Table Of ContentLove Potion #7
Tara Kingston
Chelsea York is a witch on a mission. Quarterback Jake Wilder’s broken one
heart too many, and Chelsea’s out to give the legendary passer a taste of his own
medicine. She calls upon the city’s resident spellcaster to conjure the perfect
brew for her task, Love Potion #7.
Jake Wilder left the game of football for the quiet of his hometown, but he
hasn’t left fame behind. When a bewitching bookstore owner engages him in a
sensuous battle of the sexes, he decides to teach the woman he believes to be a
gold digger why she shouldn’t play with fire.
With seduction as their mission, both set out to become the victor in their
sexual play. But they both get in over their heads when struck with desire neither
can deny. And surrendering to the pleasure of temptation will lead them to
discover how some passions are more potent than any spell.
Love Potion #7
Tara Kingston
Dedication
To Greg, my husband and best friend. You’ll always be my hero.
Chapter One
“I need a potion that will bring a man to his knees.”
Huddled over a table in a cozy herbal boutique, Chelsea York tapped a finger
against the small photograph of football’s golden boy she’d clipped from the
Sunday paper. Jake Wilder led a charmed life, or so the columnists said. Fame.
Fortune. Gorgeous women—arm candy worn like the latest fashion accessory
for the elite man-about-town. Even the stubble on his classically carved jaw was
perfect.
The perfection of Jake Wilder’s life was about to change.
Her consultant traced a fuchsia nail against the image. Tiny lines creased
Bridget’s forehead, but mischief lit the spellcaster’s jade eyes. “Literally or
figuratively?”’
Chelsea nibbled her lower lip. What she was about to do was unethical.
Morally reprehensible, even. The Witches’ Council could strip her of her powers
for life. She’d be condemned to a life of misery. Dealing with auto mechanics.
Suffering through waits at her favorite restaurants. Laundry and cooking and
cleaning. She gulped a breath, pushed the horror from her mind and met
Bridget’s conniving gaze.
“Both.”
*
Chelsea leaned closer to the mirror, applying mascara as if she were dressing
for battle. Even armed with Bridget’s potion, she could leave nothing to chance.
She wasn’t aiming for happily-ever-after.
Love at first sight would have to do.
Actually, it wouldn’t be first sight. She’d need to administer Bridget’s sweet-
smelling concoction, and then the potion would need time to work. Jake Wilder
wouldn’t even know Chelsea was about to become the woman of his dreams, the
woman who filled every thought, day and night. The woman he couldn’t get
enough of…and couldn’t get. He wouldn’t have a clue he was going to want her
more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
Not until seven minutes had passed.
Seven magical minutes from the moment the first drop touched his lips.
She slipped on her favorite curve-grazing little red dress and tan sandals with
just enough heel to showcase the product of more boot camp classes than she
could count. Leave nothing to chance. She spritzed her favorite cologne behind
her ears and between her breasts. Bridget’s wizardry had never let her down, but
a little extra insurance never hurt.
Her gaze fell on the framed photo on her dresser. She and Elise looked so
young in that picture. Inseparable since their mothers set them in the same
playpen, they’d shared laughter and heartache, celebrating their differences
while cementing a closer bond than most sisters shared.
Elise had employed her halo of golden hair, angelic face and honeyed drawl
to play the role of Southern belle with a gusto befitting an old-money debutante.
Homecoming court. Beauty pageants. Dates with the big men on campus.
She’d discovered young that fluttering her ridiculously long lashes would
send the male of the species rushing to fulfill her every whim. Somehow, it just
seemed natural, while ever-practical Chelsea lived her life without the benefit of
batted lashes or artfully tousled waves. Not that Chelsea couldn’t conjure hair
extensions or the perfect cosmetic to cover any blemish. She reserved her
powers for matters of much greater consequence—housecleaning, cooking and
changing her cat’s litter box.
Tearstains had marred Elise’s otherwise meticulous makeup the day she left
Richmond. Suitcase in hand, she’d slung her designer bag over her shoulder and
swiped away a fat droplet on her cheek. “I can’t stay here,” she managed
between sniffles. “I’ve got to get away…away from that…hound dog! I was just
another woman in Jake’s harem.”
She’d settled her bags in the trunk of her pearl-white convertible and
marched to the driver’s side, a proper lady save for the stomping of her heels
against the sidewalk. With a halfhearted wave, she’d sped away, bound for New
York and a new start—a start far away from her home, her best friend and Jake
Wilder.
The cad had seduced Elise and cast her away. Dumped her…on Valentine’s
Day, no less.
Jake Wilder was about to get a taste of Love Potion #7. And a taste of his
own medicine.
Banishing the nagging little voice in her head that muttered about the
Witches’ Council and dire consequences to the recesses of her mind, Chelsea
slipped the vial of the spellcaster’s formula into a small quilted bag and headed
out the door.
She covered the three blocks from her townhouse to her shop, drinking in the
sights and sounds and smells of her neighborhood with each brisk step. The walk
never failed to invigorate her. Offering greetings to the eclectic collection of
residents milling about, she savored the feel of a cooling breeze against her
cheeks, the beauty of spring flowers blooming in window boxes and the tap of
her heels against the weathered pavement.
A quaint bookstore nestled between century-old neighborhood shops seemed
just the place to meet a man one wanted to enthrall. Quiet. Relaxed. Free of the
hustle and bustle of restaurants and the overt come-ons of a club. The fact that
Chelsea owned this particular bookstore made the setting all the more suitable
for her purposes. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and straight-from-the-
oven scones greeted her as she walked through the door. Perfect. Every witch
worth her broom knew the old cliché to be all too true—the best way to a man’s
heart was through his stomach, especially if consumption of a potion was
involved. She’d whipped up an ample supply of oven-ready pastries that
morning, ready for her assistant to bake as Chelsea dashed home to change from
her flour-dusted jeans. She’d left nothing to chance. So why had a fist lodged in
the pit of her stomach?
Shrugging off the heavy doubt as nerves and nothing more, she thanked her
assistant for coming in early and hurried him out the door. Daryl had afternoon
classes at the university, after all. Even if her lanky young employee seemed
eager for an excuse to skip his Econ lecture, the mother hen in her wouldn’t aid
his quest to sabotage his already shaky academics. Besides, she’d be better off
alone with Jake Wilder. She’d close the shop for lunch after he arrived and
ensure they had the privacy she’d need.
Still, the fist stubbornly set up residence in her belly. If anything, it seemed
to burrow deeper with each passing moment. She pulled in a breath and busied
herself arranging the latest best sellers on a center table. She glanced at the
clock. Almost noon. Her quarry would soon arrive for their appointment. No
time now for second thoughts.
She’d lead Wilder on to teach him a lesson, nothing more. The potion’s
effects would linger for three cycles of the moon. No more. No less. If anything,
he’d be a better person after this experience. He might even abandon his
womanizing ways and treat women as something more than temporary trophies
and bedmates. Truth be told, she was doing him a favor.
Of course, the Council might not see it that way.
The bell over the door chimed, announcing a visitor. She pulled in a breath,
plastered on a serene girl-next-door smile and lifted her gaze to lock with the
bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Unfortunately, the owner of those vivid aquamarine eyes was not Jake
Wilder. A strikingly pretty sixty-something woman with the air of a grandmother
on a mission swept toward her.
“Good morning.” The matron’s mouth stretched into a smile. “I’m looking
for something to interest a ten-year-old boy. He mumbled something about
zombies.”
The lump in Chelsea’s throat dissolved. “I have just the thing. We’ve
received a new series.” She led the customer to a shelf near the door. “Zombie
marauders. The books have been—”
Chimes again. The door creaked open. She really needed to oil that hinge.
The lump returned, bigger and meaner. By Zeus’ beard, Jake Wilder looked
even more…more perfect…in person than in pictures.
His gaze swept her length and back again, an efficient, practiced perusal. His
attention dipped to the book in her hand. “Great cover. Nothing like a brain-eater
with blood dripping down its chin to brighten a kid’s day.”
“Oh my.” The customer smoothed a wayward silvery curl behind her ear.
“You’re him. That football player.”
“Bet you’re amazed quarterbacks can read, aren’t you?” On another man’s
lips, the words might have seemed flippant, but the good-humored glint in
Wilder’s brown eyes added a nuance of charm to the question.
The older woman squared her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed and hardened.
“That last-second pass you threw in the Super Bowl cost my team the game. My
husband lost a small fortune on your lucky toss.” She expelled air with a huff.
Her attention flicked back to Chelsea. “Thank you for your time, miss.”
With that, she spun out the door, a virago in pinstriped pantsuit and pumps.
“I’d hate to have been that husband.” The warmth in Jake Wilder’s
expression had not dimmed. He extended his hand. “You must be Chelsea
York.”
She pressed her hand to his. His palm was rougher than she’d expected, not
at all the hand of a privileged jock living off his former glory. Heat flowed from
his touch. The tiniest of flames stirred in her core.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilder.”
“Jake.” His smile etched his eyes with tiny creases that somehow managed to
look striking against his tanned skin.
Yikes, she was still holding his hand. Her fingers uncurled and she took a
step in retreat. “Thank you for coming today. I appreciate your time.”
“As you know, I’m an avid supporter of the youth in this city. I grew up here,
and I want to give something back. Just let me know what I can do.”
If only he’d turn off that crooked smile. How ridiculous that he could wear at
her defenses with a simple hitch of his mouth.
Drawing air into her lungs, she forced herself to stop wondering what he
looked like without his pressed polo shirt and immaculately creased khakis. His
scent filled her nostrils. Crisp, expensive cologne that brought to mind a storm at
midnight mingled with the unmistakable essence of clean, healthy male in his
prime. Her calming breath had the opposite of its intended effect. She dug her
nails into her palm to divert her rampaging senses.
“As you know, Mr. Wilder…Jake…I’m putting together a series of speakers
who will draw young males to appreciate books. Statistics show boys fall behind
girls in reading even in elementary school. If we get them interested in the
worlds created on the printed page, their achievement will follow.”
“What do you have in mind?”
She forced the truth to the back of her mind and composed her features into a
calm mask. “Do you have a few minutes to discuss this…over a cup of coffee,
perhaps?”
“Sure. There’s a coffee shop right across the street.”
“Actually, I serve coffee and croissants right here. They’re my signature, so
to speak. If customers come for the pastries, they may actually find a book to
take home.” Turning on her heel, she led him to the bistro area at the rear of her
shop. “I’ve just taken a tray out of the oven.”
He settled into a black metal chair that barely contained his six-foot-plus
frame. Notes of a familiar rock ballad erupted from his pocket. Retrieving his
phone from his trousers, he spared the screen a glance, shook his head, and
turned off the cell without answering it.
“Another crisis at the restaurant.” He shrugged. “Mario will have to figure it
out without me.”
“Mario?”
“My business partner, Mario Mancuso.”
“The Mario Mancuso?” The question tumbled from her lips. Did she sound
like a starstruck ditz? She sure felt like one.
“If by the Mario Mancuso you mean the quarterback whose team lost to mine
with that last-second pass, that’s him.”
She’d dropped this proverbial ball in her research, but that should prove to be
of no consequence. “I thought you hated each other.”
“We did. On the field. That’s what we were paid to do.”
“When did he join your venture?”
“He retired from the game after the season ended and came aboard a few
weeks ago. He wants to immerse himself in the business, not just funnel money
into it. So, I’m letting him savor the full restaurant owner experience.” Again,
that smile. Genuine. Filled with mischief. At this rate, she’d need to take a
potion herself to remain indifferent to that dimple in his chin.
“You may need to change its name.”
“Café Seven works for now. Unfortunately, Mario’s jersey number was
eleven.”
“Combining the two certainly wouldn’t be an option,” she agreed. “I’ll be
right back with those scones and coffee.”
She stepped behind a chalkboard, which listed the day’s featured treats,
placed three scones on a platter and poured coffee into two cups, one an earthy
green, the other a pastel pink. Drat her trembling fingers. She’d come this far.
She needed to follow through. That same charming, smiling mouth had uttered
the words that reduced Elise to a sobbing wreck huddled in a ball on top of her
covers.
On Valentine’s Day. The thought proved a silent mantra, a rallying cry to
shore up her resolve to follow through with her plan.
Carefully…so carefully…she lifted the dainty glass vial from its pouch and
removed the stopper. Seven drops were all she’d need. Fewer than seven would
stir affection or a crush, but not a full-bodied passion. More would create an
obsession that haunted a man until the end of his days. She certainly didn’t want
that.
Seven drops would create exactly the desired effect.
Steeling her fidgety hands to move with precision, she counted each plop
against the coffee. One. Two. Three. Finally, the seventh drop soaked in. She
replaced the stopper and stowed the vial out of sight.
He watched her every move as she returned to the table. Before he could
reach for a cup, she set the green mug before him. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Sugar, please.” He dosed his coffee with not one but two lumps. Good
