Page 1 of Sugar, Spice, and Magical Midlife

Part One

Sorcery, Sugar, and Magical Murder

Prologue

Luci

“Sorry about that. What’s for dessert?”

Draping an arm across my brow, I repressed a groan and about a dozen different curse words. I eyed my husband through sideways slits. His hand rested on his gut, swollen with a few too many Merlin Margaritas. His flaccid penis was hanging across his saggy balls like a deflated windsock. When he hiked up his leg and let out a wet, gurgly fart, I knew that was my cue to get out of bed. I was thinking about asking him to at least pleasure me, but my libido fizzled like the bubbles of that flat champagne I’d gagged on during our anniversary dinner.

So much for that siren shade I’d slipped into his coffee this morning. In the magical world, siren shade was a surefire dicker-upper. It was obvious my marriage needed more powerful sorcery, maybe even divine intervention, because my magic, strong though it was, wasn’t cutting it.

I sat up and slipped into my soft cotton robe, the one Colin said made me look like I belonged in a retirement home. Maybe I’d dust the cobwebs out of my vagina and get out my vibrator after he fell asleep. When he let out another loud fart, I jumped off the bed, but not fast enough. This one packed enough punch to burn the insides of my nostrils.

“Merlin’s balls, Colin!” I groaned. “What did you eat?”

Brown eyes sparkling, he flashed an impish grin, his deep dimples a sad reflection of the boy I’d fallen in love with at just twenty years old. Sheesh, I was so stupid.

He patted his hairy gut. “I tried a new Thai restaurant today.”

“I thought you were in meetings all day.” That’s what his secretary had said during one of the many times I’d called to remind him about our anniversary dinner. He’d still come home late, and we’d been forced to eat appetizers at the bar after missing our reservation, toasting eighteen years of marriage, plus two years ofdating, between bites of fried mozzarella.

“What’s with the interrogation, Luce?”

Ugh. I hated when he called me by that nickname. Luce, like moose. He usually called me that when he was annoyed or about to ask for a favor.

He shoved his legs into a faded pair of sweats. “A man’s gotta eat.”

“I wasn’t interrogating you.” I cringed at the high keening in his tone and felt a stress migraine coming on. “You know what? Never mind.” I stared at his reflection in the mirror, watching him scratch his ass crack and then sniff his fingers. Gag.

He wiped his fingers down the front of his pants. “I could really go for one of your apple pies.”

Twenty years. Twenty freaking years of sexual frustration, wet farts, and ass crack sniffing. And witches lived hundreds of years. I felt as if the bedroom walls were caving in around me.

“I don’t have any crusts ready,” I drawled, feeling as if someone else was talking for me. I felt sorry for the shell of the witch I’d once known who’d somehow found herself trapped in this mundane life.Think of Des. You’re doing it for him.Because despite how annoying Colin could be, he brought home a decent paycheck, and he had a good insurance plan. I’d never be able to afford Des’s medical bills on my own. My little bakery hardly earned a living wage.

“Can’t you make one?”

My gaze snapped up to him. His arms were crossed over his soft chest, his hands tucked under his armpits. Any momentnow and he’d smell his fingers again. Great Goddess! Were his fingers going on a world tour of every stinky crevice?

“Colin, I’ve been on my feet all day.” Busting my ass since four AM, all so I could finish in time to make our anniversary dinner.

He pouted. “You never use that excuse when Des asks for something.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. There he goes again, jealous of his own child, an occurrence that was happening more frequently.

“I do, actually.” I struggled to keep my tone even, though inside my chest was a bubbling cauldron of rage. Twenty freaking years. “You’re just never around to notice.”

“Come on, babe.” He bridged the distance between us, patting my back like he was trying to burp a baby. “It can be my anniversary present.”

I ducked into the bathroom, my gut roiling when he followed. I couldn’t believe I was prepared to have sex with him. Just the thought made me want to regurgitate those mozzarella sticks down his swollen stomach.

“I brought home leftover pastries,” I said. Being the owner of a magical bakery in Santa Fe, I didn’t get to bring home lots of leftovers, but there was enough to satisfy his sweet tooth.

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “But I’m craving apples.”

“Colin, I’m tired.”

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