It's Just Love

by

Kate Richards

It’s Just Love

Copyright © 2013, Kate Richards

ISBN: 9781937325749

Publisher: Beachwalk Press, Inc.

Electronic Publication: July, 2013

Editor: Leigh Lamb

Cover: Fantasia Frog Designs

eBooks are not transferable. No part
of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in
the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction and
any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is
purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination
and used fictitiously.

Matchmakers sometimes need a little help with their own love
lives.

Coral Nixie is living her dream. Her cottage is blocks from
her beloved beach and a haven for those seeking answers for their relationship
problems. And so what if her own love life is non-existent? Helping others and
surfing should be enough for anyone, even a virgin, slightly lonely witch.

Gage Middleton is a successful author and relationship
counselor. His “factors” can indicate the success of any relationship, and he’s
about to propose to his own perfect match. Until Ms. Perfect dumps him and he
has to go on TV and defend his theories against a ridiculous hippy witch with the
most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen.

On a dare from the host, the two set out to follow another
couple on their first three dates. Gage and Coral have nothing in common—and
neither do the man and woman they follow—but they hadn’t counted on their own
attraction to each other. Can they let go of their stubborn beliefs and accept
that there’s nothing to prove? It’s Just Love.

Content Warning: graphic sex

The waves billowed and slammed against the shore, rolling
high up the sand before sliding back with a hiss into the deeper ocean. Coral
Nixie sat with her legs dangling on either side of her board just outside the
swells, monitoring the rise for one more ride before duty called. Gauging the
set to be worth the effort, she lay flat and paddled shoreward as the water
climbed. She rose with it, thrilled. A bomb, the best wave of the morning, high
and smooth.

As it reached its peak, she executed a perfect pop-up from
her belly to her feet in one quick hop, and balanced, one foot in the middle of
the board, the other on the tail. Tilting her face into the warm sunlight, she
drew a breath of the fresh, salt air and cut a turn, sliding down the face of
the wave. Completely awesome. Sometimes she didn’t get a wave like this all
week.

Confident, she took another sharp turn, making the ride last.
Then out of nowhere a kook, the wannabe she’d already dodged twice that morning,
wobbled across her path. Coral had to barrel roll to avoid slamming into the
dumbass. The force of the water yanked her fingers from the board, pulled her
underwater, and ground her into the sand. She squeezed her eyes and mouth
closed while the ocean’s rush dragged her along, fighting panic for a long
moment before the leash connecting her to her board tugged her back to the
surface and toward shore.

Cursing under her breath, she knelt at the edge of the surf,
panting and sorry she hadn’t worn a wetsuit to protect her from the grit that
had dug into her skin. But on such a warm, gorgeous September day… A glance
showed the cause of her problems paddling back out for another ride, oblivious
to the havoc his lack of skill and consideration had caused.

Before rising to her feet, she took a moment to assess the
damage. Her thigh held a long, rough scrape from the sand and shells, and her
thumb ached from when she’d been pulled away from the board. Maybe slightly
sprained…again. But all things considered, she’d fared well. Most of the
hard-core surfers were at their day jobs on a Friday in late September and
hadn’t witnessed her debacle. They would have gone after the guy who caused it,
and then laughed at her for six months. Still, it was more fun when her friends
were around. Sometimes living her life exactly as she pleased got a little
lonely.

She stood, tucked her shortboard under her arm, and wandered
up the beach for her towel and shoes. Her client would be expecting a woman of
mystery, and her Malibu Barbie guise wouldn’t impress Mrs. Hanrahan. The woman
wouldn’t want a love spell from anyone but an incense-burning, big-earring-wearing
witch, with the transaction completed under the baleful glare of her black cat
familiar.

She cast spells, brewed potions, and danced in the
moonlight…why not dress the part?

Kicking clumpy sand from her flip flops, she trotted across
the boardwalk and down the alley. She tried to use the few moments to center
herself and begin to switch personas. The spell would be real and Mrs.
Hanrahan’s husband would respond. Not always the best way to go about things,
but sometimes a client wouldn’t listen.

Turning the corner, she smiled at Kansas perched on her
front porch rocker. The fifteen-pound black cat made an excellent impression on
clients and knew it, sitting like a jaguar statue with his yellow eyes
gleaming. His cowboy-type name came with him from the shelter, and he refused
to answer to any other. She opened the gate and moved along the walkway,
brushing the herb borders and sending scents of rosemary, lavender, thyme, and
sage into the air. Kansas rose and stretched, following her around the side of
the house.

Tucking the board and gear into the garage, she unlocked the
kitchen door. She paused to scoop some kibble into the cat’s bowl then dashed
down the hallway, turned on the shower, and stepped inside without waiting for
the water to warm. Shivering, she untied her bikini top and kicked off the
bottoms, holding the pieces under the spray and then hooking them over the
showerhead. They rarely had time to dry between swims.

An alarming amount of sand swirled down the drain. She’d
probably swallowed almost as much as had gotten stuck in her suit when she’d
kissed the ocean floor. But her anger at the newbie who cut her off faded when
she reminded herself how many falls she did take—all on her own. She was
angrier that he’d ruined such a great ride. She could end up on
My Strange
Addiction
with her gritty diet.

Lathering her long, platinum hair, she breathed in the
fragrant steam and imagined her interview.

“And Miss Nixie, how much sand do you eat in a month?”

“Oh, about three pounds, but I think an equal amount gets
in through my butt and girly parts.”

She giggled, rinsing and stepping out of the shower. Nobody
would believe it anyway, and as a year-round surfer since she was ten, if sand
were toxic, she’d have been dead long before twenty-three.

Rummaging through her closet, she tossed aside a heavy black
cloak and fished out a floor-length purple broomstick skirt and a long-sleeved
gauze top in pale lavender. She tied on a pair of macramé sandals adorned with
pretty beads.

The mirror reflected Coral the Witch. A half dozen amulets
hung from her neck, her wide copper bracelets pushed up her sleeves, and when
she ran a comb through her damp hair, she had five minutes left to prepare the
room.

The front doorbell chimed. A few notes from
Witchy Woman
,
a friend’s idea of an appropriate birthday gift, made her grin before frowning.
Mrs. Hanrahan was early.

“One moment, I’ll be right there,” she called, hurrying to
light incense and candles and pull the drapes. The dimness accented her
combination of beach and witch. Seashells and dried kelp from the beach joining
bunches of drying herbs, and her collection of wands. Some art glass, often
adorned with precious and semi-precious stones, and others made of rare woods,
hand carved or lathed. A few decks of Tarot cards for readings. And her crystal
ball. Hokey, maybe; effective, certainly. Showtime.

At the door, she stopped a moment to slow her breathing and
chant under her breath. “And it harm none, do as ye will.” She hoped she harmed
none, but her clients’ love lives tested the boundaries of her self-discipline.

“Mrs. Hanrahan,” she said, pulling open the door. “Welcome.”

The forty-something woman with high, youthful breasts and a smooth,
taut-skinned face pushed past Coral into the living room. “Hello, Coral. Do you
have my love potion ready?” She lifted an ebony wand from its stand and turned
it this way and that. “Very pretty. I want to buy this too.”

“I’ve told you before,” Coral said, prying the object out of
the woman’s grabby fingers. “This is not a store.” And now she’d have to
cleanse the item—no one should be handling her wands.

“But you do business here, and I assure you, I’d offer a
fair price.” She spun and lifted a small, brass statue of the goddess Lakshmi.
“How much for this?”

She’d pulled the same stunt when she’d come to order her
spell. Coral didn’t like to play the ookie-spooky card, but sometimes she had
no choice. She widened her eyes and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper.
“Put it down, quickly, and sit on the sofa by the front window. Don’t ask any
questions!”

Paling, Mrs. Hanrahan dropped the statue and dashed across
the room to plop her lipo-suctioned rear end onto the flowered chintz. “Why? Is
there someone with us? I mean…”

Guilt brought Coral close to backing down. While The Craft
held its secrets, she shouldn’t use it to frighten ordinary people. As a
generational witch, she had more pride than that.

She’d parted her lips to make light of her comment when Mrs.
Hanrahan blurted out, “You know, my friends warned me about dealing with you
people.” Her lips trembled. “But I said, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my
man.’” She leaned back into the cushions, twisting her hands in her lap, her
gaze still flicking about.

Coral seethed.
You people?
She considered adding
something to the potion to ensure Mrs. Hanrahan’s husband never had it in him
to satisfy his girlfriends
or
his wife again. Just a pinch of…
no
.
The love potions were enough of a stretch, and the weight of karma attached to
such an action would be heavy. Plus, at least three of Mrs. Hanrahan’s friends
were satisfied clients. The woman’s fear spoke—or misspoke for her.

Coral forced a smile. “I understand. Your marriage is
important to you and that’s admirable.” Picking up an amber bottle, she sat on
the other end of the couch, drawing a leg under her. “But are you sure you want
this potion?” She extended the container with both hands.

Mrs. Hanrahan smiled, a genuine expression that lit her
eyes. “I can’t lose him. I still have hope.” She stood and paced across the
room, not a jiggle in her toned anything. Spinning to face Coral, she presented
a tragic picture. In her mid-forties, she’d had so many “procedures” that her
features were spread apart, her wide mouth out of proportion to the rest of her
smooth, tight face. “I love him.”

And she did, Coral had no doubt. Which made her request even
more frightening. “Mrs. Hanrahan. Ellen. I have to speak to you, woman to
woman. Is that all right?” She waited for a nod before continuing. “If your
husband has moved on, giving him a potion to make him notice you isn’t going to
fix anything.” In fact, it might make things worse. Maybe he hadn’t taken a
good look at the surprised expression induced by her recent brow lift.

“And if he hasn’t? If he still loves me…even a little?”

An often told tale. One of her chatty friends had shared it
in detail. The last one of her sorority sisters who’d married “well” to
continue to hang on to her husband, Ellen Hanrahan wore her fear like a
suffocating shroud. But there had to be a reason for her still-married
state—why her executive spouse hadn’t left her for a trophy wife. Perhaps he
did retain some warmth for her, even if he stayed late at the office several
nights a week, “putting it to his twenty-two-year-old tramp of a personal
assistant,” as his wife believed.

Coral hesitated, her heart aching. She often saw the
vulnerable side of her clients, their pain washing over her, their auras shaded
with the ugly browns and sickly greens of jealousy and hurt. She sighed. The
woman would get her way, and another practitioner might not be as concerned
with the results of her work.

“If he still cares for you, this should do the trick.” She
handed the small bottle over and accepted an envelope in return. Cash. It paid
the bills. As she walked Ellen Hanrahan to the gate and gave her an impulsive,
quick hug, she reflected that a few potions a week and the occasional reading
made it possible for her to live her life as she pleased.

But if she viewed herself as others might, what would she
see? A witchy beach bunny, waving goodbye to a desperate first wife, whose
marriage she might have saved—or ended—with her interference.