Page 1 of Love Potions and Paperwork

Prologue

Clover

It wasn’t a surprise to find Talia waiting for me.

I did have the only set of keys. And I was fifteen minutes late. . . At least.

She had a clove cigarette between two of her slender fingers, her thumb making a steady track over her phone screen as she exhaled a stream of smoke into the air. Her back pressed against the painted black siding of the cafe, a small alcove by the door the only part of the ancient building free of cascading strands of ivy. Talia smiled easily as I approached, flicking away the butt of her smoke and stomping on it with her booted foot.

“Hey, Clover! I called you. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, sorry I’m late. Gran was the morning person of the two of us,” I said, not really an apology as much as an excuse.

Talia tutted softly, her light eyebrows pulling together with something uncomfortably close to pity. “If you need more time?—”

“I don’t,” I lied, ignoring the lump rising in my throat at the mention of the woman who raised me. I fumbled in thebottom of my bag; sifting through layers of receipts, granola bar wrappers, and stray candies. “I’ve already been off for three days and Gran wouldn’t want me to close the cafe.” My fingers hooked around my keyring and I pulled the mess of metal and novelty keychains from the bag’s magically enhanced depths.

It was a super easy charm. A couple incantations, a pinch of pixie eyelashes and—BAM!—bigger bag. All the room in the world for a girl to keep six thousand receipts she’d never look at again.

My elven friend huffed a short laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

“I know I am.”

With the scrape of the key in the lock the golden yellow door swung open, the pane of the large centred window flashing in the early morning sun. Despite the delicious golden light bouncing off the many windows above—belonging to the many apartments resting atop of the tiny space our coffee shop occupied—the early spring air was still chilly. Especially with the wind howling between the buildings on either side. We were greeted by the soft chime of the bell, the smell of coffee beans, and greenery meeting us on the stoop in a comforting embrace.

I flipped the light switch, the multicoloured lamps dotting the cluttered cafe glowing to life in all their eclectic glory.

It wasn’t the first time I’d worked the opening shift atSpoonful of Spells, but knowing Gran wouldn’t be joining me this afternoon—or ever again—did nothing to improve my stormy mood. The cafe was the family business. Well,mybusiness,I supposed, now that I was the last member in the family line.

I tried not to think about it. It was too depressing.

Tried being the operative word.

Talia hung up her coat and checked the phone’s messages while I stowed my bag away and donned my apron.

“Glen called. Looks like there was a mix-up with the pastry delivery this morning. He’s going to be a little late.”

“Great,” I grumbled, grabbing the massive watering can from its resting place under the leaves of a fern overflowing its handmade pot. With the wave of my hand the faucet behind the counter ground to life, water hitting the basin of the sink in a steady stream. Another wave had the water filling the empty watering can.

“It’ll be alright, he said he’d be twenty-five minutes. And most of the regulars come in after eight anyway.” Talia said, replacing the phone on the hook and pulling on her apron.

I sighed and flicked my fingers, turning off the tap. “I’m sorry, I’m just?—”

“Grieving.” Talia supplied solemnly. The young elf had been working for us for a few years now. I knew she must have missed my Gran too.

Somehow, it made things easier.

Gran had always been here well before me in the morning, leaving me to get a few precious minutes of extra rest while she prepped for the early morning rush. But now? Someone needed to receive the bakery delivery. To dust the jars of herbs and spellwork supplies. To prep the drip coffee?—

“Talia, do you mind starting a pot?”

“Roger that, Clover.”

The cafe had been my Gran’s one true love. She’d filled it to the brim with mismatched tables and chairs in natural wood tones—lovingly selected at antique malls and flea markets. Books were stacked haphazardly in an overfull cupboard on the far wall, shelves so heavy they bowed under the weight of the pages. Large windows covered the entire face of the shop, able to be rolled up when the weatherturned warm—providing a walkthrough to the patio and nearly doubling the footprint of the cramped space.

It was. . .whimsical.

Magic.

---