Excerpt

Prologue

Hi, I’m Tziporah Graham. Yes, it’s a mouthful. That’s why I go by my nickname, Zip.

I live in Mockingbird Springs, South Carolina, with my Aunt Corliss, who raised me on baked goods and botanicals. There were exactly zero warnings that she’s secretly an agent for a government agency called the DSA—that’s the Department of Speculative Arts, in case you’re not on their classified mailing list.

One innocent delivery for Aunt Corliss turned into a magical mess involving mysterious strangers, enchanted caffeine, and two pets who now talk. (Yes. Talk. With voices. And opinions. So many opinions.)

Basil is my three-legged cat with the personality of a disgruntled professor, complete with a British accent. Loki is an enthusiastic little rescue pup who believes belly rubs can fix the world. They rarely agree on anything, and both have a lot to say.

Oh—and my ex? Jones? He’s back in my life. Not by my choice, but he knows all my secrets, and he’s always willing to taste-test my menu experiments at Magickal Beans, my coffee shop.

So, if you’re new here, welcome! But bless your heart if you still think our town resembles anything close to normal. Mockingbird Springs has chaos, conversational pets, and plenty of coffee.

Hope you brought snacks.

Chapter 1

“Can you go any slower?” complained Mitch Silver, the customer on the other side of the counter. The man was the town’s slimiest land developer. His voice had the effect of fingernails on a chalkboard. If he had his way, he’d raze my quaint coffee shop and put something sleek and modern in its place. “It’s only a vanilla latte. It’s not like you’re hand-roasting the coffee beans for it.”

I gripped the handle of the portafilter containing used espresso grounds with more force than was necessary and gave it a solid whack against the knock box. The grounds inside the filter, hardened into the shape of a mini-hockey puck, loosened, joining the heap of others. It was as close to a reply as Mitch would get right now.

Magickal Beans was my coffee shop, its startup funded by a trust left to me by my parents. The only other place in Mockingbird Springs where I could get anything besides a cup of straight black coffee was at the Gas and Go. Chuck, who owned the filling station, dumped a packet of powdered cocoa into a cup of decaf and called it a mocha latte. As if. Its bitter aftertaste left a lot to be desired and was why my superior-tasting beverages gained a loyal following in such a short time.

Mitch gave a dramatic sigh to remind me that he was waiting. As I hadn’t yet replied to his question, he said, “What I asked was rhetorical, by the way. You didn’t need to actually go slower.”

Without speaking or speeding my pace, I continued making his coffee. If Mitch were any other customer, I’d try to upsell a baked good, but he didn’t deserve that kind of yumminess. Not today.

Selling foods prepared by my Aunt Corliss helped, too. The perfect complement to the caffeinated beverage menu, her ever-changing menu of baked goods always had whatever herbal remedies my customers needed.

How did Aunt Corliss know who would need what before the day began? It was as much a mystery to me as it was to anyone else. As long as the sweet and savory menu items helped add to the bottom line, I would continue selling them. No questions asked.

“I don’t have all afternoon,” he continued. “At some point, I’d like to return to my office. You know, where I perform an actual job. Preferably with the latte that I ordered an eternity ago.”

I forced a smile and replied, “Mitch, you know the coffee here is worth the wait.” In an imaginary thought bubble over my head, I snarkily added, And if you didn’t want to wait, then you could take yourself over to the Grease and Go. Instead, I decided to catch more flies with honey and added, “Even if you are the busiest guy in town.”

Of course, it didn’t work.

“For a woman named Zip, you move at the speed of a sloth.” Mitch’s voice carried over the din of other customers’ conversations. “If you keep lollygagging, you won’t have to come to my office later. I’ll tell Cal to meet us here.”

I hoped his business partner, Cal Reynolds, was nicer than he was. Unwilling to grace Mitch with a response, I instead focused on multitasking, which was kind of my superpower. I steamed the milk for his drink as a shot of espresso dripped black as night into an ivory porcelain cup. I transferred the ingredients to a paper to-go cup and popped the lid on before I turned to face Mitch again.

I set Mitch’s coffee next to the cup I’d been experimenting on before he barged into the coffee shop. “That’ll be five dollars and fourteen cents,” I said. ” And don’t forget your punch card. Every coffee purchase goes towards a free drink.”

Mitch laid four crisp, one-dollar bills on the counter and paid the rest of the amount in loose change. He took his time counting out a dollar and fourteen cents from his sweaty handful of coins, right down to the last penny, along with his rewards card. If there was ever a time to compare someone to a sloth, this was it, but I wasn’t stooping to Mitch’s level of pettiness.

“And if you think I’m going to tip you, then you’re wrong. See you at my office later. Don’t be late.” Mitch waited for me to punch his card before turning on his heel and taking a cup—the wrong one.

He was out of the shop before I realized he had mistakenly grabbed the experimental salted caramel pecan latte. With a hope and a prayer that he wasn’t allergic to tree nuts, I set his actual drink aside in case he came back for it and hoped for the best. The last thing I needed was legal trouble.

A young mother stepped up next, a sleepy toddler strapped to her body with some kind of sling contraption that allowed the child to sit against her hip. The woman’s tired smile tugged at my heartstrings. 

Aunt Corliss always said that the best way to improve my day was to brighten someone else’s, so that’s what I did and offered her Mitch’s coffee order. If he returned, he’d only have me remake it anyway, and there was no sense in a perfectly good coffee going to waste.

“A vanilla latte sounds divine but please, let me pay for it. My wallet is in here somewhere.” The woman reached for the diaper bag hanging from her shoulder, I but protested.

“Your money’s no good here. I’ve got you covered.”

“What? No,” she protested in a quiet voice over her sleeping child’s head.

“This one’s on the house, ma’am. I insist, and I hope you like snacks.” I wrapped up a brownie and urged her to accept the decadent chocolate pastry. “When your little one wakes up with their batteries fully recharged, you’ll be glad you had this extra bit of chocolate to go with the caffeine boost. It’s got marshmallow in it”

“You’re an angel. He’s in preschool three afternoons a week, and the other moms and I have been looking for a place to hang out during those two hours. Would you mind if we met here? It would be from one to three.” She glanced at the different seating areas as if pondering the best place for them to sit.

“Mind? Not at all. The more, the merrier. We close at three o’clock, but I can always stay open a little later if you need more time.”

“This is perfect. Thank you,” she stressed the final two words, and the tone of her voice filled me with warmth, like a freshly brewed shot of espresso.

Customers like her were why I put up with ones like Mitch. 

I leaned forward and lowered my voice, “The couches by the door are the most comfortable, but that table by the stained glass window has a stronger Wi-Fi signal if you need it.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much.”

“And if you or the other moms have any special requests for baked goods or need to avoid any allergens, you can send a message through our website or the app.”

The woman tucked the pastry bag into the oversized tote slung over her free shoulder before taking a sip of her coffee. “This jolt of caffeine is exactly what I needed. Thanks again. I’ll be back later this week with the other moms.”

The next person in line behind the young mom killed the joyful buzz in my soul. The wriggling ball of white fur in the next customer’s arms ignored my pointed stare but gave a series of high-pitched barks followed by a howl.

I addressed the dog’s human. “Hello, Sherilyn. You know pets aren’t allowed in the building, right?”

“You’re one to talk about pets. Your cat practically lives here. Besides, Snowflake is my emotional support dog.”

“Doesn’t matter. My cafe, my rules.”

Sherilyn shrieked as if I hadn’t spoken at all, “Your little mongrel got my Snowflake pregnant over at the Pet Palace!”

“What? There’s no way that Loki could have fathered Snowflake’s puppies,” I defended my dog. He was home with Aunt Corliss today, thankfully. He would have been at doggy daycare, but the Pet Palace kicked him out again for excessive butt-sniffing.

Being overly friendly and enthusiastic were two of Loki’s traits I found most endearing. Unfortunately, others—including my cat, Basil, and possibly Sherilyn, judging from her expression—found those traits overly annoying. 

“So, you agree there are puppies.” A smug grin forced its way across Sherilyn’s heavily Botoxed features. The rest of her face remained frozen in place.

“I’m just taking your word for it. You’re the one who’s throwing the accusations around. Now, are you going to order something or not?” When she didn’t answer, I added, “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a coffee shop, not some kind of puppy paternity court.”

“What a great idea. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” Sherilyn turned on her heel and stormed out. The door slammed behind her with enough force that the decorative glass rattled in its frame.

With no other customers in line, I tidied up the counter area. The few dine-in ones had gone back to their private conversations now that the Sherilyn Show had ended.

Flying in the face of my no pets in the building rule, Basil, the three-legged, mixed-breed cat, sauntered in from the employees’ only area of the cafe. “Well, well, well. Our drooling friend finally did it.”

At the sound of the feline’s slightly British accent, I gave a heavy sigh. “Did what, Basil?”

“Became a man,” came the reply, followed by a strangled chortle. Basil was, quite literally, rolling on the floor laughing. “Who knew the little guy had it in him to father a litter of puppies? I mean, if I were a betting cat, which I’m not, I’d have lost one of my remaining lives over it.”

Dropping to a kneeling position, I whispered, “Basil, that’s neither respectful nor appropriate. You will not make jokes at your brother’s expense.” I couldn’t resist hinting that my cat and dog were siblings united through pet adoption and was relieved when the dig achieved its intended results.

Basil rolled his eyes and jumped to the counter. With a smug grin, he curled up next to the cash register where he could wait for the next customer to coo over his handsomeness and lament about his missing leg. A shaft of sunlight broke through the window, the beam landing across him as if he had planned it.

The last thing I needed was for someone to see me having a one-sided conversation with my cat, so I turned my back to him and resumed tidying up behind the counter.

About Author R.A. Muth…