Fairyville (Fairyville #1)(2)
Author: Emma Holly

Fortunately, the psychologist they’d insisted she see while she was in high school was a real Fairyviller, too. Dr. Sweetwell ended up being—unbeknownst to Zoe’s parents—her spiritual mentor. In truth, it would have been hard for Catherine Sweetwell to avoid it, seeing as how she liked to call in angels for consults. She’d guided Zoe to the best teachers to hone her gifts, even covered for her when she went to workshops.

"Thank you, Doc," Zoe murmured as she forced her reluctant sandals past the Navajo rug store. She felt in need of counting her blessings. The gallery in which she did her readings was only a few doors down, a restored brick two-story building from 1910. From where she stood, she could see the potted prickly pear cactus that guarded the entrance, the last of its lush hot-pink flowers drooping off. Magnus loved that cactus. He called it "Gorgeous" and said hello to it every morning. The first time Zoe had heard him do it, her heart had clenched.

Magnus was sweet to women no matter what their species.

You can handle this, she told herself. Every month you see him do the same thing, and every month you survive.

But the pep talk didn’t help. The "Open" sign in her gallery window sent her pulse into a panic. Magnus was already there, probably lazing back in her chair with his long, strong legs propped on the desk she used for paperwork. He looked good in cowboy boots, Magnus did, a man’s man with a sensually handsome face. The memory of how his faded Levis cupped his basket made her whole body flush. He always looked mellow the morning after, as if he’d just lie back and let a woman ride.

Chickening out at the last moment, Zoe ducked into The Fairyville Cafe one door short of her own storefront. Her first client wasn’t due for fifteen minutes. She didn’t have to torture herself by spending every one of them pining after her well-screwed landlord.

Metaphysically speaking, that wouldn’t do anyone any good.

The cafe’s owner was Teresa Smallfoot. A mix of Native American, Anglo, and six-foot-tall goddess, she’d been a friend of Zoe’s from the day she opened, trading free coffee for the occasional free reading. Since Teresa’s troubles were of the mild romantic sort and the coffee was hot and strong, Zoe considered the exchange a fair one. Plus, Teresa’s departed relatives were well behaved. Not a pesterer in the bunch. Considering some of her clients’ connections showed up hours ahead of schedule to jabber inanities, Zoe valued the ones with restraint.

Teresa was watching her customers from behind the coffee bar today. The decor was Western Victorian, with little round antique tables and sepia photos of long-dead people hanging on the walls. Teresa leaned forward as soon as she saw Zoe.

"Girlfriend," she said in a low, excited tone. "You should have heard the ruckus from next door last night! There was such a caterwauling coming out of Sheri’s bedroom windows, you’d have thought a pair of cougars had been locked inside!"

Zoe fought a wince. She’d forgotten Sheri Yost was Teresa’s next-door neighbor.

"Great," she said, pouring herself some coffee from the carafe of dark roast on the counter. Teresa used real cups, mismatched china she picked up in junk stores. "Just what I was hoping to hear."

"I know, honey," Teresa crooned sympathetically. That lasted about two seconds, or until Teresa’s love of good gossip had her grinning again. "I’ll be surprised if Sheri comes to work today. In fact, I’ll be surprised if she can walk. That manager of yours is a luuuvv machine. Every time I thought he must be wrung dry, they started up again. If I didn’t know you had a thing for him, I’d throw myself in his path out of sheer curiosity."

Zoe took such a big swig of coffee, she nearly scalded her throat. "Don’t let me stop you," she said through her coughs.

"Oh, right. Like you wouldn’t want to gouge out my eyes if I slept with him. I know the girlfriend rules."

"At least I could see why he’d go for you. Sheri Yost is a whiny bore."

Teresa flipped her long black locks behind her shoulders, her expression indicating pleasure at the compliment. "Sheri Yost is a whiny bore who isn’t smart enough to make change. You, on the other hand, are beautiful, sweet, and wise. Clearly, Magnus has no sense."

"Unfortunately, you can’t force people to have sense—as I’ve learned from my many years of giving advice." Zoe turned her cup between her hands. "I just don’t understand him. Why would a guy with his looks and charisma restrict himself to ha**ng s*x once a month? And why does it have to be a new woman every time?"

"Maybe that’s the secret to his stamina. Abstinence plus variety. I mean, he can’t be the only man who’d like to be able to perform like that. Without Viagra, I mean."

With a rueful cluck, Teresa interrupted the conversation to serve another customer.

"He’s a freak," Zoe said when her friend returned, though she should have let it go. "I have no idea why I like him."

"How about because he’s a hunka hunka burning love, and you’ve got eyes? Plus, he’s nice."

Magnus was more than nice. Magnus was considerate, charming, funny, and had the sunniest disposition of any human being she knew. Nothing got him down—not hundred-degree weather, not dents in his SUV, or the evening news. His only flaw (and, to be fair, it was only a flaw to Zoe) was his refusal to look at her in a sexual way.

Teresa set her elbows on the counter. "Couldn’t you ask your little friends what his story is?"

Zoe’s mouth quirked. Teresa was open minded, but she’d never liked saying the word fairy. "I have asked them. They’re keeping mum."

Weirdly mum, in fact. Zoe’s fairies tended to air their opinions about everything.

"Well, what good are they then?"

"They aren’t my slaves, Ter. They hang with me because they think I’m fun."

"Fun on every topic but one."

This tease was a bit too close to the mark. Some days Zoe thought if she didn’t get over her crush on Magnus, she’d turn into a lifelong grump.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," she grumbled into her empty cup. "I never used to like guys that tall."

Teresa reached out to pat her arm. "Oh, face it, honey. It’s not the height you like, it’s him."

It is him, Zoe admitted, though she only pulled a face at her friend.

She was debating buying a chocolate muffin as consolation when a flicker of gray in her peripheral vision reminded her of the time. The ghost was one she knew: Mrs. Darling’s late husband, Leo. Once he’d finished materializing, Leo nodded to her and smiled. He was one of her favorites, as gentle in death as he’d been in life. In spite of her sour mood, it cheered her to know he’d be her first job.