Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.

If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s when someone underestimates my intelligence. Especially when that someone is male and inconveniently hot.

A new line of ink, bold, fresh, and burning white-hot like a brand, had appeared on the inside of my wrist. It was her name. And I knew without a doubt that this woman who walked out of my dreams and into my shop on a rainy October night was always meant to show up. Because, somehow, she was part of the curse too.

It’s a time-tested truth that the best-looking men are always the absolute worst.

“Your shop is haunted?” “No.” “You’re an alien?” “No.” “You have a genetic disorder that makes you supernaturally surly and uncooperative?” As a reward for my sarcasm, I got the quirked lips again.

“Lucky for me, you’re not all that sane. But you are . . .” I looked him up and down. “A descendant of Bigfoot?”