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Carolina Wolf by Sela Carsen

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Henry.” His voice, sweet and deep as dark molasses, poured over her skin.

It was like she had some kind of radar where he was concerned. As he caught up, she realized he was hot. Not cutie-hot, but hot-hot. Waves of warmth billowed over her as if she walked next to a pulsing fire. She had to fight hard against the urge to stop and snuggle into the comfort he offered. This was a complication she did not need and the weight of it slowed her down.

Debra couldn’t put it off anymore. Since her car was in front of Charlene’s shop, she’d come in the back door. Everyone else was at the front of the building or already gone. She hadn’t seen Mayor Corvell when she left.

Now she was alone with Maddox. The door was right in front of her. She could still run away if she tried, but it was best to confront this bizarre attraction head on and get it out of her system. At least this way there would be no witnesses if she did something stupid like try to crawl up his body like a needy kitten.

She inhaled, shockingly aware of how close he stood, of the way his breath moved over her hair. She straightened. Pushed up her glasses. And turned.

Sweet Baby Jesus.

It was entirely unfair that he should be so attractive. His eyes were the most amazing shade of smoky blue and smile lines bracketed his mouth. Straight brown hair fell adorably over his forehead.

Dang it. Even his nose was cute, broken and crooked, but still strong. Not fair. If her nose were crooked, she’d be that girl with the crooked nose. Not all goose-bumpy and sexy.

He’d said something, hadn’t he?

Debra cleared her throat. “Likewise, sir.”

“Have dinner with me.”

Debra’s raised eyebrows made wrinkles in her forehead, but she didn’t care. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have dinner with me.”

Too bad all those good looks were wasted on such a jerk. The nerve. After her fight with the mayor, this was too much. She gave him her most glacial glare.

“Allow me to introduce you to the mechanics of the interrogative statement, Mr. Moreau.”

“Maddox, please,” he interrupted.

She glared harder and continued. “The interrogative is used to ask a question of another person. Whenever possible, it should be qualified by a polite phrase, such as ‘please’. For example, ‘Miss Henry, will you please have dinner with me?’”

Smile lines deepened. “And will you?”

“Yes.” She gasped and her eyes widened as she slapped her hand over her mouth. That was so not what she meant to say.

The lines blossomed into a full-on grin of triumph. “How does tomorrow night sound?”

The glare she gave him this time was far from glacial. What stupid impulse had taken over her mouth? Huge mistake. She didn’t want to date anyone, remember? And if the mayor found out, she’d be back on the job market faster than she could say Dewey Decimal System. Maybe she could bargain with him.

“How about a cup of coffee instead?”

“At your house?”

“No!” She winced. Way to be subtle. “I mean, something a little less formal than dinner.”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Henry. You agreed to dinner. I couldn’t possibly accept anything less.” He kept smiling that charming grin, though it had become a trifle fixed.

“I’m fine with a hamburger at the Sonic.”

“Keep trying to talk me down and I’ll take you clear to Columbia.”

The state capitol was closer than The Mill in Boykin, but where the idea of riding through the Midlands with the mayor sounded both dull and creepy, being cooped up in a car with Maddox Moreau would probably drive her insane.

Debra gathered what little grace she could muster and smiled grimly. “That won’t be necessary, I’m sure. Where would you like to go?”

“I have somewhere in mind. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know.”

That was her cue to write down her phone number. Give him some personal connection to her. But she was ahead of him this time. Debra stuck her hand into a pocket of her bag.

“I’ll be at the library. Here’s my card.”

A business card was supposed to be impersonal, but he took it gently between two long, strong fingers and lifted it to his nose, as though it was a precious love letter imbued with perfume. He smiled and Debra became short of breath.

She had to get out. She stumbled backwards into the heavy double doors. “Right. So. I’ll, um, talk to you tomorrow then. ’Kay. Good night, Mr. Moreau.”

“Maddox,” he called after her, but the door clanged shut.

Paramatch.com by MK Mancos

The intercom sounded.

“Yes?”

“There is a Mr. Cronus here to see you.”

What is he doing here? “Tell him to come in.”

Jeez. She really didn’t want to have to deal with him today. Things were going so well. She’d made follow-up calls on three successful matches. The possibility for a fourth still hung sweet in the air. Now, Mr. Impossible-To-Match decided to come by and complain about the lack of compatible dates he’d been on.

Truthfully, Lucilla had doubts there was anything wrong with the women she’d matched with Mr. Cronus. The fault lay entirely with him. However, in the matchmaker business, it was impolitic to point that out to a client. Especially one who paid in cash. And Lucilla didn’t come cheap.

She pulled up his file on the computer. There were several women he had yet to date. There was always hope that one of those would be his perfect match.

Jager Cronus ducked his head as he entered the office. He was the biggest man she’d ever met. As the deposed leader of the Titans, he claimed the mythologies maligned him. After the trouble she’d had matching him, Lucilla was almost positive the exaggerations were few.

“Lucilla.” He crossed the room in a few long-legged strides.

He looked down at her from his great height of six-and-a-half feet. Granted, when one thought of Titans, one thought of giants, but in all honesty, their height had also been greatly exaggerated in the mythos. They were no taller than professional basketball players. But his height wasn’t the thing Lucilla found so intimidating about him—it was his looks.

Drop-dead gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe him. Tightness centered in her chest whenever she saw him. Though the fact he was so hard to please took points off.

Lucilla forced a pleasant smile and indicated for him to take a seat. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yes, you can get me an appropriate date.”

The smile slipped slightly, but she ground her back teeth together and pushed on. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your objection to Ms. Hyde?”

“With a name like that, do you really have to ask?”

The word jerk did a serpentine inside her brain.

“My understanding is that she isn’t in that particular form for long.”

“No, but then I don’t expect my dates to morph during the soup course.” He raised a brow as if he were lecturing an errant child.

“I can see where that would be disconcerting for you.” She clicked a few buttons on the keyboard and hit print. Two profiles sure to be doomed spit out of the printer.

“I haven’t given up and I don’t want you to either.” She rose to collect the printouts. His gaze followed her across the room.

Mr. Cronus possessed the kind of stare that made a woman feel hot and naked. Even standing in the middle of a blizzard probably wouldn’t cool the heat of his appraisal.

She looked at him over her shoulder. A connection too powerful to name passed between them. He started to rise, but Lucilla was quick to motion for him to sit.

“There are two new women who applied in the past few days. Maribon is a selkie with an impressive pedigree. Esmeralda is a djinn who has just fulfilled her contractual obligation with her master.”

The look he sent her was skeptical. “I’ll try them, but first I want you to do something for me.”

If it moved things along, she’d agree to take up clogging. “What is that, Mr. Cronus?”

“Two things, then. First, call me Jager. Second, fill out a profile on yourself.”

If she had taken a drink, it would have landed in his face. Luckily, her coffee cup was empty. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Oh, I think it is.”

“Why do you want me to take the time to fill out a profile when I could be combing the database for more possible matches for you?” She already knew the answer to that question, but needed to hear him say it.

He leaned his big, sexy body over the desk. “I think you’re the best match for me, and I think you know it, too.”

There was no doubt in her mind their profiles would have a very high probability for a long-term match. She’d secretly crunched the numbers when he first applied as a client. The memory of which caused heat to creep up her neck and ignite the tops of her ears.

“Is something the matter, Lucilla?”

“No. No.” She smoothed her hair, pulling it forward to cover the vestiges of her acute embarrassment.

“You look like you’ve done something wrong.”

Lucilla cleared her throat. “Back when I first started the agency, I wanted to test the questionnaire software, so I took the profile quiz.”

Jager grinned at her as if he’d caught her in the middle of doing a striptease. “Do whatever it is you do to compare it to mine.”

Lucilla raised a brow at him. “I do all my comparisons by hand. It takes time and consideration. You just can’t slap people together in a haphazard fashion. Computers can’t give that personal touch my clients pay for.”

“The personal touch is exactly what I’m asking for.” The twinkle came back into his eyes. “But since you’re the professional here, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go out with the selkie and the other, but you have to agree to go to the Legion Halloween Dance with me.”

Even though she knew she looked as attractive as a freshly caught carp, Lucilla couldn’t help but flap her mouth open and closed. The Legion Halloween Dance was the biggest event in Sleepy Hollow Woods. It was the one night of the year those with any form of paranormalady could go out and be themselves without fear of persecution from the Norms. The catch being that most people who were true Paras attended the dance only if accompanied by another from their community. The fear of going stag and meeting a Norm, falling for them, then having to own up to their affliction was too much of a risk.

However, there was always the chance he’d hit it off with either Maribon or Esmeralda and he’d back out of going to the dance with her. As a matter of fact, it was a pretty good bet he would.

Lucilla leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and then folded her hands in her lap. “Very well, Jager. If you agree to go on a date with my other two clients, I’ll accompany you to the Legion Halloween Dance.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” He stood, leaning over the expanse of her desk. Sexual power radiated from him.

If he held her to it, she’d go up in flames along with the holiday bonfire. Or melt into a puddle before he ever picked her up at her door. The man was too much.

No matter how much experience she had with men, it was all on the outside looking in. She understood the male species only insofar as to match them and collect her fee.

But Jager wasn’t finished. He lifted one of those big, beautifully masculine hands and ran his knuckles over her cheek.

“What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see if you are as soft as you look.”

“Yes, well.” Lucilla ran a nervous hand down the pearl buttons of her silk blouse. “Do you want me to email the contact information to you?”

“If you wish.”

Oh, she wished. Anything to get him out of her office and on his way.

Jager straightened then headed for the door. “You are, you know.”

Lucilla’s heart thumped against her breastbone. Oh yeah, she better pray he hit it off with one of the other women.

The Ghost Shrink, the Accidental Gigolo & the Poltergeist Accountant
by Vivi Andrews

Lucy tumbled out of bed and padded blindly toward the front door to stop the drumming, keeping her eyes closed as long as possible to maintain the illusion of continued sleep. The front door vibrated under the rain of blows coming at it from the other side. She yanked it open and squinted blearily up at the raised fist that nearly landed on her face.

“What?”

“Lucy Cartwright?”

“If you’re an evangelist, I feel I should warn you that I already know about death, and you’re going straight to hell for banging down my frickin’ door.”

Her eyes were still mostly closed or she never would have made that statement. The man who brushed past her into her apartment and slammed the door behind him did not look in any way related to God.

“Karma sent me.” His voice was direct—a take-no-prisoners kind of voice. Very macho. “Did I wake you?” Very annoyed.

Lucy forced her eyes open all the way. Her first, most general impression was of immense size. He was well over six feet and, although he was bulky, it was the bulk of solid muscle rather than stockbroker flab—the worn blue jeans that fit him to perfection left no question there. This guy did not spend all day in an ergonomic chair.

Lucy took a step back to get a better view and try to get her breath back. He seemed to take up too much of the room, her cozy, uncluttered entry suddenly claustrophobia-inducing. He had black hair, cut shaggily, framing features that weren’t smooth enough to be classically handsome, but were all the more striking for their rough edges. The rich caramel tan and up-tilted black eyes gave evidence of some liberal mixing in his family tree, but it was the attitude that really made him stand out. He exuded a sense of purpose and intensity that easily qualified him as the single most masculine person Lucy had seen in a month.

Although, admittedly, sexually frustrated ghosts didn’t set the bar very high.

Lucy blinked slowly as what he’d said registered. “Karma?”

Something clicked into place in her brain and Lucy was suddenly very awake.

Oh God. Oh God oh God, oh God. Karma had sent her a gigolo. She was a female John. A Jane? Lucy felt her face heating up and knew she must be turning seven shades of red, even as a sly little voice in her head cheered the fact that Karma had such excellent taste in gigolos.

“Karma sent you?” she choked out. She sounded like she was gargling frogs. Oh yeah, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his hands off her now.

“Are you Lucy Cartwright?” he snapped again, his eyes raking down her body. He was very abrupt, for a gigolo.

“Um…” Should she admit it? Was he going to throw her to the ground—or the sofa—and have his way with her until all of her sexual frustration disappeared into a pool of liquid satisfaction the second he had confirmed her identity? He didn’t want to have his way with the wrong woman, after all. Should she lie? Prostitution was wrong. Of course it was wrong. But he was so damn hot. Was it really so bad to do it just once? For the sake of her sanity? She had to get away from the strip-teasing stockbroker set. “Yes?”

“Is that a question? Do you not know who you are?” He sounded more annoyed by the second. He definitely needed to go to charm school for gigolos.

Luckily, her hormones didn’t seem to care. They were already heating up and charging south.

“I’m Lucy,” she said, nodding decisively—then ruined her newly confident image by taking a step backward and tripping over her own pajamas. His hands shot out, closing firmly on her upper arms and setting her back on her feet. The imprint of his hands burned through the silk of her pajama top. He was suddenly so close, his heat burning away all the oxygen in the room. Lucy found herself seriously reconsidering her moral stance on prostitution as her insteps melted away.

Then he released her and stepped back. When she swayed toward him unconsciously, he frowned and put out a hand to steady her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Lucy squeaked. How did one talk to a gigolo? “Um, what’s your name?” she asked breathlessly, channeling her inner slut.

“Cox.”

Cox. Of course. Lucy felt her face turning purple. She could not call her gigolo Cox. She’d never been able to talk dirty without giggling like crazy, and if she tried to say his name, she was going to sound like she was snorting nitrous oxide.

“Cox, like Madonna? Or do you have a first name? Or a last name?”

His eyes narrowed and a little frown formed between his eyebrows. What if he was having second thoughts? What if all he needed to derail a long and prosperous career as a deeply hot gigolo was one encounter with her? Karma would never forgive her if Lucy broke her gigolo.

A lock of hair had fallen over her eye. His frown deepened as he reached out to tuck it back behind her ear, and Lucy had a jolt as she realized what she must look like. She’d just rolled out of bed. Her hair must be sticking out at all angles and the men’s silk pjs that she slept in were far from sex kitten material—anything sexier was much too encouraging for her sex-starved ghosts.

Staring up at her gigolo—she could not call him Cox—Lucy wished she’d taken the time for a brush…and a curling iron…and makeup… before answering the door.

“Jake Cox.”

Thank God. He had a first name. Jake was a nice, normal name. She could moan, “Oh, Jake, yes, Jake, more, Jake,” in bed for hours without any inappropriate giggling.

Lucy smiled cheerfully. “Jake. Hi.” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “Ooo-kay. Cox it is. So, Mr. Cox…” Lucy snorted back a giggle, “…uh, what can I, uh, do for you?” Or to you. Or have you do to me.

“You’re the medium.” There was just enough disbelief in his tone to be insulting, but Lucy had long since learned to let skepticism about her profession roll off her back. He didn’t have to believe in ghosts to make her eyes roll back in her head from sheer pleasure.

“Yep. And you’re…” What was the right term? Did she call him a gigolo? Was that PC?

Mr. Cox thought she was pausing to let him fill in the blank. He jumped right in. “I’m a PI. I sometimes consult with Karmic.”

Lucy frowned, trying to figure out what PI stood for. Pleasure Issuer? It didn’t really matter. He could call himself Mr. Happy Pants if he wanted, as long as the sweaty, naked part of the afternoon started soon.

Mr. Cox kept talking, evidently expecting no response. “I’m investigating a series of murders, and Karma seems to think that the latest victim will be visiting you. Tonight.”

Lucy froze. Okay, what?

It was a sign of how far into the gutter her thoughts had sunk that it took her a solid minute to realize that Jake Cox was not a gigolo, or a pleasure issuer, or any such thing. He was a private investigator. He consulted with Karmic Consultants and he was investigating a murder.

Lucy’s face flamed with mortification as she ran through everything she had said to him in the last five minutes, trying to remember if she had made a complete idiot of herself, or just a partial one. As her brain scrambled in one direction, her mouth went another.

“I don’t do murders.”

Cox snorted. “I’m not accusing you, Ms. Cartwright. I’m here because you talk to dead people, not make more of them.”

Witches Anonymous by Misty Evans

In a room full of witches, you’d think I wouldn’t stand out. You’d be wrong.

My name is Amy Atwood and I’m a witch. Not one of those goodie-two-shoes Wiccans. No, I’m a Satan-worshipping, Devil-made-me-do-it witch.

However, after catching Lucifer performing a particularly wicked hex act with Emilia, my sister—a tried and true Wiccan—I turned my back on the Devil. I didn’t exactly expect him to be faithful, but bewitching it with my sister? High ick factor. So, no more casting spells to entertain him. No more curses to carry out his desires. No more witchery of any kind.

That’s why I was attending my first Witches Anonymous meeting. Glancing around at the faces staring back at me, with their raised eyebrows and thinned lips, I suddenly realized the last part of my introduction, about the Wiccans, I said out loud. In a room full of the goodie-two-shoes sisters.

Way to go, Amy. Stepping on broomsticks in less than thirty seconds. A new record, even for me.

Too bad I couldn’t cast a spell and enchant them all, but I’d sworn an oath to stay clean. Because magic is a slippery slope. Even one small curse or spell could put me on the downhill slide back to Lucifer. So far, I was sticking to my oath. I was good now. Normal.

Human.

Yeesh. The thought made me shudder.

Anxiously caressing the square of Dove chocolate stowed in the pocket of my jacket, I gave the witches in the room my most charming smile, full of ear-to-ear goodness. I’d promised myself if I got through the meeting, I could have the chocolate.

And there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a Dove.

The door behind me opened, saving me from making a false apology. A tall, good-looking guy with a determined look on his face pulled up short as he took in the circle of women. His T-shirt was a bit too tight and his jeans a bit too loose, but his boots were high-quality leather with snappy silver toes peeking out from beneath the frayed hems of his pant legs.

That’s what I call goodness.

His intense brown eyes looked intelligent when his gaze locked with mine. “Uh, hi,” he stammered, his focus dropping to my mouth. It stayed there a second too long before returning to meet my eyes. Thank the devil I’d worn my plum lip gloss. “Is this room 12A? I was looking for the Harley Brothers meeting.”

Men and Harleys? Now that was my kind of group. “I’m Amy.” I stepped forward to extend my hand. “I was looking for that meeting, too. It must be down the hall.”

The grin that passed over his face showed me one perfect dimple. He took my hand with confidence, his warm skin kissing mine like a lover as he pulled me toward him. I noticed an apple with an arrow piercing the core tattooed on his right arm.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” he said, “and let these fine women get back to their…whatever meeting.”

Out in the hall, I put my hand over my mouth and giggled. “Your timing is perfect. You just saved me from being burned at the stake.”

Up close, his brown eyes looked like the color of the Dove in my pocket. The dimple reappeared. “Rescuing damsels in distress is one of my specialties.”

I’d never considered myself a damsel in distress. However, the dimple won me over, saving him from a sharp rebuke. I found myself wondering if his eyes got darker, like melted chocolate, when he got mad.

Or horny.

He took my hand again. Soft warmth enveloped it. “I’m Adam Foster.”

Instantly, I thought of Bananas Foster. Yummy. My mind was already casting a circle of lust around us when I caught myself.

No spells. No charms.

No fun.

“Nice to meet you, Adam Foster.” I took my hand back, wishing I could curse Lucifer and Emilia for forcing me to embrace goodness and normalcy. “I better let you get to your meeting.”

“You’re not coming?”

“No.” I glanced at the door to Room 13C and shuffled my feet. “I swore an oath to be good. I have to go back to this one.”

“Back to the stake, huh?”

“You could say that.”

He gave me a nod. “Maybe after our meetings, we could grab an ice cream?”

A Harley-riding, tattooed man who wanted to go for ice cream? Normalcy wasn’t all that bad.

And revenge on Lucifer, whether by stake or by mortal torment, was extremely satisfying. “I’d love to.”

“Meet you outside later?”

“I’ll be there.”

As he walked away, I watched the back of his dark brown hair brush his neck and thought about touching that same spot with my fingers. When Lucifer discovered I’d taken a new boyfriend—a human one, no less—he’d be mad as hell.

Who says being a good witch isn’t fun?