Identity Crisis (22 page)

Before she could respond, he placed his hands on the sides of her waist and drew her to him. He leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss to her lips, then slipped his tongue inside her mouth, deepening the kiss, sliding his hands around to the small of her back and pressing her snugly against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tunneling her fingers through his wet hair. The thought of ever being away from Ethan again increased the urgency of their kiss. She longed for their bodies and lips to remain fused forever, except she had something she needed to tell him.

She drew her head back slightly, their lips almost touching, “I love you. And I trust you. To keep me safe. To make me smile. To be open and honest with me.” She brushed a soft kiss to his lips. “I just plain trust you.”

He looped a finger through her mom’s wedding band resting against her chest. “I’d rather see this on your finger than on a chain.” He peered deep into her eyes, his sultry gaze reinforcing how badly he wanted her. “Would you consider changing your name one last time?”

She smiled. “Can I keep my identity?”

“Wouldn’t want you to change a thing about yourself.”

Gazing deep into his eyes, she curled her fingers around his hand holding the ring. He leaned over and captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. At that moment she knew, the name Olivia Ryder would be hers forever.

When Eliza Daly isn’t traveling for her job as an event planner, or tracing her ancestry roots through Ireland, she is at home in Wisconsin working on her next novel, bouncing ideas off her husband Mark, and her cats Quigley, Frankie, and Sammy.

Learn more about Eliza at
www.elizadaly.com
,
www.facebook.com/ElizaDalyAuthor
, or
www.twitter.com/ElizaDalyAuthor

Monica Jackson was raising a bowl of sea salt, preparing to cast a spell circle on her bedroom floor when the door flew open. She nearly dropped the bowl as her cousin Hope stormed in, covered with flour and cake batter — the Unhappy Homemaker from Hell.

“No way is he getting the BMW,” Hope said, shaking a wooden spoon in her hand and sending batter flying across the room.

The night before, Hope had caught her scumbag husband Kyle in bed with another woman. Not wanting to impose on her happily married friends, she’d showed up at Monica’s door, even though they weren’t exactly close. Hope made a Stepford Wife look like a total slacker, and the only thing she and Monica had in common were their Italian features: dark hair and brown eyes. A wedding cake decorator, Hope was coping with Kyle’s infidelity by baking like a mad woman. Forget the cake. Monica would shove
Kyle
in the oven and roast him on high.

“What are you doing?” Hope’s gaze narrowed on the small wooden table in front of Monica, where the ingredients for her soul mate spell sat on top of a red tablecloth: a red candle, lavender incense, jasmine oil, cinnamon, and a love letter to her as yet unidentified true love.

“Casting a spell to help find my soul mate.”

“A spell? Does that really work?”

“Hopefully.”

Monica’s psychic friend Jordan had convinced her that spell casting was a viable alternative to Milwaukeemates.com and speed dating in general. Neither of which Monica had time for, since establishing her new business was top priority. Her company, Enhance Your Romance, planned unique romantic events and was sure to succeed, unlike her other dozen failed business plans. Society was obsessed with being in love.

“A spell … ” Hope mused, then her face lit up. “If there’s a spell to attract a man to a woman, there must be one to repel women from a man. Right?”

“Spells shouldn’t involve negative energy. Sending out negative energy can cause it to return threefold. They aren’t intended to harm someone or make them do something against their will.” Jordan had drilled this into her head.

“I wouldn’t be making Kyle do anything against his will. I’d be warning
women
to stay away from
him
.”

Sounded borderline.

“Please,” Hope whined, picking a clump of batter from her long, wavy hair.

Monica let out a defeated groan. “All right.” Hope would never actually cast the spell anyway. When they were young, Hope refused to wear a Casper costume for Halloween because she didn’t believe in ghosts. She was closed-minded when it came to paranormal or New Age beliefs. And you had to truly believe in a spell for it to work.

Monica set down the bowl of salt and grabbed a pencil and pad of paper off her desk and handed them to Hope. “Write this down. It’s called,” she tapped a hot pink nail against her lip, “the dirtbag spell.”

“Like it already.” Hope jotted down the title as she perched on the edge of the bed’s purple floral comforter.

“Take one of Kyle’s socks, fill it with dirt, and add a photo of him. It’s critical you aren’t in the photo.” Monica paced, tightening the sash on her lavender silk robe. “Include something of his like … ”

“His new Rolex?”

Personally, Monica would list the watch on eBay and pray for a bidding war. But Hope, no matter how ticked off, was too timid to sell Kyle’s precious watch, and too frugal to risk damaging it by mixing it with dirt.

“That’s fine. Sew up the sock and bury it in your front yard. It’ll warn all women he’s a dirtbag.”

Hope poised the pencil against her lower lip, reviewing the spell. “Don’t I have to say something when I bury it, like a chant?”

What happened to being spell ignorant?

“Bury it in the moonlight while saying … ” Monica scrambled for a few rhyming lines, “moonlight, glowing bright, warn all women in your sight, the man who lives in this house, is a dirtbag and a total louse.”

“Perfect.” Hope sprang from the bed, looking inspired. “Kyle’s at work. I’m going over to the house right now to bury that sock.” She turned and marched out, a woman on a mission.

Monica nibbled nervously on her fingernail. Hope wouldn’t seriously go through with casting the spell, would she? A big part of spell casting was psychological, focusing all your energy on making something happen. Monica had never seen Hope look so determined, or vindictive. Hopefully, if she did cast the spell, the negative energy didn’t return threefold.

What was the worst that could happen?

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