Page 2 of Sugar, Spice, and Magical Midlife

I squeezed a generous amount of paste onto my toothbrush, determined to get the taste of his stale breath off my tongue. His kisses were always so sloppy, he practically inhaled my face. I cringed when I saw the circles beneath my eyes, no doubt from busting my ass at the bakery only to have to come home and wait on my husband and son. Once a bright blue, the shine in my eyes had dulled over the years. My auburn hair was lackluster,and my pale skin looked an alarming shade of gray. My magic was powerful enough that I could wave my lipstick wand over my face and conceal the worst of the wear and tear, though I had a feeling I’d look a lot less haggard if my husband would help out more around the house.

So this was midlife marriage? I had hoped the dirty thirties were just a prelude to even better intimacy in our fabulous forties, but let’s face it, our dirty thirties were mostly spent changing soiled diapers. Correction. I changed all the diapers while he complained about my mothering skills. Des was almost a teenager, and Colin still found reasons to complain, even though I did all the work.

Colin’s nasally, whiny pitch increased like the growing howl of an angry black cat. “You’re always too tired.”

I shot him a cool glare before turning my back on him. Did I need to point outhewas the one who’d failed to perform tonight?

“I want pie,” he whined again, reminding me of a dog begging for scraps.

I stared at him a long moment, eyes focused on a crusty little white booger that flapped on the end of a long nostril hair. His whimpering turned into a keening whistle that blew out his nose, making the booger flap harder like a flag in a windstorm. Finally, the booger had had enough of him and let go, floating in an arc through the air, free and unhinged.

In that moment, I felt a kindred spirit in that booger. More than that, I was jealous. Of. A. Booger. It was then I knew what I had to do. Pulling back my shoulders, I looked him square in the eyes. “I want a divorce.”

“Okay, fine.” He shrugged, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ll find something else for dessert.”

“Colin,” I said on a sigh. “I can’t do this anymore.” And with that, I walked out the bathroom, feeling a weight lift off my chestas I whispered, “Free, free, free.” This little booger was finally letting go of her nostril hair. By the time I reached my closet, a wellspring of emotion bubbled up inside me. Leaning against a mirror, I tried to understand this strange feeling.Free, free, free!

“Luce,” he called from the bedroom. “You can’t be serious.”

I didn’t bother turning around as that feeling magnified, the emotions rising to the surface until I could no longer hold them back. My eyes watered, my throat constricted. I swallowed, gasping for breath when the sensation overcame me, and a burst of laughter erupted from my throat.

“Luce,” Colin whined again.

I laughed harder. Clutching my chest, I thought about holding it back, but why? I doubled over, laughing so much my sides ached. By the time I was finally able to regain my composure, I turned to see him glaring at me, his cheeks flaming red.

I laughed again, not caring when he stomped a foot like a toddler. I didn’t have to watch myself around Colin anymore. I. Was. Free.

Chapter One

Luci

13 months later

“Luci, here comes Cinnamon-Spiced Latte,” Ethyl, my best friend, distant cousin, and apprentice witch-in-training, cooed from behind a tray of glazed cinnamon rolls.

“Oh.” I shot up from behind the counter, almost toppling a stack of gooey brownies in the process while eyeing the parking lot in front of the bakery. Sure enough, that tall, tanned and virile hunk of manflesh, aka Cinnamon-Spiced Latte, aka Ricardo Romero, had just pulled his big, black truck into the drive.

I nearly tripped over my own feet as I spun around and snatched my lipstick wand out of my apron pocket. After I waved the wand across my lips, I yanked down my top, possibly, accidentally on purpose, exposing just a touch of plump cleavage. Ricardo was always giving me an eyeful with those ripped arms covered in exotic tattoos. I was just returning the favor. I quickly checked my reflection in the mirror. A lot had changed since I’d asked my now ex-husband for a divorce a little over a year ago. My skin and eyes had a healthy glow, my auburn hair a bright sheen, and I found myself smiling more often than frowning. For the first time in many, many years, I could say I was actually happy. I was independent, strong, and I had a thriving business. I wasn’t going to deny, it would be nice to get laid by something other than silicone, but I wasn’t aboutto throw away my life again for a man, no matter how much his smile turned my insides to mush.

I tried not to get all hot and bothered whenever Ricardo came into my shop. Tried being the operative word. It took every scrap of willpower, enhanced with a touch of magical fortification, not to melt into a puddle of goo at the first scent of his tantalizing cologne, spicy with a hint of something mystic. He always had a feral look in his mahogany eyes while he walked with feline grace, like a lion stalking his prey. I swore he had to have been a cat in his past life. Or maybe he was a lion shifter, though he wasn’t listed in theRegistry of Supernatural Creatures.

I spun back around, facing Ethyl. “How do I look?”

“As pretty as a siren.” Ethyl tossed her cotton-candy-pink ponytail over a shoulder and batted large eyes, cobalt today, which signified a good mood. Her rainbow-hued wings were magically hidden, so as not to spook the humans who frequented the shop, though I could feel them displacing the air as they gently fluttered. “Can’t wait to watch him drool.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “I think he drools over the cinnamon rolls, not me.” At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t interested. That way there wouldn’t be a huge letdown after he connected the dots to my chaotic life and discarded me like a moldy loaf of week-old bread.

“Keep telling yourself that, Luci,” Ethyl snickered, shaking her head.

I thought about telling Ethyl that she had a smidgen of orange frosting dotted on the tip of her turned-up nose, but it only enhanced her pixie-like cuteness. Unlike me, who was built like an Amazonian with mile-high legs and voluptuous curves, Ethyl was a wisp of a girl, with a smattering of freckles on a sun-kissed complexion. But what Ethyl lacked in stature, she made up for in spunk.

My spine stiffened when Cinnamon-Spiced Latte paused outside to answer his phone, turning a broad back to the door, his voice carrying through the thin glass. “Dammit, Lenny. I don’t care if your grandma forgot to wake you up.” The louder his voice, the thicker his Spanish accent. “It’s your responsibility to get to work on time, not hers.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and emitted several colorful curse words.

I tossed a glance over my shoulder, relieved to see my preteen son, Des, all elbows and knees with a wan face and dark hair, had his headphones on while he played educational computer games at his table in the corner. Like usual, Des was lost in the pixels of his computer screen, or wherever autistic witch children escaped when they were tuning out the rest of the world.

I spoke out of the corner of my mouth. “If he was into me, he would’ve asked me out by now.”

“Oh, he’s into you.” Ethyl wiped flour down her apron. “Who orders two dozen cinnamon rolls every day for two weeks?”

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