Magical Midlife Misadventures ebook Bundle

Sample from Over the Faery Hill

“If its got tires or testicles, its gonna give you grief.
That’s why I always neuter the dogs.”
-Notable quotable from Grammy B

“Joey, you’re fired.”
I stared over the paper-strewn desk to where my employer—now ex-employer—Rodney Carmichael squatted like a homely little toad. Surely, I had misheard what he just said.
“If this is about the plates that I broke last week, I told you I would pay for them.” I pasted a smile on my face and tried to look like the epitome of an excellent waitress. “It was an accident.”
Because my bad wrist had locked up at precisely the wrong moment when I had been transferring the stack of plates from the dishwasher to the service line. The crash heard ‘round the mountain. As was the nature of small Southern towns, my mother heard about it before my shift ended.
Rodney removed his glasses and polished them with the tail of his untucked shirt. “It isn’t just that. You’re always late—”
“My car got impounded. I had to use my mother’s and it wouldn’t start.”
He sighed, effectively shutting off my protests. “And I’ve had complaints that you were rude to customers.”
“They were jerks! They left me a twenty-seven-cent tip on a forty dollar bill!” And one of the boneheads had swatted me on the ass. Twice.
Rodney put his glasses down and just looked at me. Outside birds twittered in the trees, a promise of spring that was still a month and a half away. In the kitchen, I heard Steve say something to Amanda. The scent of homemade chili filled the space. Steve’s chili was a local treasure, especially on a brisk winter day. I’d been looking forward to having it for lunch but my stomach had morphed into a ball of ice.
“Can I at least finish my shift?” I needed those flimsy tips if I ever wanted to see my beloved VW bug again.
Rodney shook his head and sighed as though he didn’t have a choice and he was the misaligned party. “Greta is coming in to cover for you. Joey, I’m sorry. We gave it a shot. It just didn’t work out.”
I put up a hand. He could feign sympathy all he liked but that wouldn’t change my reality.
That Joey Whitmore had been fired from yet another job.
Rodney handed me an envelope. “I wish you luck.”
“Luck, right,” I snorted. But I took the envelope. Pride wasn’t a luxury I could afford.
Slowly, I rose to my feet and shuffled out of the office and into the hall closet where I’d stashed my purse, coat, and umbrella not even ten minutes ago. The mirror on the door presented me with my reflection. Gray roots showing about two inches long against my dark brown mop of hair because I hadn’t had time to grab dye from the pharmacy. Crow’s feet around my blue eyes. A big bump on my nose from where it had been broken at the same time as my wrist. A mouth that had forgotten how to smile. Sagging D cups, a midsection that looked like rising bread dough, and stretched the scoop neck t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo. I felt a hundred years old, not the smidge past forty that I was.
Could humans age in dog years?
“Look at the bright side,” I said then tried to find one. Nothing came to mind. “You can legally drink?”
There. Bright side. Nailed it.
I glanced back toward the kitchen where Amanda and Steve were busy with prep for the lunch rush. The factory across the road would be emptying out in fifteen minutes. All the hungry recycling workers would descend on the diner, which was little more than a greasy spoon for chili cheese dogs and pie to clog their arteries before returning to saving the planet one pickle jar at a time.
Not wanting to see their pity, I decided not to draw out a goodbye. I’d only worked at the place for three weeks. We weren’t exactly lifelong chums.
After stuffing the envelope inside my coat pocket, I pushed out of the rear door to the small battered deck and down the three steps that led to the gravel parking lot. I didn’t look back at the diner, didn’t want to see the patrons eating in the big picture window. Happy people who would head home or back to work, who had lives that were moving steadily forward.
Mine seemed to be on a broken conveyer belt that no one made parts for anymore. Back home to mom’s house with the unwelcome news that her divorced and damaged daughter would be crashing with her for another few months.
A chill that had nothing to do with the January mountain wind rolled through me at the thought of that conversation.
I unlocked the driver’s side door to mom’s ancient Buick, dropped my bag on the passenger’s seat, and then inserted the key and turned.
Nothing. Not even any spluttering to indicate that the primeval engine was at least giving it the ‘ol college try. I huffed out a breath and then gave it another go. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
I let loose on a string of cuss words that would make a sailor blush and pounded on the steering wheel hard enough to bruise my hand. My bad wrist sang out at the abuse and I slumped forward. Utterly defeated.
My luck. My shitty shitty luck had struck yet again.
Someone rapped on my window and I glanced up, startled.
Bright blue eyes stared down at me from a stranger’s face. He wore battered jeans and a black and white checked flannel coat with a heavy lining to combat the winter chill. No hat or gloves. He must be a native. Odd that I had never seen him before. Our mountain town was tiny and I’d lived here all my life.
His expression read as concerned, though there lurked a twinkle of mischief in those eyes. He made a motion to indicate that I should roll down the car window. After a moment’s hesitation, I did.
“Are you all right?” He spoke with a distinctly Welsh accent.
I started to laugh. One of those I’m coming unhinged sorts of sounds. I could only imagine what I looked like to him.
If I’d been Mr. Blue-eyes, I would have slowly backed away before turning tail and running for the nearest door in case the hysterical Buick driver went full-on looney tunes in the parking lot. But he simply waited for me to simmer down and respond like a human being.
I wiped away the tears along with a good portion of my eyeliner with the sleeve of my coat. “No, actually. I’m having a really terrible day and now my car won’t start.”
“Do you need me to call a tow truck?” the stranger offered.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
He dug around in his coat. “If you need a phone—”
But I held up a hand and tried to explain. “It isn’t that. My ex owns the only tow truck in town.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that.” He flashed me a dazzling white smile that held a hint of something predatory. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You don’t have the power to go back in time, do you?” I glowered at my wrist.
Instead of giving me the odd look my comment warranted, he crouched down beside the car. “And what if I did? Where would you go if you could travel through time?”
I leaned my head back against the seat. “October 3, 1996.”
He quirked a brow. “That’s…oddly specific.”
“It’s the day that changed my whole life.” For the worse.
“Robin?” A twenty-something woman with perfect platinum blonde hair that hung midway down her back called.
I eyeballed the woman and then the guy crouched beside me. “She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?”
He tilted his head to the side. “You have no idea. But, it’s not like that. I’m doing some work for her.”
I held up a hand. “Then I really don’t want to hear about it.”
He laughed and then got back up, fished in his back pocket, and handed me a card. Robin Goodfellow, it read. That was all, just his name. Huh, why did that sound familiar? I was positive I hadn’t seen him before. He was worth remembering.
The corner of his mouth hiked up and he nodded to the card. “That’s good for three wishes if we can strike a deal.”
I snorted, “You’re a comedian.”
His grin was infectious. “No, a fae prince. You ever want to bargain, give me a shout.”
I watched him back away before my mind could comprehend another question.
He gave me a two-fingered salute and then escorted the blonde into the restaurant.
“What the hell was that?” I grumbled and then dialed the dreaded ex.

Magical Midlife Misadventures
1. Over the Faery Hill
2. The Fae Side of Forty
3. Faery Wine

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