I want to burst into tears.
No. I will not cry. I won’t be overlooked.
There’s only one thing that can make this better, and that’s where I’m headed now.
Chapter 5
Coco
“So this is your office,” Cristina says.
I rise from my desk and make a grand gesture with my arm. “Please, enter my domain.”
My friend laughs as she walks in, her gaze brushing over the room.
“I know what you’re thinking: How could a country girl like me wind up with such an elegant space?”
“Itisnice.” She playfully punches my arm. “You did good, kid.”
The officeisnice, with big windows overlooking Main Street. When I arrived yesterday, the desk was butted up to said windows, but that felt a bit too open, so I moved it into a corner.
Cristina crosses to the bookshelves on the wall. “Wow. You’ve moved in fast.”
“No, those were left by Dot, the woman who had this office before me. I guess she passed away and no one ever took her books.”
“Judging by the thickness of the dust on these shelves, looks like Dot came ages before you.”
She lifts a dusty finger to prove her point, and I smirk. “It’s nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix.”
“True. Not to mention she left quite the collection—we’ve got history of the town, crochet patterns, and then ...” Cristina sucks in a breath. “Have you seen this?”
“What?”
I walk over as she pulls a black book halfway out from its slot, revealing just enough cover to expose the title:Spells and Craft.
I study the silver swirling script. “Is that real?”
“I don’t know.” Cristina pulls her blond hair over one shoulder and begins braiding it. “But who in town would have a book like that? Not after what happened.”
“Maybe she was one ofthem.”
“I doubt it. You know what people think about witches around here.” She shivers, stares at the book for one more beat before saying, “You should get rid of it.”
“It’s harmless.”
Worry thickens her voice. “I don’t know.”
“Besides, witches don’t exist.”
Right? That’s not what I am. I’m not a witch. I’m a person with blue sparkles on her fingers who sometimes touches things that just so happen to spontaneously combust.
This does not make me a witch.
I tip my head and give my friend a teasing look. “Do we actually think an old lady who worked in Zoning for twenty years hid a real spell book in this office?”
Before Cristina can reply, I grab the book and open it. The air in the room shifts, and a breeze ticks up the back of my neck, lifting my hair so that it flutters over my shoulders.
The page I’ve opened to reveals a “spell” for removing skin moles. I tap the paper. “Come on. This isn’t magic. It’s an old lady’s remedy book.”
