Chapter 1
Laurel Grant was not the kind of woman Sammi was used to
feeling much sympathy for. Five foot five, a hundred and fifteen
pounds at the most. Smooth, creamy complexion. Thick blonde
hair that was natural, except for a few highlights here and there.
Sculpted cheekbones and brow, rosebud lips. Blue eyes framed
by absurdly long eyelashes. It just wasn’t fair that one woman
should have so many advantages all to herself! And she wasn’t
even some bubble-head that Sammi could look down her nose at
and feel superior to. The nerve of some people!
Sammi smiled despite her chagrin, reminding herself that
Laurel was here because her life wasn’t all that perfect after all.
“You must be Laurel,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m
Sammi.”
Laurel smiled back—her teeth were, of course, completely
straight and snow-white—and shook Sammi’s hand. “Pleased to
meet you,” she said.
“Come on in.” Sammi opened the door wider, and Laurel
took a tentative step inside. “My office is upstairs, in my
apartment.”
Laurel took a glance around the downstairs, seeing the huge
living room that would have served well in a dormitory, as well
as the two kitchens that flanked it.
Sammi laughed at the puzzled expression on her face. “This
house is a child of the sixties,” Sammi explained as she led the
way toward the stairs. “It was built by a commune, and they had
somewhere between twelve and fifteen people living in this one
house. They needed two kitchens to feed that many mouths.”
“It’s huge!” Laurel said.
“Uh-huh. Had to be, to house that many people. Of course,
it’s quite an oddity these days.” They emerged from the staircase
onto the second floor balcony, which looked down on the living
room below. “The neighbors call this place ‘Hippie House,’”
Sammi continued, and Laurel smiled at that.
“And is the whole thing yours?”
“I own the house, but I’ve broken it into four apartments. I
certainly don’t need all this space for myself. My apartment is
over here.”
Laurel followed Sammi through one of the doors that opened
off the balcony. The door led to Sammi’s sitting room, where she did all her business. She’d decorated the room with meticulous
care, wanting to set the perfect balance of competent
professionalism and powerful mysticism.
Against one wall sat her desk, the flat-screen monitor and
black ergonomic chair looking every bit fixtures of the twentyfirst
century. Against another wall were her bookcases, custommade,
displaying everything from modern-day paperback novels
to heavy, hand-illuminated manuscripts passed down through her
family through the generations. In deference to the most ancient
of the manuscripts, she kept the lights in the room low, and the
drapes closed. Of course, the dimness also added an aura of
mystery to the room, which her clients always appreciated.
The most striking display in the room, however, was
Sammi’s collection of antique glassware, which held her potions
and tonics. The bottles and vials and tubes—ranging in size from
tiny to substantial, and in color from clear, to crimson, to
obsidian—were arrayed on a set of black-lacquered shelves.
“Please have a seat,” Sammi said, indicating the brown
velour couch that rested under two wrought-iron wall sconces.
Laurel looked around the room first, eyeing the manuscripts,
and the sconces, and finally the certificate on the wall that
proclaimed Sammi’s status as a licensed clinical social worker.
That last seemed to draw her particular attention, but after
examining the certificate, she finally took her seat on the couch.
Sammi’s own chair was of chocolate-brown wicker with
caramel-colored cushions. She kicked off her shoes as she sat,
tucking her bare feet under her skirt. The casual pose often made
new clients feel more comfortable around her. Laurel, however,
still looked brittle and nervous. Almost ready to bolt.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Sammi asked.
Laurel smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m
fine.”
“Well, let’s get started then shall we?” Laurel stiffened in her
seat, eyes going a little wide. Sammi could even see a thin veneer
of perspiration beading on her brow. “Relax, Laurel. I’m not
going to start chanting mumbo-jumbo or stirring a cauldron or
anything.”
Laurel laughed nervously. “Sorry. I’ve just . . . never done
anything like this before. I feel pretty foolish.”
“Lots of people feel foolish when they come to me the first
time. I don’t mind. I’ll do the best I can to help you, in whatever
way you feel comfortable. If it’s a potion, fine. If it’s just talking,
that’s fine too. But the best way to start out is to tell me why you
feel the need to consult a witch.”
Laurel nodded briskly, her shoulders relaxing ever so
slightly. “Okay.” She rubbed her hands together, looking at the
floor instead of at Sammi. “A friend of mine from work
suggested I should see you.” More nervous laughter. “I guess I’m
getting kind of desperate.” She looked startled at her own words.
“I’m sorry. That sounded terrible, but I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Sammi assured her. “I’m used to people’s
skepticism, so you’re not going to hurt my feelings. Just tell me
why your friend sent you to me.”
“Last year, I broke up with the man I’d been dating ever
since I got out of college.”
Sammi heard a distinct undertone of pain in Laurel’s voice.
Obviously, she hadn’t gotten over him yet. Sammi wondered if
she knew that.
“It was kind of a messy breakup,” Laurel continued. “He’d
been promising to marry me for a long time, always having some new condition he had to meet before he would be ‘ready.’ I
finally got tired of waiting and basically told him to marry me or
else.” Her laugh was bitter. “He chose ‘or else,’ of course.”
“Sounds like good riddance to me,” Sammi said, and Laurel
looked up sharply, shoulders stiffening. Nope, definitely not over
him yet. “How long were you together?”
“A little over five years.”
“Hmm. Long time. You can’t expect to get over a man
you’ve been with for five years overnight.”
Laurel looked even more indignant. “I am so over him it’s
not even funny.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re coming to see me . . . why?”
She blushed, making herself look even more precious and
delicate. Sammi had to fight down a surge of unfair dislike. It
wasn’t Laurel’s fault that she was so pretty. “Well, uh . . .” She
squirmed uncomfortably. “I haven’t really been on a serious date
since we broke up.”
Sammi’s eyes widened at that. Laurel was the kind of
woman who habitually had men falling at her feet! Especially a
certain kind of man, the shallow, childish kind who only cared
for a woman’s appearance. Kind of like Jason. Sammi groaned
internally when she realized that Jace would probably be getting
home from work when Laurel was leaving, and he would
definitely notice her.
“It’s not that men haven’t asked me out,” Laurel hastened to
explain, catching the surprise on Sammi’s face. “It’s just that
none of them seem to be my type.”
That’s because no one who’s not the jerk you just broke up
with is going to be your type right now. But Laurel wasn’t ready
to hear that, so Sammi kept her opinion to herself for the
moment. “Tell me something about your type.”
Laurel smiled faintly. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I
don’t have a laundry list of features I’m looking for. I just know
that the guys I know right now aren’t it.”
“And your ex-boyfriend? Was he your type?”
Her eyes turned wistful. “I don’t think so. I think that was
our problem. I really loved him, but we were just so different.
Opposites attract, I know. But they also drive each other nuts.”
Tears glittered in her eyes but did not fall. “If I had it all to do
over again, I would never let that relationship get started.”
Sammi breathed a quiet sigh. Laurel was here seeking a
magical solution, hoping Sammi could give her some kind of
charm or potion that would help her find her Mr. Right. The
problem was that no magic would help her until she got Mr.
Wrong out of her system.
“I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear,”
Sammi warned. Laurel sat up straighter, shoulders squaring and
lips pressed tightly together. “You’re not ready to date anyone
else yet. It takes time to get over a nasty breakup, and you need
to have patience with it.”
Laurel seemed to realize how uptight she looked, sitting
ramrod straight on that comfortable couch. Her posture eased
slightly. “I thought maybe you could . . . help me get over it. You
know, give me a charm. Or something.” Her cheeks were
becoming pink again, and she began playing with a loose string
that dangled from her blouse.
Sammi smiled gently. “I’m a witch, not a miracle worker.
For some things, there’s just no shortcut, and I’m afraid this is
one of them.”
“My friend, Trudy Clark, the one who sent me to you . . . She had a lot of trouble getting back on her feet after her divorce.
You gave her a charm, and she met a new man within like a
month.”
Sammi untucked her feet and leaned forward in her chair, the
wicker squeaking with her movement. “Look, I remember Trudy.
She was ready to move on; she just had this hangup about her
kids, didn’t want them to think she was replacing their father.
The charm I gave her was just a placebo. It helped her give
herself permission to look at other men.”
“Oh.”
“I saw you looking at my license.” Laurel turned slightly in
her chair to glance once more at the framed license. “I started my
career as a therapist, and I’ve kept up my license. Sometimes
when witchcraft won’t do the trick, therapy will. Only I charge
a lot less than a therapist.” She grinned, and Laurel grinned back.
“And you’re not covered under my insurance plan.”
Sammi chuckled, liking Laurel better when she wasn’t taking
herself quite so seriously. “No. Anyway, the gist of this is, I can’t
give you a charm or a potion to suddenly make you ready to
move on in your life. What I can do is give you a sympathetic
ear, and even the occasional advice, if you want it.”
Laurel made a face. “I don’t know that I can stand any more
advice. My friends at work keep trying to set me up, and keep
telling me I should date everything that breathes. My mom keeps
telling me I should give Hank another chance. I think she loved
him more than I did. My sister tells me good riddance, who needs
men anyway. But then, she’s been divorced three times already
so she has kind of a bad attitude.”
Sammi shook her head. “I’m talking about practical advice.”
Years of working with the lovelorn had made her preternaturally
perceptive, and she decided to show off those powers of
perception. “For instance, I would advise you to move out of the
apartment you and your ex used to live in.”
Laurel looked absolutely stunned. “H-how . . . How could
you possibly have known that?”
“I’m a witch, remember? I looked in my crystal ball.” She
kept a solemn expression on her face for about fifteen seconds,
then allowed herself a smile.
Laurel rolled her eyes and relaxed back into the cushions of
the couch, chuckling and looking more at ease than she had since
she’d walked in the door. “You had me going there for a
moment. But really, how did you know?”
She shrugged. “Just instinct. It’s usually the man who moves
out when things go wrong. And a woman who’s having trouble
starting over tends to stay put. Nothing overly mysterious,
really.”
“I’ve thought of moving out . . . It’s always seemed like too
much trouble, somehow.”
“It might help you get a new perspective, though.”
Laurel sighed. “Not the best time to go apartment hunting.
It’s tough when the students are all in town.”
Sammi knew that was true, having been a student here once
upon a time long ago. By the end of the summer, it was hard to
find a decent apartment anywhere. Of course, Sammi did know
of an apartment that just happened to be vacant right now. An
apartment that she preferred not to rent to students. “This is just
a thought,” she said, “but one of the apartments in Hippie House
is vacant. Now, this is a very unusual house, as you’ve already
seen. We all share the two kitchens and the living room
downstairs, and we only have the one front door so we basically all have each others’ keys. But this way you actually get to know
your neighbors, in a way you don’t in a regular apartment
building.”
Laurel frowned uncertainly. “I don’t know . . . It is a bit odd.
And I’m not really so sure I want to move, anyway.”
“Well there’s no pressure. I’ll show you the apartment, if
you like. That way you’ll at least know there’s somewhere you
can move to, if you decide you want to.”
Laurel looked decidedly uncomfortable with the whole idea,
but allowed Sammi to show her the apartment anyway. When
Sammi mentioned casually that the other two tenants in Hippie
House were bachelors, Laurel looked distinctly more interested.
The four apartments in Hippie House were all identical, each
consisting of a sitting room, a large bedroom with a fireplace and
a skylight, and a private bathroom. The floors were well-tended
hardwood, and the massive banks of windows let in lots of
sunlight. The walk-in closets were almost large enough to qualify
as an additional room.
Laurel tried to remain noncommittal as she explored; but
Sammi could see at once that it was love at first sight.
Jason Dunhill had looks to die for, the classic tall, dark, and
handsome. He worked as a personal trainer, and as such was
about as image-conscious as a movie-star. He was an expert at
applying self-tanner, so his skin was always a beautiful, golden
brown—no streaks, and no yellow, and no skin cancer. His dark
brown hair was thick and coarse-textured, which meant it always
stayed exactly where he put it. Green eyes of a shade that made
some people suspect he wore tinted contacts, although Sammi
knew for a fact that he didn’t. And his body was, of course,
impeccable, nicely built without being bulky.
Unfortunately, he was also thirty years old with the attitude
of a randy teenager. He had come home from work just in time
to get a glimpse of Laurel leaving, and he had instantly gone into
his tomcat-on-the-prowl act, giving Laurel an unsubtle once-over
and making it disgustingly clear he liked what he saw. Laurel had
been oblivious—too much on her mind, and besides, she
probably elicited that behavior from men all the time. But Sammi
was embarrassed to put a client through that kind of harassment,
even if the client hadn’t noticed. Now, Sammi was counting
slowly backward from one hundred to avoid a possible murder.
Jason grinned up at her from his seat on the couch, green
eyes twinkling with amusement as he enjoyed her chagrin.
“What’s the matter, Sam? You look like you’ve just drunk a big
ole glass of sour milk.”
Sammi sat on the love-seat that was parallel to the couch,
perching on the end of the seat in case she needed to make a
hasty escape before she resorted to violence. “I’ve told you
before, Jace: I don’t want you ogling my clients. I spend a lot of
time counseling women with broken hearts; I don’t need you
coming along and trying to break them all over again!”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I hardly think I broke that chick’s
heart by looking at her! Besides, she was gorgeous. If I’d seen
her on the street I would have looked, so why shouldn’t I look
when I see her here?”
Sammi felt her face heating up. “Do you ever consider
anyone’s feelings?” If she’d known Jason was this much of a
sexist, womanizing asshole, she never would have rented him an
apartment in Hippie House. But her intuition had failed her
entirely where he was concerned, and while she’d tried to get rid of him by setting him up a couple of times, he’d been about as
interested in the women she’d introduced him to as a child was
in eating spinach.
“What is your problem, Sam? All I did was look at a pretty
woman, and you’re acting like I committed a federal crime.
Lighten up!” He wasn’t looking so amused anymore. In fact, his
jaw had set in that stubborn way she was so familiar with, and his
eyes had narrowed dangerously. He was capable of throwing
quite a temper tantrum, and if she didn’t watch it, she’d soon be
treated to one.
Sammi sighed and rubbed her face, trying to rub some of the
tension from her facial muscles. Much as she hated to admit it,
Jason was right. Damned if she was going to give up her
grievance, though.
“Look, Laurel is thinking about renting the empty apartment.
She just had her heart broken by a man she was with for five
years. She doesn’t need the complication of a man like you
sniffing at her skirts day in and day out.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Sam, will you listen to
yourself for a moment? I just looked at her, for Christ’s sake!
And even if I’d started panting like a dog and slobbering all over
her, it would be none of your business. You’re my landlady, not
my mom. So knock it off!”
Sammi swallowed back another snappish comment. What
was it about Jason that got under her skin so easily? It was
hellishly difficult for them to be in the same room together for
more than five or ten minutes without getting into one of these
little sparring matches of theirs; and Jason usually won, which
annoyed her even more.
Deciding that she would make even more of an ass of herself
if she stuck around, Sammi made a silent and, she hoped,
dignified exit.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.12.2010

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