Page 17 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“You good?” Luis asks, straightening with two cartons of milk tucked against his chest.

I lock my phone and slip it into my apron pocket. “Yeah, just texting my brother.”

“Why the hell is he awake at seven in the morning on a Saturday? That boy has his college priorities in the wrong order.”

I give him a look, and he smiles before turning back to the refrigerator.

This is one of the things I like about Luis. He is curious about everything, constantly asking questions and offering opinions no one requested, but there are certain lines he seems to understand without being told where they are. I suspect he knows I have another job, but he’s never asked any details or prodded further.

I grab my phone again and reopen the message.

At the bottom of Primavera’s request is one final line.

“Also, I checked the policy and I know it says custom orders are non-refundable, but surely there has to be an exception for when the magic goes rogue.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it.

Luis looks over again.

I shake my head, moving to the side of the counter and pretending I’m going to do something now that I can see one customer beelining for the door.

“I’m starting drip. We’re almost out,” he says.

“Thank you, that would be great.”

“See?” He stands up from his crouch and makes an exaggerated face when his knees groan, “Occasionally useful.”

“Very occasionally.”

I wait until he disappears into the back before typing again.

“Because your order was customized and the spell has already been placed, I’m not able to issue a refund.”

The response doesn’t come immediately, which is probably for the best, because the bell over the door rings and suddenly there are enough people coming into the café that I don’t have time to worry about whether Primavera1959 is somewhere composing a one-star, scathing review.

I slide my phone into my apron pocket again and look up.

Little Miss Hurricane is standing in the coffee shop. Except she isn’t little from where I stand, and she isn’t running, and I realize very quickly that watching someone through a window from across the street is an entirely different experience from having her standing ten feet away in a sleeveless pink top, sunglasses pushed into her blonde hair, looking flushed yet enamored by the heat.

She’s gorgeous.

The thought arrives so cleanly that for a moment there isn’t room for anything behind it.

I have always known she is attractive, obviously. I have eyes. But there is something comfortably theoretical about noticing a woman who existed mostly in flashes through the front windows, always moving toward somewhere else.

There is nothing theoretical about her now.

She steps up to the register, and I realize with some horror that I am the person currently standing behind it.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Hi.”

Excellent start. There is a beat in which I am reasonably certain one of us is supposed to do something next, and considering I am wearing an apron, I suspect that person is me.

“Flora?”

Luis’s voice pulls me back.