🖤✨ This new paranormal romcom by Sherry Soule is 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 potion. Two enemies. Zero personal space.
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, this adorably indecisive witch ends up 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, who once swapped her broom polish with glitter glue—and the absolute last person she'd ever want to be stuck with for thirty days! Now they can’t be more than five hundred feet apart without hiccupping bubbles and suffering dizzy spells.
With the Bewitching Brew-Off approaching, Roxy needs to focus on perfecting her potion for the biggest competition of her career, and not Dane’s stupidly distracting forearms. And yet, 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. 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?
Buy your copy today! https://amzn.to/4o9YOJ3
LOVE POTION NO. MINE EXCERPT (unedited)
I had nearly perfected my thirteenth batch of my Heartstring
No. 9 potion 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 so
close to 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 scarily
near 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 to his eyebrows. “But I’m
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’s shoulders sagged, looking like he’d 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...hoping to ask Lily Carter to the summer
solstice dance. And my palms, 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 finalizing Heartstring No. 9, which
could finally erase the Brewster family’s black mark.
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. If
I wanted any hope of winning, I wanted one uninterrupted hour. Was that so much
to ask?
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-four, I should’ve mastered the art of looking
composed during emergencies. At least my blue dress was unscorched. Small victory
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.” I started edging toward my workbench,
where batch thirteen waited. “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 eczema.”
“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.”
“Yeah, well, the color is the least of my worries. Right
now, all I care about is finalizing my Heartstring No. 9 potion.” I gestured at
my workbench. “Which I could accomplish if people stopped setting things on
fire or critiquing my work 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—”
“I’ve been thinking, if you actually win the contest, it
might restore our reputation. That whole mess your mother created still haunts
us like an itchy rash. She was talented. but we almost lost our magical license
because of her recklessness.” She shook her head. “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, but I
wasn’t my mom.
I didn’t brew by gut or midnight inspiration. I kept logs,
ran tests, and made effect charts. I believed in evolution—science and magic,
responsibly blended.
“Hi, Auntie.” Seth reappeared with the mop.
“Hello, our Firestarter.” My aunt looked at me. “I’m 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 her eyes deepened. I’d spent years
rebuilding our reputation. My methods differed completely from my mom’s. Mine
were 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.
“Yep. 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 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. Aunt 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 work. 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.” I rubbed a streak of foam off my sleeve.
If Aunt Hilda’s critiques didn’t unravel my patience, the
next person through that door just might.
The shop door opened.
“Yoo-hoo! Your favorite fairy has arrived with
carbs!”
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.
Layla 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.
Pastries or not, my thirteenth batch of Heartstring No. 9
didn’t need sugar. It needed focus. Immediately. Much as I loved my aunt and Layla,
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.
“Layla, 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.
Layla nudged the pastry box, her expression sympathetic.
“He’s a big-shot supernatural 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.
Layla 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 at the same time. 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.”
Layla nodded. “And then there was debate team fiasco—”
“We don’t talk about that!” My cheeks burned at the memory.
“Anyway, I really need to focus on work right now. Thank you for stopping by.”
“Fine,” Aunt Hilda said, grabbing her purse, “I’m off to my poker game.”
Layla slid off the counter and gave me a quick hug. “And 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 cleaning and escaped.
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, and the grant would buy me a year
of experiments.
Squinting, 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 any decisions 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 liquid as it shimmered in the
light. “Flawless 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 as if 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.
Wiping the tonic off
my cheeks and chin, I faced the doorway with a customer-friendly smile and
literally forgot how to breathe.
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