whether her breathlessness was from the biting chill of the frosty morning air or reaction to her near fall.

“But don’t let the exterior fool you,” she continued. “They have everything you could possibly imagine inside.”

Jordan studied her, a bemused smile curling his lips. She was a short little bit of a thing. Petite, he guessed was more the correct term, and she was … well … cute. From the fuzzy little pink ball on the top of her soft knit pink cap to the glossy sheen of her black half-boots, everything about her said peppy. He caught himself wondering if spirited girls like her ever agreed to have coffee with sentimental idiots like himself. “Really? You’d never guess it from here.”

“Oh, yes!” she insisted excitedly, her wide brown eyes sparkling with a warm glow he found it hard to look away from. Her hair, or what he could see of it where it poured from beneath her cap, was also brown—a rich, warm chestnut, gilt throughout with tendrils of fire—and her lips… “It’s like a magic store in there!”

“Hello?”

The word was muted, as if it were coming from a great distance and he saw in the changing of her expression the moment the sound registered in her ears. Her eyes widened and she glanced away from him while hurriedly raising her cellphone to her ear. He listened in as she quickly began to apologize, “Sorry, Min! Sorry! I was—”

Her cheeks colored with what he supposed was embarrassment over having forgotten she’d been on a call, and again, he found himself bemused. Not by her, but at himself. His reaction to her. She was peppy and breathless and colored with a delightful blush and he was surprised to realize that he liked everything he saw.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug as she angled the coral pink iPhone away from her soft pink lips to whisper, “Excuse me. I forgot my cousin was still on!”

Without really knowing why, he grinned. Wow, he thought. Everything about this girl was … warm somehow. Her eyes, her hair, and now her cheeks. He took a step closer, not even realizing he hadn’t let go of her until she shrugged away from him and offered a quick half-smile of apology. “Thanks for saving me! I have to run, but I hope you find what you’re looking for in there.”

Jordan snatched his hands down to his sides, stepped sideways out of her path, and nodded. “Yep.”

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, and as she hurried away, he caught a few words of her phone conversation.

“…going in as I was coming out. What? Oh. Yeah, he is, I suppose…” She glanced back over her shoulder at him and he smiled. She smiled back and then promptly forgot he existed as she turned to work the keys in her gloved palm to unlock her car.

Sentimental idiot for sure, Jordan admonished himself silently, shaking his head at the insane direction his thoughts had taken as he turned to enter the antique store. He’d just gotten out of a relationship. Now was definitely not the time to be thinking about asking someone he didn’t even know to share a few hours of conversation over a cup of mocha crème latte with him at Sam’s.

* * *

“Why did you throw them into one another like that?” Serephina bit out, scolding her sister in a heated whisper while continuing to watch the couple outside from behind the counter in the shop. “You know we aren’t supposed to interfere!”

“And what do you call giving them magic-infused items that will bring the two of them together if not interference, hmm?” Mortianna shot back. “Besides, it’s a dull, dead bore to watch them come in here and then leave like two ships passing in the night, the one never seeing the other until they are well out of our sight.”

Her grumpy pout disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, the corner of her lips suddenly kicking up in a half-grin. “At least this way we get to see a little action! Did you two notice he never took his hands off her until she shrugged? No, wait. Did you notice she didn’t realize he hadn’t until her blasted cousin butted in? You know she was feeling it. Heck, I was feeling it—from all the way in here! Those smoldering gray eyes of his are sexy enough to make any woman’s—”

“Mouth shut,” Serephina commanded with a swift flick of her wrist, silencing Mortianna before her runaway tongue could do any more damage to the situation, then she turned to greet their latest customer with what she hoped was a warm smile as the bells over the door jangled out a noisy warning. “Good morning, sir!”

Sliding off his dark sunglasses, he slowly folded them and slid them into the inside pocket of his heavy charcoal gray bomber jacket, his gaze roaming over the front interior of the store before he nodded to each of the sisters in turn. “Ladies.”

“Can we help you find something?” Serephina asked, surreptitiously motioning for Mortianna to bring the box around, but Esmerelda swept it out of her hands.

“I’ll just put this in the back,” she said, making sure to pass by him on her way. His eyes flickered to it as she passed and his hand shot out, halting her.

“Hold on. Is that mahogany?”

“Mm hmm,” Esmerelda murmured. “It’s a bit worn, but look at this. Metal string work, inlaid Mother Of Pearl…”

She turned the box, tilting it a bit so he could see it better, but he reached for it instead. “Do you mind if I have a closer look?”

Smiling, she handed it over to him. “Not at all. It really is a lovely box. English, I believe, but I’m not quite sure what these hooks on the sides are for … ”

“A pen, or quill, and a letter opener,” he offered without further encouragement.

“There’s a bit of the spiral trim work missing up here, and the feet—see, you can tell where they once were—” he said, pointing out the rounded indentations on the box’s bottom, “are missing.”

“Yes, I see. You are very astute. It does have a few flaws. The missing feet, a bit of string work, trim, and the inside is a bit picky though intact.”

“There are numbers here, too. Likely the mark of the creator. See? They’ve been carved into the wood on the bottom. Looks like 2-1-4.”

“Numbered? Well, then, that makes it even more rare and wonderful! Serephina, this one is marked, darling. Remember the Avrochelle set from last year? This box must be the second item in a single desk set made up of four pieces. Should I put it in the other room until we’ve located the others?” She peered over her shoulder at her sister, who bit at her lip to erase the growing smile that tried to appear at his words.

“Oh, my, yes! The set will bring much more. We can’t—”

“I’ll give you two fifty for it,” he said. “I know it’s worth less—I’m a bit of a hobbyist collector myself—but I’m willing to lose a little to bring it home today.”

Esmerelda frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. We would actually prefer to find the other pieces. This one is clearly part of a set, you see. If it is like the Avrochelle set, there would be a blotter, an ink stand, and an—”

“Oh, of course we will give it to him, Merry,” Serephina called out. “Would you like it wrapped, sir?”

With barely a glance at Esmerelda, he walked over to the counter, placed the box carefully to one side and took out his wallet. “Thank you, ma’am, but it isn’t a gift.”

“Ah, I see,” Serephina said. She picked up the box and placed it inside a paperboard box before sliding both into a thick, gray craft paper bag.

“I saw you with the lady outside and I thought—oh, well, it doesn’t really matter what I think.” Waving away her words as if she were embarrassed to have made such a guess, she said, “We’ll take one eighty.”

He nodded and placed a few bills on the counter along with a business card. He tapped it, and picked up the box. “If you happen to locate the other pieces, give me a call. Thank you, ladies.”

“No, thank you,” Esmerelda said as he made his way to the door. The minute he stepped outside the shop, she turned to her sisters with a wide-eyed look of awe. “Did you see those eyes? Oh my! Miss Dean isn’t going to know what hit her!”

________

….LIke it?  Stay tuned then because you’ll be able to buy it tomorrow, May 26, 2016!!

These cookies have a double dose of chocolate from the batter and the chips. You could vary them by using white chocolate chips, or not adding the cocoa powder to the batter … or both!

Why not try them with butterscotch chips? You can also add chopped nuts.

Ingredients:

3 egg whites

1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

2/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup chocolate chips

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

Procedure:

Make sure egg whites are at room temperature.

Preheat oven to 250 degrees(f).

Combine egg whites, cream of tartar and vanilla. Beat until soft peaks are formed (about 4 or 5 minutes).

While still beating, slowly add sugar, then beat until mixture becomes glossy and stiff peaks are formed.

Fold in cocoa and chocolate chips.

Push batter onto parchment lined cookie sheet and put in oven on middle rack. Reduce heat to 200 degrees(f) at once. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. Turn off oven and let it cool before removing cookies.