Page 2 of Meet Cute Magic

But really, what’s the point of having magic if you can’t use it to fix all of your problems?

“Hey, Rosie!” Sandy Richards waves as I turn left onto Macintosh Lane. I’m not far from home, which means I’m entering the center of town now.

Heartwood Hollow is the coziest small town you’ve ever seen, the kind where everyone knows each other, where small talk isn’t just encouraged, it’s basically a requirement for living here. I was born and raised in this town, so I know its ways—in fact, I normally love it, as a chatty person myself—but right now, I wish I lived in a busy city where no one would stop me if I looked like a woman on a mission. Despite the plan slowly forming in my mind, I force a friendly smile to spread on my lips and give her a small wave. I slow my steps, but I refuse to stop and chat now that an idea has sparked.

It’s brilliant, really. Foolproof. The perfect solution.

“Hey, Sandy, how’s it going?”

“Good, good, just getting some of the final details together for the fall festival. Do you know if your sister is going to have those apple cider donuts this year?” I give her a knowing glance. “If she doesn’t, she knows she’ll have a riot on her hands,” she continues, and lets out a small laugh.

“Good point.” I nod, then turn a bit so as not to be rude as I pass her. “I’m late for something, but come to the shop tomorrow, I’ve got that mystery romance you were asking about today.”

“Oh, yay! Thanks, Rosie, you’re the best. See you tomorrow!” I wave and keep moving, my mind hopping right back to weighing my options. My sisters and I were always told not to speak with the dead since ghosts are tricky and can’t be trusted in the least. That’s how most hauntings happen after all, and if you end up releasing a spirit with ill intentions, it’s an absolute headache to get them to go back to where they came from. Poppy and Violet always play by the rules, so I can’t ask them for backup. It would cause too many questions, and I don’t need them trying to talk me out of it.

A couple passes by me, smiling and holding hands, and that all too familiar pang hits my chest. She says something, and he leans in a bit to hear her better before pressing a soft kiss to her head, and it’s so natural, so sweet, that it makes my chest ache.

I want that.

I deserve that.

When the man says something that makes her head tip back with a laugh, her coffee cup tips forward, almost spilling. On instinct, my finger shifts, pink glitter leaving, and I make sure the lid stays on so they can continue on their walk without a mess.

Simple tasks, like the door slamming shut on Michael or turning a page, are simple, practical magic and don’t require a spoken spell. (A very beneficial skill to have when you’re reading a good book and don’t feel like holding it up, by the way.) More specific desires, like bursting a pumpkin or summoning a ghost, require clear instructions and crafted intent.

I’m thinking about whether I have five white candles when Sammy Frank walks out of Mrs. Vick’s Stationery Depot and runs toward me.

“Rosie! Rosie!” she calls, the cream and lavender bag from the store jostling as she moves my way. “Look!” She holds out her hand to show me the giant rock on her ring finger. “Can you believe it? Colby proposed!” She’s nearly jumping up and down, and I give her a tight smile, biting back the bitterness.

“No! Wow! Congrats!” I knew her boyfriend of nine months would pop the question because that’s another way my magic works.

Every Mayfield woman has a magic specialty. My mother was a wonder with fabrics and ran a tailoring business where she would put spells on the clothes to make her customers feel their best. My sister Violet owns a bakery, where a simple scone can help turn your mood around in an instant. She was always begging Mom to let her bake from a young age. Poppy owns the flower shop in town, where her arrangements always provide the recipient with exactly what they need. I have vivid memories of Poppy spending hours outside, tending to the gardens at our childhood home, or simply lying in the grass.

My specialty is helping people find their one true love. I own a romance bookstore, helping my unwitting customers to find the love of their life. When someone comes into Meet Cute Magic looking for their next romance read, so long as they’re ready for love and their heart shines with good intentions, I walk over and help them find the perfect book, charmed with true love magic. Then, the first person they date after reading that story becomes their soulmate.

Ten months ago, Sammy came in for the first book in the If Shakespeare Was an Auntie series. She stayed up late to finish it and came in to get the next book in the series the very next day, only to meet Colby right after she stepped out of my store, who then spilled his coffee all over her front. He took her out on their first date that night to apologize, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. She comes in once a month or so now, updating me on their status and buying a few books.

I should be glad that my magic can procure someone else a happily ever after.

But it’s just not fair.

“I know it’s soon, but when you know, you know, right?” Sammy says.

I nod and bite my tongue. It’s not her fault I’m living in misery.

“You’ll have to come to the wedding, of course. You were there from the start!”

I cheer her on, all the while dying a little inside. My gift is most painful when it benefits someone from town. When that happens, I have to watch them fall in love in real time, excited and overjoyed for them, but all the while hurting because why not me?

“Of course! Come in soon, you can tell me all about your plans! I gotta go, though; I think I left my curling iron on!” I say with a fake wince, giving her a wave.

“Of course, of course! You know, you’ve gotta be next, girl!” she yells after me, meaning well but twisting the knife. I wave, my back already to her as I hustle on home, suddenly unable to fight back a wave of emotions that aren’t just righteous anger and frustration.

I’ve spent every day since I was ten reading romances where everyone lives happily ever after. I’ve read about thousands of people falling in love in extravagant adventures and in gentle, subtle ways. I’ve read about love in the real world and in fantasy, in the past, present, and future. I’ve laughed and cried and swooned over words on pages, and I have patiently waited for it to be my turn.

But I refuse to wait any longer. I’ve made up my mind: I’m going to break this curse.

Now, as I step onto Main Street, where my shop and home are, I’m trying to remember if I have enough salt to make a circle for a summoning. My heart races. What if something goes wrong? Should I call my sisters for backup, even if they’re going to be totally against this plan? Maybe I should sleep on it and think this through—