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Randy is an attractive man. His strong jawline and sharp green eyes spring to mind, so attraction isn’t the issue. It’s his obvious disdain for me and nearly everyone else on the island. He thinks himself better than everyone, and I don’t want a mate who makes me feel like I’m beneath him.

I have always dreamed of meeting my mate. Randy never occurred to me as a possibility. Mates should be compatible on a soul level. I’ve lived next door to Randy for over a decade, and I’ve never seen a shred of evidence that his soul and mine are cut from the same cloth. I don’t believe they’re even made from the same material.

There isn’t a single person on the island who hasn’t been fined, reprimanded, or lectured by Randy. He’s always telling people what they can and cannot do, using tradition as a shield to justify his grievances.

Why can’t Ada, the owner of the local café, add a few cappuccino offerings to her menu for humans? Tradition. Why can’t we build new houses on the far side of the island? Tradition. Why can’t we bring modern technology over from the mainland for entertainment? Well, that’s less tradition and more plain old bigotry. His views against humans are alarming, and I’m not willing to tolerate it in a mate.

He’s the island tyrant. How, how could he be my mate?

A little voice that sounds suspiciously like my Uncle Cedar reminds me that there may be more to Randy than I realize.

After all, he keeps to himself, rarely socializing outside of town council meetings. If he’s my mate, could there be more underneath all those layers of pomp, bias, and obsessive control that none of us have bothered to look for?

I glance out the window again. Randy is looking at my remaining pathetic pumpkin. He did stop by to check in on me. And he brought me delicious scones without being asked. He looked genuinely upset when I practically pushed him out the door. None of that excuses what Randy has said and done in the past. I groan and slump into my overstuffed loveseat. I need to relax and de-stress for a little bit. Then I’ll deal with the mess in my yard, my squashed pumpkin patch, and my entirely unexpected mate.

Randy

Willoughby is my mate, yet is clearly unsettled by the revelation. As I pass the shambles of his garden, the peaked yellow pumpkin on its single intact vine catches my eye.

Perhaps he's too distraught, overwhelmed, or disappointed over the destruction of his pumpkins. More importantly, his tradition is ruined. That I understand.

First place every year rings through my mind.

That is quite impressive, even if it’s only vegetation.

The solution to both problems comes to me easily: I’ll help him with his pumpkin. If it grows large, he can still win the festival. Once I present him with my plan, Willoughby will be free to acknowledge our bond, and we can proceed from there.

Yes! This is a good idea.

I stop at my simple stone house first. The dark wood floors and light beige walls are complemented by hardwood furniture carved by my own great-grandparents. Is it comfortable? Certainly not, but it's traditional. I tidy up around my home and get things ready.

Midafternoon I change into walking shoes and head out.

Luck is indeed on my side today. After following the back paths through the woods, I finally arrive at the wizard's tower.

Well, half log cabin, half tower.

The base is a rustic log cabin, with a matching tower jutting from the middle.

My good fortune continues because the island’s resident wizard is actually home. I can see him through the front window as I approach. Laz was the man responsible for the safety wards before they were reworked yesterday. His long dark hair streaked with silver and usually tied into a topknot. A short, neat beard matches his unfortunate preference for flannel shirts and jeans. Hardly traditional wizard attire, but I give him some grace since he lost his memory decades ago.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open before I can, revealing a very serious-looking Laz, standing just shy of seven feet tall to my proud four and a half. His brow is furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line. Scrapes and cuts cover his arms and face. He looks like he hasn't slept at all.

"Randy. I don't see you on my doorstep very often. Or ever. If you're here to complain about the new wards or demand that Ivy be banished..." A spike of indignation runs through me, followed closely by surprise. This morning, my mind was consumed with the new resident human woman, last night’s battle and its resulting destruction, and the new wards. Now, the most pressing matter in my world is an autumnal gnome with dark brown skin, fluffy white hair, and an unreasonable affinity for pumpkins.

"No, though don't think I won't have several sharp words to share at the council meeting tonight," I promise. Laz closes his eyes, and I have the distinct impression he's keeping himself from rolling them.

"Then what are you doing here? I've been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, Randy. I need sleep." He leans heavily against his doorframe.

"I, well..." Since I only came up with the idea a short while ago at my cottage, I haven't properly composed my request or determined precisely what I need. "I need assistance with a pumpkin."

Laz's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "A pumpkin?" he repeats, and now I’m the one keeping myself from rolling my eyes at the unnecessary disbelief in his tone.

"Yes. You see, a garden was utterly destroyed by debris during your little skirmish on the hill."

"Little skirmish? We nearly died, Randy," he says flatly.

"Yes... anyway, only one pumpkin survived in the entire garden. I’d like a spell or a potion or something to help me... grow it."