Love spell, p.1
Love Spell, page 1
Contents
Foreword
Blurb
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
The End
In the mood for more Trick or Treat goodness?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by M.A. Foster
Love Spell
Copyright © 2019 by M.A. Foster
All rights reserved.
Cover design: Andrea at Bookend Designs
Interior Design: Abigail Davies at Pink Elephant Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Foreword
Trick or treat! We have something sweet for you to devour this Halloween! These sexy heroes are about to put you under their spell...
But watch out for twists and turns, these new books will have you lusting for more!
TEN brand new stories full of...eye-candy! This holiday collection is just the right treat to get you in the mood for a sinful Hollow’s Eve.
Blurb
Five years ago, I was a vibrant, outgoing college girl with the world in the palm of my hand. Until one night, when people I trusted turned on me, leaving me bloody and broken.
I wasn’t safe. So my mother sent me to Clara, an old family friend and my saving grace.
With her magic teas and clairvoyance, she revealed the evil still lurking in the shadows ready to strike. So she did something unheard of—she changed my destiny.
Enter Levi Martinez with his beautiful blue eyes and gruff exterior.
He was gorgeous.
He was intense.
And he would be the one to save me.
This book is dedicated to my readers. Especially to the ladies in my readers group, who have supported me along the way. Without you, this wouldn’t be possible.
Halloween
Five years ago…
Sirens roar in the distance, my body jostling from side to side as the ambulance speeds down the highway toward the nearest hospital. The back doors are pushed open, and I wince in pain as the stretcher is lowered to the ground.
“Twenty-year-old female sustained a head injury from a fall. Witnesses say she’d been drinking. She lost her balance, causing her to fall down the concrete steps outside the residence.”
I groan in protest. I was pushed.
“What’s her name?” a male voice asks.
“Hazel Young,” a deep, familiar voice replies.
That voice. Oh God. A paralyzing dose of fear zips up my spine and through my limbs.
“Here’s her phone,” another familiar voice adds, this one female.
She’s here, too.
“Thank you,” the first male voice says. “You and your friends can hang out in the waiting room.”
“Uh… okay, thanks.”
The automatic doors open with a swish, and then I’m being wheeled away. Away from them. I’m taken through another set of doors before we come to a stop.
“Hazel Young, twenty years old, head injury, concussion, broken wrist, possible rib fracture,” the first male voice explains.
“Hazel, I’m Dr. Bailey. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I croak.
“Can you open your eyes for me?”
I will my eyes open, but they’re so heavy. When I finally crack them, I flinch against the bright light.
“Can you tell me what day it is?”
“Friday. Where’s my mom? I want my mom.”
“I’ll call her, honey,” a warm feminine voice assures me. “Can you give me the password on your phone?”
“Two-five-eight-zero.”
“Thank you, honey. I’m gonna step out and give her a call.”
“Thank you.”
“Hazel, do you remember what happened tonight?” Dr. Bailey asks.
“They hurt me,” I cry out.
“Who hurt you?”
“All of them.”
The rain is coming down sideways, pelting me in the side of the head, plastering my thick honey-colored hair to my face and soaking through my jeans. ‘The Mystikal Tea Room’ is carved into the wooden sign hanging from the metal rafters supporting the balcony just above my head. The faded pink, two-story building is situated between a café and a place claiming to have the best gumbo in New Orleans. The sign on the door says it’s closed, but the night is just beginning for others. People are dashing down the sidewalk, dodging puddles and disappearing inside the bars lined up and down both sides of the street.
Next to the door is a sign that reads ‘Fortune Teller’ at the top with an open palm just below it next to the words ‘palm reading, tarot card, and tea leaf available.’ I press the doorbell just below the sign and burrow into my lightweight jacket, gripping tightly to the handle of my suitcase and shifting on my feet. Several minutes tick by before the door swings open and a small, thin, dark-skinned woman appears in the doorway behind the screened door. A colorful printed scarf is wrapped around her head, and large hoops hang from her ears. She’s just as my mother described.
“Miss Clara?” I ask.
She offers me a kind smile. “You must be Hazel,” she says, pushing open the screened door. “Come in, child. You’re soaked.”
Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I wheel it behind me as I step inside onto the wood floors and shiver against the cool air.
Clara winces. “Let me get you some towels,” she offers as she scurries off.
I use that moment to take in her space. On one side of the room is a long counter lined with coffee machines, carafes, and mugs. Two bistro tables are arranged in front of it. A large painting of a pottery vase hangs on the wall above the counter, and below the counter are shelves lined with an assortment of coffees, teas, and novelty mugs.
On the other side of the room is a sitting area with a lavender sofa flanked by two light brown leather chairs, and a small wooden coffee table situated between them. The wall behind the sofa is lined with bookshelves filled to the brim with books. In the middle of the room is a three-tiered shelf stocked with essential oils, candles, and more novelty mugs.
A moment later, Clara returns with a couple of towels, stretching one out on the wood floor. Removing my jacket and shoes, I place them on the towel and use another to dry my hair and face before wiping the outside of my suitcase.
“Let me show you to your room so you can get changed.” She leads me to the back of the store, up a set of stairs, and down a short hallway lined with framed photos and crosses in every shape and size, metal and wood, scattered in between.
“The bathroom is here.” She gestures to an open doorway on the left before stopping in front of a door on the right and turning to face me. Her eyes flick over my face, her expression sympathetic.
“Do you need help?” She gestures to the cast on my wrist.
I give her a tight smile. “No. I got it. Thank you.”
She nods. “I’ve got a pot of red beans and sausage on the stove. Get yourself out of those wet clothes. If you need a shower….” She gestures toward the bathroom.
“Thank you, Miss Clara.”
“No need to thank me, child. Your mama is a dear friend. I’m happy to help.”
After a hot shower, I dress in a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, thankful the rain hadn’t soaked through my suitcase, before seeking out Clara in the kitchen.
She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Feel better?”
“Much. Thanks.” I pull out one of the four chairs around the small wooden table and sit.
Clara mills around the kitchen, pulling two bowls from the cabinet and scooping a healthy portion of beans and rice into each one.
Clara and my mother were childhood friends who met when my grandfather, a Marine, was stationed in New Orleans. But after he was killed overseas, my grandmother and mother returned to Texas to be closer to family. My mother told me that she and Clara did their best to stay in touch over the years, writing letters and talking on the phone. About ten years ago, they reconnected through social media. My mother also told me that Clara was special. When I asked her what she meant by that, she said, “You’ll see.”
Clara places a bowl of red beans and sausage down on the table in front of me. “Eat up, cher. You’re too thin.”
I snort a laugh as I reach for my spoon and scoop a hearty bite into my mouth. “This is delicious.”
Clara nods knowingly. “Your mama ain’t never made you no beans ’n’ rice bef
I jerk one shoulder up in a shrug. “Not like this.” I grin. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
Clara responds with a wink.
“So you can read people’s future?” I ask before taking another bite.
“Something like that.”
“Would you read mine?”
Clara studies the empty teacup, her lips pinched together and eyes narrowed in concentration. “Someone wants to hurt you.”
I snort, and she raises a brow. I gesture to my face. “Someone already has.”
Clara leans forward. “And they’re not going to stop until they really hurt you.” She pauses. “Or worse.” She drops her gaze to the cup, and a curse slips past her lips. “I don’t like this.” Pushing her chair back from the table, she stands and takes the cup to the sink. “I don’t do this,” she says, keeping her back to me as she grips the edge of the sink. “Ever.” She turns around to face me. “This goes against everything I stand for, but I care about your mother, which means I care about her child. So I’m going to help you.”
“How?”
“I’m going to change your destiny.”
Levi
“Yes… yes… yes!” Candy screams, arching her back, her nails digging into my ass as I pound into her. The headboard slams against the wall with every thrust.
Or is it Carly?
I honestly can’t remember. She’d introduced herself briefly the day she moved in across the hall, but that was two weeks ago, and I was on my way out. We’ve barely spoken other than the “Hey, neighbor” greeting I get from her every morning. It seems she and I are on the same schedule.
Every morning, like clockwork, I open my apartment door heading to work and a split second later, her door will open. And just like every other morning, she bites down on her bottom lip, gives me a little finger wave, and says, “Hey, neighbor,” before stepping out into the hall dressed in workout gear, a bag hanging from the crease of her elbow, and turning to lock her door.
Then I bumped into her at the gym tonight. “Hey, neighbor,” she’d said, doing that whole lip biting thing. I was surprised to see her, considering she’d been leaving for the gym at six thirty this morning, but as it turns out, she works there. After a little small talk about how she’d just moved to town, one thing led to another and here we are. I never clarified her name, and she never asked for mine. This is a hookup and nothing more.
“Yes… yes… yes….” The shrill pitch of her voice feels like an ice pick to my eardrums.
Rising up on my palms, arching my back, I dig my knees into the mattress and pick up the pace.
Anyone with a lick of common sense knows you don’t shit—or fuck—where you eat. But she’s hot: blonde with a great set of tits and a tight, fit little body. And I’m a guy. I’ll take my chances.
“Yes… yes… yes….” She throws her head back as her pussy clenches around me, and I feel that familiar tingle of pleasure working its way up my spine.
Nothing strokes a man’s ego more than having a woman under him screaming in pleasure. But if I’m being honest, I prefer soft moans and heavy feminine pants to a screaming banshee.
A headache forms at my temples, so I cover her mouth with mine to shut her the fuck up, my tongue teasing hers. With one last thrust, I groan into her mouth.
Rolling off the bed, I head to the bathroom to dispose of the condom before returning to the room to dress.
She sits up with the sheet tucked under her arms. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah,” I drawl, eyeing her over my shoulder.
“Why?”
Turning around, I say, “Listen, Candy—”
“It’s Christy,” she corrects, and I sigh. So close.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “And my name isn’t Neighbor.”
She lowers her chin, seeming deflated.
“It’s cool, Christy.” I chuckle, and she perks up a little. “It is what it is. You were great,” I lie. She wasn’t terrible, but I’ll admit this is the first time I’ve gotten a headache during sex. “I don’t do sleepovers.” That part is true. I also don’t do cuddling, dating, or girlfriends.
I like my space, and in my line of work, it’s important to keep my head clear and mind sharp. My job is too important to let myself get distracted by a woman.
Well, that’s what I like to tell myself.
“I like sleeping in my own bed,” I tell Christy as I snatch my shirt from the floor and pull it over my head.
“I could come to your place,” she suggests in a seductive tone.
“I don’t do sleepovers in my bed either,” I say, shaking my head, letting her down gently. “Besides, I have to be up early for work.” Placing a knee on the bed, I lean over and press a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks for tonight. I’ll see you.”
As I reach the threshold of her bedroom, it occurs to me that she still never asked for my name. Turning in the doorway, I press my hands against the frame. “By the way, it’s Levi.”
“Good morning.” I’m greeted by an overly chipper voice from an unfamiliar face wearing a bright smile. Stepping up to the counter, my narrowed gaze falls to her name tag: Starr.
“What can I get you?” she chirps loudly.
I blink at her. The fuck is she so happy about this early in the morning?
A female snicker pulls my gaze to Hazel as she rounds the corner coming from the back. Hazel is the owner of Café by the Bay, which opened about a year ago after everyone’s favorite little breakfast bistro closed.
The place has been completely remodeled inside. The exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, painted ductwork and pendant lighting gives the space an industrial vibe.
Bistro tables occupied by twenty-somethings and their laptops are arranged on one side of the room. And on the other side is a sitting area with three small velvet love seats in a deep purple arranged in a U shape, a small wooden coffee table situated between them.
The register is at the far end and behind it is a counter lined with high-end coffee machines. A large clock, flanked by two chalkboards listing the day’s specials, hangs on the brick wall over the counter.
I used to come in here a few days a week since she opened but for the last few months I’ve been coming in every day. So, not only does Hazel know my order by heart, but she’s the highlight of my day. Prettier than any sunrise in Heritage Bay, and probably the only exception to my stupid rules.
Yeah, I like her, and if I wasn’t such a stubborn asshole, I’d ask her out.
She’d be worth the distraction.
I’m not damaged or opposed to relationships. I had a serious girlfriend back in high school. I thought Kiera was the love of my life, but what the fuck did I know? I was eighteen, and she was sixteen. When I left for the Marines, she was entering her junior year of high school. We wrote letters and talked on the phone whenever we could. We had plans to get married after she graduated, and she promised to wait for me. A year and a half later, I got my very own “Dear John” letter. She dumped me for some preppy fuck named after a car. Bentley. Last I heard, the two graduated and took off to travel the world. For all I know, she married the preppy fuck and had a bunch of his preppy little babies while I was rotting in the fucking desert.
Eventually, I got over her. Not that I had a choice. Since then, I’ve grown selfish, and up until last night, I’ve been picky about the women I spend time with.
Hazel isn’t the kind of woman you take home from the gym for a quick fuck. She’s the kind of woman who deserves picnics in the park on lazy Sundays. The woman you take home to meet your parents. She’s the kind of woman you marry. And because I can’t give her those things, I refuse to insert myself into her life that way. I like her way too much.
