🖤✨ Plot twist! I'm taking a short detour from dead bodies to dive into...magical dating disasters!
That’s right, friends—your girl is pressing pause on cozy mysteries (just for a bit!) to write a paranormal romcom that’s bursting with:
💘 Enemies to Lovers
🔥 Slow-burn romance
🏠 Forced Proximity (yes, they’re stuck together...literally)
💋 A love spell gone hilariously wrong
🤯 Plot twists, witty banter, and major LOLs
And I think you’re gonna love it.
LOVE POTION NO. MINE
One love potion. Two enemies. Thirty days of awkward togetherness.
In the coastal town of Eastwick Harbor, Roxy Brewster brews romance for a living—literally. Her shop, The Cupid’s Cauldron, serves up potions that help people fall in love. But when her latest concoction backfires, she ends up accidentally bonding herself to the one man she's sworn to hate forever.
Dane Carmichael is broody, gorgeous, and about as emotionally available as a brick wall. He also happens to be Roxy’s childhood nemesis—the same boy who once swapped her broom polish with glitter glue.
Now, they’re stuck together until the next full moon…and the longer they’re magically tethered, the harder it is to remember why they hate each other.
She’s trying to keep her hormones in check. He’s trying to avoid the strong attraction. But both of them are about to realize that love isn't all it’s brewed up to be.
Can a potion blunder fix the one thing neither of them believed in…love?
👀 Want a to know when it goes up for sale? Drop me a comment, and I’ll make sure you’re the first to know!
#paranormalromcom #enemiestolovers #lovespellfail #LovePotionNoMine #slowburn #romcomvibes #SherrySoule
READ AN EXCERPT
I had nearly perfected my thirteenth batch of Heartstring No. 9 when an ear-splitting wail shattered my concentration.
“FIRE!”
Sweet bubbling cauldrons. Not again.
I jerked away from the workbench, a plume of smoke drifting through the doorway.
Of course, my apprentice would start a fire when I was one ingredient away from potion excellence.
Seth Brewster, my cousin and a living torch, rushed into my workroom waving a burning clipboard. By my calculations, this was inferno number fourteen since Seth had started working for me six months ago. At this rate, the insurance company was going to start sending us fruit baskets and warning letters.
He held it out in front of him, and the flames licked perilously close to a shelf that contained every Heartstring No. 9 sample I’d brewed over the last month, my one chance at winning the Bewitching Brew-Off.
No, no, no, no. Not today, Beelzebub!
I was not losing my best work to clipboard combustion.
I vaulted toward the wall-mounted fire extinguisher. “Drop it!”
He froze, a flame shooting upwards alarmingly close to his eyebrows. “But I’m still double-checking the cacklethorn inventory. You said organization was—”
“Important, not incineration.” I yanked the pin and aimed. “Duck!”
He tossed the inventory list, which hit the floor with a sad, sizzling thunk.
I blasted the flames with white foam, transforming it into a charred, soggy rectangle.
Seth drooped, looking like he’d just been told kittens were illegal. “So, so sorry, Roxy. I swear my hands just caught on fire.”
I hung the extinguisher. My left eye twitched. I counted to ten. Then twenty. Then wondered if I could count to a million before the urge to dunk him in the harbor passed.
Blowing out a breath, I grabbed a small jar of cooling salve from the shelf and pressed it into his palm. “Here, for the burn marks.”
He dabbed it on and winced.
“What were you thinking about?”
His face turned the color of a ripe tomato. “Nothing!”
“Seth, do not lie to me.”
“I was...er...thinking about asking Lily Carter to the summer solstice dance. And my hands, um, exploded in fire.”
I patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. Remember last week when you spotted that spoiled moonberry before I used it? You saved me from turning half the town into zombies.” I squeezed gently. “Clipboards are replaceable, cousins are not.”
“Again, so sorry.” He lifted both hands, which let off a puff of smoke. He yelped and stuffed them into his pockets.
Sighing, I glanced out the window at Harbor Way, the town’s main street, wishing I could hex the clock. Every minute I spent putting out literal fires was a minute stolen from perfecting Heartstring No. 9.
Eastwick Harbor was a coastal town, where supernatural beings and humans coexisted in relative harmony. Bundled-up locals weaved between pastel-painted storefronts and ducked under striped awnings to escape the brisk winds. The world outside looked calm and orderly. The Cupid’s Cauldron resembled a Brewster-brand catastrophe.
All I needed today was to keep my eyebrows un-singed and my contest brew on track.
“Get the mop from the storage room, please. The one that doesn’t catch fire.”
Seth scurried away, his linebacker shoulders hunched with guilt, leaving a trail of foam footprints and the lingering scent of burnt cotton. His latest plaid shirt sported fresh scorch marks that matched the permanent char stains on his canvas sneakers.
Shaking my head, I lowered the burner under the cauldron.
From the mirror on the wall, I caught my reflection. My fair skin had that pre-meltdown glow that made me look like a porcelain doll about to shatter. Green eyes narrowed, freckles scattered across my nose and cheeks, and wavy, shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair.
At thirty-two, I should’ve mastered the art of looking composed during magical emergencies. At least my blue dress was unscorched. Tiny victories for a neat freak brewing her way through a fire hazard.
My aunt materialized beside me in a burgundy cardigan and murderously pointy flats, her lips pursed as if she were about to critique a third-grade spelling bee. She fluffed her short curls, the color of chili powder.
"Cursed cauldrons! Don't sneak up on me like that." Inwardly, I groaned. Just what my brew schedule needed: a surprise performance review and a fresh lecture about family shame.
“Another accident?”
“Only a small one. It’s under control.” I started edging toward my workbench, where batch thirteen waited patiently. “So if we could talk later…”
Aunt Hilda pinched the bridge of her nose. “That boy is a walking insurance claim around anything flammable. Which, in an apothecary, is literally everything.”
“He’s enthusiastic. And this time, he only vaporized my clipboard. Yesterday, it was the cash register. See? Progress.”
“Progress would be hiring someone whose special talent isn’t arson.” Aunt Hilda shook her head. “Hmm. Is this your latest entry for the Bewitching Brew-Off? Looks unstable. In my day, we didn’t need fancy bottles and sparkles to make proper potions.”
“Yeah, and in your day, people thought dancing naked under the full moon cured everything from heartbreak to hiccups.”
“Hmph.” She grasped a bottle of Heartbeat Harmony, our bestseller, and held it toward the shaft of sunlight cutting through the dusty windows. “This batch is too pink.”
“It’s supposed to be pink. It’s an attraction potion, not motor oil.”
“Too. Pink.” She set it down with a clink. “Reminds me of your mother’s experimental batches.”
“Right now, all I care about is getting one more Heartstring No. 9 potion ready.” I gestured at my workbench. “Which I could accomplish if people stopped setting things on fire or critiquing my color choices.”
“You’re in a mood today.”
“Sorry, but I’m crazy busy. So thanks for stopping by,” I said, glancing at my unfinished brew. “Really need to add the rose essence while the base is still—”
“I’ve been thinking, if you actually win this thing, it might fix our reputation. That whole mess your mother created still haunts us like an bad rash. She was talented but we almost lost our magical license because her recklessness. And the Mystic Council still sends us passive-aggressive holiday cards.”
Growing up in Eastwick Harbor, everyone knew about the Brewster family’s fall from grace. People often compared me to my late mother, Brenda. Sure, she’d treated brewing recipes like polite suggestions, and some of her experimental batches were still sparkling in the town fountain. But I wasn’t my mom.
I didn’t brew by gut or midnight inspiration. I kept logs, ran tests, made effect charts. I believed in evolution—science and magic, responsibly blended.
“Hi, Auntie.” Seth reappeared with the mop.
My aunt fingered her pendant. “I’m just glad you’re not following in Brenda’s explosive footsteps.”
Three potion bottles on the shelf rattled.
“Was that an earthquake?” Seth frowned.
“Only our ancestral shame manifesting physically whenever Aunt Hilda mentions family scandals.”
The tight lines around Aunt Hilda’s eyes deepened. I’d spent years rebuilding our reputation. My methods differed completely from my mom’s—scientific, ethical, controlled. I needed to win this contest for my aunt as much as for myself.
A small purple toad hopped out of her purse. She grabbed it and tucked it back as if it were a stray lipstick. “You sure about entering a love potion?”
I glanced at the competition chart pinned to the wall: thirty days until submission.
“Yup. And before you start lecturing, I know love potions have a bad rep. Heartstring No. 9 doesn’t coerce feelings, and I’ll prove it.”
My brews never forced attraction, intent, or free will. That was Rule One. Rule Two: never combine Lustvine with good luck charms unless you wanted a raccoon familiar.
Seth started mopping around us.
I gripped a wooden spoon from the counter and stirred the brew simmering in the cauldron. “Maybe less rose essence in this batch? Or more Dramadill? But it might be too strong.”
Her lips pressed into a line so thin it could slice cheese. “A professional potion maker stands by her ingredients.”
Easy for her to say. Hilda had never questioned a decision in her life.
Me? I spent twenty minutes this morning debating a navy versus black dress. Changing three times before settling on navy. Which I now regretted because black would have hidden stains better.
Now I was doing the same thing with my ingredients. At this rate, I’d be the most indecisive person ever to win a major supernatural competition. If I actually entered. Which I probably would. Maybe.
“Listen, I need to get back to work, Aunt Hilda. I’ll see you at home—”
The shop door opened.
“Yoo-hoo! Your favorite fairy has arrived with carbs!”
Still holding the stirring spoon, I followed Aunt Hilda into the main shop area.
My apothecary and tea shop, The Cupid’s Cauldron, maintained a clean and orderly system: rows of potion bottles gleamed on black shelves, their wax seals reflecting the moody burgundy and gold paint on the walls. Ghostly customer handprints lingered on the purple velvet consultation chairs in one corner, and dried herbs dangled from overhead beams like floral mobiles designed by an anxious crow.
Tabitha Stevens, my best friend, waltzed to the counter with blue hair braided and a bakery box clutched in her hands. At five-feet tall, she radiated the energy of a double espresso.
Pastry box or not, my thirteenth batch of Heartstring No. 9 didn’t need sugar. It needed focus. Immediately. Much as I loved my aunt and Tabitha, all of these distractions were interrupting my work.
“Hi, Hilda, Roxy!” She bounced over to us, then paused. “Whoa, you look like you’ve been wrestling with your cauldron again. Brought emergency goodies.”
Her fairy empathy was scary-accurate because she always knew exactly what comfort food someone craved. Today, that was lemon scones, and they were absolute perfection for my souring mood.
“Tabitha, now’s not a good time. I’m in the middle of brewing—”
“Guess who’s back in town?” She hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs, her gladiator sandals tapping against the wood. Her small, pointed ears peeked through her hair, and a light dusting of glitter shimmered on her arms.
My heart did a little death spiral. “Please don’t say it.”
“Oh, I’m saying it. Dane Carmichael.”
Aunt Hilda perked up like a gossip at a funeral.
The spoon slipped from my hand, splashing crimson goo on my dress, and clattered to the floor. Every muscle from my jaw to my toes locked up.
The taste of bitterness coated my tongue like burnt licorice. Of course my arch-nemesis would show up now, right when I was prepping for the most important competition of my career.
“Why? How? Since when?” My voice came out strangled, as if I’d swallowed a live bug.
Dane and I existing in the same town again?
That violated the laws of nature. Matter and antimatter, destined to explode.
Tabitha nudged the pastry box, her expression sympathetic. “He’s a big-shot magical security specialist now, and upgrading the town’s protection grid.”
Nothing about Dane had ever made sense to me—including why the mention of his name still made me want to scream, cry, and hex him into next week.
Not necessarily in that order.
Tabitha patted my shoulder. “You okay? Need a scone?”
“He’s really back? I mean, whatever. Good for him." Grinding my teeth, I twisted the front of my dress with my hand. “You know, he once told me I’d never make it as a potion maker because I overthink everything. He was such a douche!"
He'd always made me feel like I was too much and yet not enough. That was the thing about Dane that stuck with me all these years. Not the teasing or the pranks, but how he’d zeroed in on my deepest insecurity and tossed it back at me like it was nothing.
Everyone stared at me.
I’d been wringing the hem of my dress hard enough to strangle a snake, and I forced myself to let go. Red potion dripped onto the floor like blood.
Seth shuffled into the room with a broom. “Who we talking about?”
“A smug, sanctimonious know-it-all who sabotaged my science fair project, stole the blue ribbon, and then called my work unstable. Said I’d be brilliant if I ever stopped second-guessing myself. Like I needed advice from a thirteen-year-old with gelled hair and an ego problem.”
Seth let out a low whistle as he swept the floor. “I’m ready to hate him.”
“Good. Cause he’s the original blueprint for mansplaining.”
Aunt Hilda crossed her arms. “You’ve been carrying this resentment around for fifteen years?”
I shrugged. “Some people collect stamps. I collect grudges…because he was right, and I hated that he saw through me.”
Tabitha nodded. “And then there was debate team fiasco—”
“We don’t talk about that!” My cheeks burned at the memory.
“Well,” Aunt Hilda said, grabbing her purse, “I’m off to my bridge game.”
Tabitha slid off the counter and gave me a quick hug. “I should get back to the bakery. Don’t stress too much about the competition. Or Dane. You’ve got this.”
After they left, Seth finished sweeping and escaped.
Finally. Blessed silence.
Closing for the day, I stared at my workbench, which resembled a mad scientist’s lab, with its dozens of labeled jars, tools, and stack of notebooks full of formulas and crossed-out corrections. The afternoon light was already fading, but I could still finalize this batch.
Thirty days until the Bewitching Brew-Off. Enough time to prove the Brewster name deserved respect again. To confirm to the Council, to the town, to myself that I wasn’t my mother. That my methods weren’t sketchy, only different. That I was a scientist, an innovator.
And if I won, the Mystic Council would have to acknowledge my research. They’d have to admit that love potions could be ethical, helpful, even revolutionary when created responsibly. The grant would buy me a year of experiments.
I inspected two vials.
More rose essence or dragon’s breath? The rose would enhance emotional connection, but dragon’s breath added stability. But suppose the rose was too intense? What if the dragon’s breath overwhelmed the other ingredients?
Was I overthinking this? And overthinking my overthinking?
This was why Dane had called me brilliant but paralyzed, like he was diagnosing a rare disease, and why I’d spent fifteen years proving him wrong.
After standing there for five minutes, I still couldn't choose. Just like I couldn’t choose between dating the warlock or the werewolf last year. Like how I was unable to make a decision without drafting a pros and cons list.
Disgusted at my indecision, I dropped the vials and reached for a bottle of Heartstring No. 9, eyeing the fuchsia liquid as it shimmered in the light. “Perfect clarity, good viscosity.”
I unscrewed the bottle’s cap to add a drop of crushed Snugglethorn—
The front door crashed open.
The bottle slipped from my fingers and did backflips in the air.
“Ahhh!“
I dove for it and caught it with my face. And the potion splashed straight into my open mouth.
Swallowing reflexively, the liquid tingled all the way down. My toes curled inside my shoes, and every hair stood on end like I’d stuck a fork in a power socket.
Gads, no!
I did not just dose myself with my own experimental blend.
As the potion hit my system, magic hummed in my bones. I stumbled from the backroom and into the shop.
The compass hanging on the wall—a family heirloom that revealed one’s heart’s desire—had been spinning aimlessly for weeks. It stopped and pointed at the entrance with such force that the brass needle cracked the glass.
My blood turned to ice water. In the three generations of Brewster women, that compass had never broken.
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