A witch with serious emotional issues trying to cast? All the machines might explode—extra bad for business.
“Drive safely,” Danica muttered.
“Eat something! I’m off to learn how to make better use of our marketing dollars. Have a great day.” With that, her cousin hung up.
Clementine—nicknamed Clem—was always looking to increase profits and get more customers. While their abilities were awesome, they couldn’t pay the bills without money coming in. She and her cousin were better off than most because they lived in the family home, sold to them for a song when Gram relocated to the retirement community in Citrus Hills. Where she had—unfortunately—practiced using social media on the smartphone Danica had bought her. Now instead of appearing in water bowls, Gram sent messages like a mundane, attaching photos of respectable witches. That was the beginning of dark days, the great Bindr (the only pure witch dating app) plague. With a shiver, she recalled the endless nagging.
“Did you fill out the profile yet? Did you take a nice selfie?” It had been so wrong when Gram used the word “selfie.”
She sighed. On the other end of the spectrum, her mother asked Danica if she was happy and fulfilled, if she was following her heart. Three generations of witches, with her sandwiched in the middle, being tugged in opposite directions.
“Don’t worry about what my mother says,” Minerva had said the last time she’d called. “Just pick the person you love. Pedigree doesn’t matter, that’s old-fashioned talk.”
Funny how Gram said the exact opposite, that Minerva ruined her life by marrying a mundane. Just remembering those conversations made Danica’s head throb. Small wonder that she and Clem were determined to have fun, keep their hearts private, and guard their power like dragons.
Taking a deep breath to calm down, she inspected the fancy juice machine, scanning the issue neatly summarized on the card. Clem had beautiful handwriting, and she had left detailed notes.
“You won’t make juice, huh?” Closing her eyes, she set a hand on the top of the machine and, with an extra sense that she could never explain, sifted through the connections and parts until she could feel the broken piece. A different sort of repair shop would need to disassemble this machine, order a new part, and then put all the pieces back together, but Danica whispered sweet little words until the metal sighed and smoothed, the jagged edges whole once more.
Time for a field test. She had gotten some cut pineapple from the fridge and dropped it in the machine when a deep voice from the doorway startled her. “I’m sorry, are you open?”
Danica whirled to face the tallest, most delicious man she’d ever seen, a walking panty-peril. He had dark hair, a well-trimmed beard hugging a strong jaw, and eyes like butter toffee. She suppressed a weird noise in response to his improbable hotness.
Then her magic surged and the blender powered on, covering her in fruity froth.
***
Titus tried not to laugh, but it was impossible to stifle his amusement entirely. He turned the chuckle into a cough and said, “I don’t think that’s quite fixed yet. Seems to have a short or something.”
“Yes, I can see that.” With remarkable poise, the woman reached for a hand towel and cleaned her face; then she smoothed the pineapple chunks from her hair as well.
His sister had recommended the Fix-It Witches, and since the repair shop was only six blocks from his bakery, he’d decided to scope the place out in person. With only one working oven, it was hell meeting the demand for pastries daily. He’d heard that the cousins who ran this shop could fix anything, but nobody had mentioned how cute they were. The one he was looking at anyway—curly russet hair, soulful brown eyes, freckles dusted like a sprinkle of cinnamon on golden skin, and yeah, better stop there.
“Sorry, I called out in front and rang the bell. I heard you moving back here, but it didn’t seem like you knew I was in the shop.”
“I might have been on the phone when you came in. I’m the one who should apologize. Presumably you have something in need of fixing, and I made you wait.” With a gracious gesture, she indicated that he should precede her.
Titus retraced his steps down the short hallway that led to the front of the shop. They had small appliances for sale, probably items they had refurbished; it made sense to augment their income since people probably dropped things off and either forgot about them or decided to buy something new instead. For a repair shop, everything was astonishingly clean, no hint of grease or dust.
“No problem. Sorry that I—”
She cut in, “I know it’s a Midwestern tradition to apologize repeatedly when nobody is really at fault, but let’s call it even.”
Her eyes twinkled at him, and Titus found himself responding, charmed by her warm smile and her candor. “Thank goodness you stopped me. I was prepared to apologize six more times. I might have resorted to inventing offenses.”
“Such as being responsible for my smoothie malfunction?” she suggested.
“That’s probably my fault. I startle small appliances all the time. It’s likely because I’m so tall and blenders are easily intimidated.”
Most people found his sense of humor a bit odd, but she laughed, making his day 50 percent better, and then she joked back in the same silly vein. “Don’t worry, all of ours have been inoculated against tallness.”
Titus immediately wanted to marry her. Or maybe find out her name and buy her dinner. Either way. Maybe all of the above, in a more sensible order. But it would make sense if he started with an introduction, wouldn’t it? “I’m Titus Winnaker, by the way. Sugar Daddy’s down the block is my—”
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re him.”
He blinked. “Him who?”
“The CinnaMan. Your cinnamon rolls are famous!”
What?
She gushed onward, as if he were a rock star and she might soon ask him to sign her chest. “I buy a dozen every month to take to book club, and there are never any leftovers. It’s devastating, but they’re so huge and gooey and delicious—and I’m still talking, aren’t I?”
“I’m afraid so. People don’t really call me that, do they?”
“Well, we do. At book club. Clem says that your cherry Danishes are to die for, so she was in favor of the Great Dane, and Margie loves your cream puffs, so she wanted to call you DreamPuff, but I lobbied for CinnaMan since those are my favorites. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I’m pretty influential, hence—”
“I’m the CinnaMan,” he said, desperately amused. “I’ve never seen you in the shop, but I mostly work in the back.”
“Yes, you have people for that. Today I have none, alas. There’s only me, doing customer service and repairs. And speaking of which, Clem—short for Clementine—would be mortified that I still haven’t asked how I can help you.”