This Sweet Magic: Rosewood, #1

By Kit Olmstead

When Andrew unexpectedly inherits a commercial building from his estranged grandmother, he's certain his problems have been solved. Once he sells the building, he'll have the money to help his sister and start a new business. Or so he thinks, except one of his new tenants is determined to do everything he can to stand in Andrew's way.

 

As Rosewood's resident witch and self-appointed guardian, Damon spends his days baking cupcakes and casting charms to protect his friends and neighbours. Devastated by the death of his longtime mentor, his world is upended even further when his sexy new landlord's plans threaten everything he holds dear.

 

Andrew wants to get out of Rosewood as quickly as he can. Meanwhile, Damon can't understand why Andrew is determined to destroy his home. If they want to be together, they'll have to let go of the past and share their secrets. Because magic happens when you least expect it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kit Olmstead
• Release date: Feb 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738142309

Book preview

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ISBN-13: 978-1-7381423-0-9

This Sweet Magic

Copyright © 2024 by Kit Olmstead

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission, except in the case of short quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is intended or should be inferred.

The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine-learning language models.

Published electronically in Alberta, Canada.

For missgee, who always believed I could do this and who hates to be wrong.

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Content Note

As this book takes place in a Canadian location, it is written in Canadian English. In true Canadian fashion, the author apologizes for any confusion this may cause.

On a more serious note, this book contains themes that may be difficult for some readers, including mentions of depression, manipulative family members, abandonment, references to off-page grandparent and parent death, swearing, and on-page sex.

This story also contains misunderstandings, enemies to lovers, found family, kitchen magic, way too many baked goods, an all-knowing cat, spicy romance, and a happy ending.

Contents

Prologue

1.Damon

2.Andrew

3.Damon

4.Damon

5.Andrew

6.Andrew

7.Damon

8.Andrew

9.Damon

10.Andrew

11.Damon

12.Andrew

13.Damon

14.Andrew

15.Damon

16.Andrew

17.Damon

18.Andrew

19.Damon

20.Andrew

21.Damon

22.Andrew

23.Damon

24.Andrew

25.Andrew

26.Damon

27.Andrew

Epilogue

Stay Connected

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More from Rosewood

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Prologue

Andrew

G ran’s dead. Andrew throws himself onto the sofa beside his sister, ignoring Stacey’s scowl as the movement jostles the nail polish brush in her hand. The springs squeal beneath his weight. The sofa was old when they’d dragged it home three years ago and neither of them have been kind to it. Her lawyer called and wants us to go to the will reading tomorrow.

What time? I have to work. Stacey brushes the last bit of polish onto her nails and recaps the bottle, sets it on their battered Formica coffee table, and waves her hand in the air to dry. Are you going?

Andrew shrugs. He shouldn’t. Listening to their grandmother’s last wishes will undoubtedly make him angry. But curiosity is a powerful drug. Yeah, probably.

Why put yourself through that? Blowing on her left hand, Stacey pokes him with her right index finger. She didn’t care about us when she was alive, she’s not going to care about us now. Stacey teases out a lock of her shoulder-length honey-blonde hair and holds it up to the beam of dusty sunlight streaming through the living room window. Do you think I should dye my hair?

Stacey’s not wrong. He remembers the nights filled with whispered, desperate phone calls between his mom and gran that always ended in tears before they moved to another house or another town when his mom couldn’t afford the rent. Andrew rests his cheek on the back of the couch, the worn plaid fabric catches on yesterday’s stubble. What would you do if she’s left us something?

Stacey scoffs. She probably left everything to her cat, like that horrible woman who left everything to her dog. Stacey draws her knees to her chest, her attention focused on the ends of her hair.

Leona Helmsley. Andrew purses his lips. I don’t think Gran had a cat.

How would you know? Neither of us have seen her in twenty years. She’s right, of course. All the same, Andrew can’t imagine the flamboyant woman they’d visited when he was ten years old with a cat. Something more exotic, maybe, like a lizard or a parrot. But not a cat.

Hmm. Seriously, what would you do if she did leave use some money?

Andrew... Stacey flicks her hair over her shoulder, exasperated.

He nudges her with his shoulder, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Just for fun, I promise I’m not getting my hopes up.

Fine. Stacey wrinkles her nose at the thought and okay, maybe he is getting his hopes up, a little. I think I’d like to open a bakery.

A bakery? Stacey can barely boil water. You burned the scrambled eggs yesterday.

Shut up. Stacey shoves at him. And baking’s different from cooking. I think I’d like it. Stacey’s eyes are distant as she pictures a future Andrew can’t imagine. I want something permanent, somewhere that’s mine. A place that feels like home.

Andrew holds back a shudder. As kids, he and Stacey relied on each other when there was no one else to trust, but this is where they differ. Where his sister wants the stability of a place she can call home, he longs for a big score, one that will give him the financial security he’d craved as a kid.

Stacey interrupts his thoughts. What would you do?

I want to go out on my own. Richard has some big ideas. If we had a bit more capital, we could get started. He’s just short of the money he needs to go into business with Richard. They’ve been saving since they graduated from high school, and a little more cash could make his dream of going into business with his best friend a reality. An inheritance from Gran would put him over the top.

It doesn’t matter, because I’m pretty sure she didn’t leave us anything. Stacey gathers up her nail file and bottle of polish, carrying them to the small bathroom of their apartment, pausing in the doorway. She’s dead, she can never be what you wanted her to be. All I can say is ‘good riddance.’

She’s right. Of course she’s right. But a tiny ember of hope burns inside him. Tomorrow he’ll find out if their gran spared any last thoughts for her grandchildren or if she was determined to neglect him and Stacey right to the end.

1

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Damon

A dd the jasmine first and then the witch hazel.

With exaggerated precision, Tahra mixes the final, and most important, ingredients into the muffins.

Don’t forget to stir—

Seven times in each direction. I know. Despite her eye roll, Tahra adds the ground herbs carefully, following Damon’s instructions. No uncontrolled magic, I promise.

You’re awfully sassy for an apprentice. He nudges Tahra in the shoulder. Her spiky blue-and-silver hair shines under the harsh fluorescent lights of his industrial kitchen.

It’s part of the training. Tahra flashes a grin as she completes the last charm. The batter glows for a second as the protection charm binds to it. Tahra ladles the mixture into the black-and-white polka-dot paper muffin cups, biting her lip as she ladles an equal amount into each one. Has there been any word?

Damon shakes his head. Tahra’s question adds to three months of tension. Ever since Hen died, the entire neighbourhood has been on pins and needles, waiting to find out what will happen to the building. Maybe they’ll never know. He’ll continue to send his rent cheques to the lawyer and everything will carry on with no further disruption. There are worse things.

Nothing. He can’t believe Hen’s gone. Her presence is everywhere, in the things she’d taught Damon, the same way he’s teaching Tahra. Her name’s on the front of the building for god’s sake, a continual reminder that he’s lost the woman who insisted he was like a grandson to her. Hen had given him, well, everything. She’d taken him in when he’d had nowhere else to go and given him a home, a safe place, a family. She’d been his teacher and his friend, and he still expects her to burst through the door at any moment, ready to scold him for not keeping the tea kettle warm.

Leaving Tahra to mind the muffins and clean the kitchen, he carries the rest of that day’s baking to the front of the bakery, setting the trays down on the cafe counter before he transfers the goodies to the display case. Everything reminds him of Hen—the worn oak counter where she'd lean while he made her coffee to her favourite of the mismatched vintage tables and chairs. Every time the bell over the door jangles, he turns, half expecting it to be her. Damon finishes with the baking and sets up the coffee machine, running a hand along the scuffed oak countertop. Decades of magic make it warm beneath his fingers. Will a new owner understand the significance of this building? What it means to him, to his friends, to everyone? He knows what outsiders are like; full of paint chips and catalogues from Pottery Barn. Someone new will want to change things. One small change will lead to another, and before he knows it, his friends and neighbours will drift away and Rosewood will become just another Vancouver suburb. He rolls his shoulders, trying to chase away the uncertainty of having a stranger decide his future. He won’t hand over the keys without a fight. This is his home and he’ll be damned if he lets some interloper take it away from him.

Biting his lip, he writes the specials on the chalkboard above the display case, taking care to keep the letters straight, when there’s a soft tap at the window. Unlocking the heavy oak-and-glass door, Damon pushes it open to find Samuel, one of his long-time regulars, standing forlornly on the sidewalk. With a resigned sigh, he beckons Samuel inside. There’s only one reason the older man would be on his doorstep so early. Samuel settles at his usual table by the door, his eyes filling with tears. She said she wants to be friends.

Okay. Let me get you a muffin and some tea. Samuel gets his heart broken twice a month, each time as devastating as the last. Busying himself behind the counter, Damon steeps the tea as he takes a cranberry muffin from the display case. Cranberries to cure heartache. Sketching a quick charm over the top to reinforce the magic, he sets the muffin and tea on the table in front of Samuel.

You’re a good lad, looking out for me like this. Samuel gives him a watery smile as he takes his first bite of the muffin. Damon is ahead of schedule and the bakery doesn’t open for another ten minutes, so he takes the opposite chair and prepares to listen to Samuel’s sad story.

I just thought she was the one, you know? Samuel takes a sip of his tea, his blue eyes mournful as he stares into his mug. Damon nods gravely, patting Samuel’s hand as his thoughts return to the new owner of the building. They’ll be from away. Of course, he’d come from away once himself. But that was different. He’d come for sanctuary, not for property. Whoever Hen has gifted the building to it’s not anyone he knows. Gossip travels and every word runs through his bakery. He’d know if any of his friends or neighbours had inherited the building. Whether it’s ten blocks or a thousand miles, away is away and it means the new owner will be someone who doesn't understand the ins and outs of Rosewood. Well, that someone will have to deal with Damon. As soon as they make themselves known, that is.

What would we all do without you? Samuel breaks off another piece of the muffin. You always know how to make everything right. If only Samuel knew. Damon’s magic has anchored the Rosewood neighbourhood for ten years. His wards are carved into every building. Every cupcake and loaf of bread he bakes is charmed to protect this safe haven hidden away in an unnoticed corner of Vancouver. I’m sure a new bakery moving in next door won’t hurt your business at all.

I’m sorry, what? New bakery? What new bakery? First Hen’s death, and now this? Every worst-case scenario he’d imagined is coming true. Hen had occupied the first unit of the building for as long as he’s been here. Her apothecary at the end of the block provided teas and herbs to most of the magic users in Greater Vancouver. Grief chokes his throat. Paper had gone up on the windows of Hen’s shop the week after she died, but since then there’s been nothing. Of course someone else will move into Hen’s space, into her home. But why does it have to be so soon? And another bakery? In the same building? The front door swings open, cutting off Samuel’s answer. Elan’s solid figure pushes inside, strands of their long green-and-brown hair swirling around them. Behind them, a thin boy with bright-pink hair clutches an oversized hoodie around his scrawny shoulders. Damon squints at the newcomer—Elan wouldn’t have brought a stranger to him without a reason. He pats Samuel on the hand a second time and nods to the counter. Be right back.

Damon. His best friend gives him a quick, one-armed hug. Their other hand remains stuck to the shoulder of the slender figure beside them. This is Dmitri. I found him in the park this morning. Elan gives Damon a knowing look over Dmitri’s head, while the boy’s eyes remain glued to the floor at his feet. He’s going to stay with me for a while.

You don’t have to do that. I’m fine. Dmitri mumbles the words in a harsh whisper, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights. Tilting his head to one side, Damon takes in Dmitri’s worn sweatshirt and his torn jeans. At a glance, he could be any kid trying to survive on the streets of Vancouver, but the pink hair is a dead giveaway.

You have magic, don’t you?

The boy jerks under Elan’s hand, his eyes meeting Damon’s for the first time. How did you know? No one’s supposed to know. He searches for the nearest exit, eyes wild. Damon peeks over Dmitri’s shoulder to check on Samuel. The other man has been a regular customer for years, yet he’s never figured out that most of Damon’s other customers aren’t what they seem. Samuel’s plate is empty, and one hand smooths his greying brown hair as he scrolls through his phone.

You should try this. Samuel waves the phone at him, a tiny photo of a dark-haired woman visible on the screen. Swipe right, swipe left, nothing to it.

No, thank you. Even if he had a cellphone, an app wouldn’t cure his loneliness. He needs someone who understands Rosewood, who wants to protect the neighbourhood. Even if that person exists, he won’t find them on an app. Damon turns his attention back to Dmitri. The boy shifts uneasily, shuffling his feet as if he’s preparing to run. Where did you come from?

Toronto. The boy is defiant now. Am I in trouble?

Of course not. This is a bakery, not a police station. If you found your way here, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Damon reaches for one of his juniper-infused muffins, adding the charm for protection to the top before sliding it across to Dmitri. Welcome to the neighbourhood. Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around his stomach, Dmitri scoops up the muffin, taking a large bite.

Did you get one of these? Elan's arm tightens around Dmitri’s shoulders as they slide a bubblegum-pink postcard across the weathered oak.

Opening soon. Wild Flour Bakery.

Fresh baking ~ Lunch ~ Tea

The address of Hen’s unit is written in flowing fuchsia letters along the bottom of the card. The pink-on-pink design is so saccharine it hurts his stomach. Or maybe it’s the mixture of worry and irritation that’s swirling inside him. Cute. As if worrying about the fate of the building wasn’t bad enough, now he has to think about the competition. Damon fights to keep his tone as neutral as possible, but Elan knows him too well. They frown at him, grey-green eyes narrowing. There’s still no word. Damon glances cautiously over Elan’s shoulder, but Samuel is engrossed in his phone.

So what? You think there’s finally a new owner? Elan strokes a hand along the oak countertop. The scarred wood responds to their touch, tiny leaves emerging beneath their fingers. Wide-eyed, Dmitri follows the motion of their hand.

Stop that. Damon waits until Elan soothes the wood back to normal. I don’t know if there is or not. I just think we would have heard. Rosewood isn’t really a place where coincidences happen.

Hmm. Elan toys with the corner of the postcard. You know I’ve been here a long time.

Damon nods. Elan lived in Rosewood before Rosewood existed. They’re bound to this building, an unknown burst of magic transferring their spirit from their tree to the oak boards that make up the building’s walls and floors.

Elan rests their hands palm down on the counter, and the wood ripples at the touch of their short fingers. Most people think of dryads as tall, willowy creatures, but Elan is built like an oak tree, stocky and solid. Hen made this neighbourhood what it is. She’d be proud of the way you care about this neighbourhood. Whatever happens, I know you’ve got our backs. Elan flicks at the postcard with one lime-green fingernail. Besides, we always protect our own.

Thanks, Elan. He pours Elan’s usual cup of black coffee and slides a fennel and apple scone across the counter to them.

They raise an eyebrow at his choice. Strength and…

Good things to come. Every herb and flower he adds to his recipes has a unique magical power. Fennel for strength, apple for good fortune. He and Hen had spent years blending and mixing ingredients to find the right combinations. Everything reminds him of her. He blinks back the sting of tears.

Sounds like you should eat one too. Elan’s voice is soft as they take the muffin.

You know my magic doesn’t work on myself.

The door opens and his gaggle of regulars spill into the bakery. Elan nods their farewell, steering Dmitri out the door as Peggy, Shirley, and Louise join Samuel at their table, and Tahra brings warm muffins out from the kitchen.

You’re here awfully early. Peggy pulls out the chair across from Samuel. Did Valerie break your heart?

Shut up. Samuel scowls at her, his lips twitching at the corners.

We all know you’re just in it for the free muffins. Shirley nudges the edge of Samuel’s now-empty plate.

I’ll have you know I’m meeting Angelica for drinks this evening. Samuel waves his phone at his friends, who roll their eyes and continue their teasing. Satisfied his charm has had the desired effect and Samuel isn’t suffering any lasting consequences from his failed love life, Damon nudges Tahra with his shoulder.

Those muffins look great.

Thank you. She sets three cups of coffee onto a tray and adds a trio of the pear and violet muffins they’d made that morning, each one bound with comfort and affection.

It’s a shame he can’t use a charm to soothe his own emotions, but maintaining his own magic requires a clear head. A current of unease flows beneath his skin, anxiety about the new bakery and Hen’s death floating to the surface. Did Hen have any family? She never mentioned anyone, and he’d never asked, reluctant to talk about his own family unless it was absolutely necessary. Did Hen promise another witch they could take her place in Rosewood? This is his home. This building, Rosewood, the people. He and Hen held the boundaries of this place for ten years, creating a safe harbour for those who needed it. But now he’s on his own. And he’s never felt more alone.

Shouting from the back garden interrupts his thoughts. Hurrying through the kitchen, Damon pushes open the door as the ruckus increases in volume. A cat yowls, the sharp screech cutting across the cacophony of the yelling and a barking dog. When he opens the door, his black tortoiseshell cat, Artemis, darts between his legs seeking the sanctuary of the bakery, leaving him staring at the carnage in his herb garden. It’s not the man who draws his attention, even though he’s one of the best-looking men Damon’s seen in a long time, all long legs and broad shoulders and tousled blond hair. No, it’s the absolute monster of a dog, like a Sherlockian hellhound, that’s bounding through his garden beds as the man yells ineffectually at it.

Jane! Jane, stop that! The dog ignores him, digging gleefully at the base of a hundred-year-old rosemary plant. No! Bad dog! Unfazed, the dog keeps digging until she spots Damon, and then bounces happily towards him, crushing herbs and flowers beneath her enormous paws.

What is going on? Damon hops down the three steps leading from the bakery into the garden. His perfectly tended garden with its mixture of herbs, vegetables, and flowers now looks like it was attacked by a stampede of rhinos. What did you do to my garden?

I’m really sorry. It’s my sister’s dog. She’s only a puppy and she doesn’t know any better. She slipped her collar and ran off. The man secures the dog, throwing a leash around her neck as she wiggles at his feet, panting up at him. She’s a puppy, a Newfoundland, and judging by the size of her paws, she’s going to grow bigger than her current elephantine size. The thought makes him shudder.

Your dog’s ruined my garden. The rose-bush Hen had planted to mark her last days lies in tatters by the side wall, its magenta flowers shredded and crushed. The witch hazel and ferns by the gate are trampled flat, and a mound of dirt is all that’s left of his juniper.

I’m really sorry, the man repeats himself, stubbornness flashing in his eyes. They’re just plants. I’ll pay for the damage.

Just plants? Damon’s shock is wearing off, subsumed by his growing anger. These plants are irreplaceable. Some of them were a hundred years old.

This is probably a good time to try something new. Every crisis is an opportunity. Isn’t that right? The man claps him on the back, strong fingers grasp his shoulder and fall away, leaving a trace of heat in their wake.

He’s had enough. Get your damn dog out of my garden.

The other man smiles at him, holding the leash loosely in one hand as he offers Damon the other with a sheepish grin. Technically, I think it’s my garden. Since I own the building.

2

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Andrew

E xcuse me? The man’s voice is low and dangerous. His face darkens at the revelation that Andrew owns his garden and, by extension, the building where he lives and works. But it’s not the look on his face that grabs Andrew’s attention. It’s the other man’s hair that holds him spellbound. It’s cut short, in a run-your-fingers-through-it-and-go style. But the colour. The colour is glorious. Red and gold and orange and a hint of pink. Like a sunrise brought to life. Andrew longs to plunge his hands into it, a desire brought to a screeching halt by the look of withering disdain the man gives him. What do you mean you own the building?

Andrew takes his hand away. The other man is not going to shake it. Andrew Coleman. I guess I’m technically your landlord? His voice has gone high and squeaky, as if he’s intimidated by this man with the fantastic hair and the all-black wardrobe. Which he’s definitely not.

The man narrows his blue eyes at him. You’re too young to be Hen’s son. You must be...

Andrew flinches at the mention of Gran’s name. He’d known coming here would drag up old memories. He hadn’t expected her presence to be everywhere, including written in six-foot-tall letters across the front of the building. Her grandson. Did you know Gran? I didn’t, really. We didn’t speak. It was a complete surprise when she left me this building. He’s prattling like a child, his words spilling out like a leaky faucet.

Sorrow washes across the other man’s face. His lips tremble and he presses them into a thin line. She was a good friend.

Of course Gran had friends. Jaw clenching, Andrew’s hand tightens on Jane’s leash. Gran had never cared enough about him and Stacey to even send a birthday card, yet the man standing in front of him clearly cared about her.

Well. I’m glad. That she had friends, I mean. He plays with Jane’s leash as the puppy rolls in the dirt at his feet, distracting him from the lie. It’s understandable why the other man is so angry—the garden is in shambles. I won’t be staying long, I’m just here to put together a renovation plan before I fix the building up and sell it. Look how dated it is. Nothing but old wood and brick. It needs a facelift. He runs a calculating eye over the building. The brick on the back side of the three-storey Victorian is neat and well-maintained, but it’s showing its age. The four rear doorways are painted different colours, each of them leading to a different shop with the living space above. Large windows frame the second-floor apartments. Listen, since I’m going to the trouble, why don’t I put the damage to the garden into my plans? Spruce it up, give it a make-over? I know a landscape designer—

Absolutely not. The man’s eyes