by Sarah Noffke
Lasting relationships were built on friendship, but more importantly, they started with a spark. Those relationships that made the world go around, anyway.
Amelia Rose ended the call. Her lack of enthusiasm over Bryce Tyler was heavy on her face as she passed a well-dressed man standing on the platform, his attention on his own mobile device.
Marylou twirled her finger around and pointed at the two from her hiding place behind the pillar.
A handkerchief slipped out of the back of Amelia Rose’s purse and gracefully floated to the concrete, where it landed close to the man—Mr. Grayson McGregor.
The old “drop the handkerchief” technique was tried and true, and Marylou had used it for centuries to get the attention of a Prince Charming for one of her Cinderellas.
To the fairy godmother’s surprise, Grayson McGregor didn’t notice the handkerchief. Marylou sighed. She hoped this wasn’t going to be as difficult as the last case. She poked her wrinkled, bony finger in the air and stirred the embroidered handkerchief around the legs of his slacks.
That got his attention. Grayson glared down and picked up Amelia’s possession. He was eyeing the initials when Amelia spun around and spied him with her handkerchief.
“Excuse me,” she said, striding back in his direction and reaching for the linen square. “That’s mine.”
He brought his blue eyes up and smiled playfully, pulling the handkerchief out of her reach. “Can you prove it? What are your initials?”
She sighed, looking for the train. She’d be late for work if it didn’t get here soon. One more time and she’d get fired. “They are A.R.”
He shook his head. “These are B.T.”
She frowned. “Those are my boyfrie—friend’s initials.”
“Well, is he a friend or a boyfriend?” Grayson asked, still holding the cloth, a flirtatious expression dancing in his eyes.
Amelia narrowed her gaze at the stranger—her one true Prince Charming.
Marylou let out a frustrated breath. This wasn’t going well…again. She wisped her finger in a small gesture and made a gust of wind take the handkerchief from Grayson’s fingers and send it down the platform.
Amelia regarded him incredulously when he simply watched it fly away.
“Well,” she said in a demanding tone. “Are you going to go get that for me?”
He glanced in the direction of the handkerchief flying down the Underground, their train speeding in their direction. “Sorry, but my train is coming, and I can’t be late.”
Amelia’s mouth popped open. “But you lost it.”
“I did not!” he argued at once.
“I’m wearing heels,” she said, pointing to the red heels that matched her striped skirt and blouse.
“Well, I don’t know why your impractical decisions have to affect me,” he countered, anger flaring on his face.
She balled up her fists, her face growing as red as her shoes.
Grayson rolled his eyes. “Oh, fine. But I better not miss my train.” He sped off, racing after the square of cloth flying on the wind directed by Marylou. By the time he’d recovered the handkerchief, the train had come and gone, but Amelia had stayed, growing more furious by the second. She couldn’t lose Bryce’s handkerchief. It meant something to him. But now she was late.
Marylou knew that if the two shared a taxi, they would feel the spark, and the rest would be history.
Grayson threw up his chin, the handkerchief crushed in his hand. “Seriously? I missed the train! Not today.”
Amelia held out her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m probably fired now.”
He cut his eyes at her hand and then her face. “Well, my apologies. Maybe I can offer you a job at my company, McGregor Technologies.”
She blinked at him. “McGregor Technologies? That company turned me down for a position last year when I graduated from college.”
He was supposed to offer her a job, and she would accept, and they’d work together and fall in love. From the angry expression on both their faces, romance was not budding between them—the exact opposite. There was a fine line between the two.
He shrugged. “We like our candidates to have experience.”
“I have experience!” she argued. “And I’m a quick learner.”
“But you’re not quick on your feet,” he pointed out between breaths, taxed after the run to get Amelia’s handkerchief.
She yanked it from his hand. “Do you always insult people whose stuff you take?”
He grinned at her. “I didn’t take it. You dropped it. So you make poor clothing choices, can’t run after your own things, and you lose stuff. Never mind the job offer.”
Amelia’s mouth formed a hard line. “What is your name?”
He lifted his chin proudly. “Grayson McGregor.”
She nodded. “Grayson, consider yourself warned. Your company is utter rubbish to me.”
The guy laughed, his teeth perfectly straight on the top and cutely crooked on the bottom. He was very handsome, with his short brown hair and boyish dimples. “And who will I have the pleasure of attributing my downfall to? If it happens.”
She started down the platform, her heels clicking against the concrete. After a few steps, she whipped around and narrowed her eyes at him. “Amelia Rose. One day you’ll hear my name and know I’m the one who undercut your prices, stole all your customers, and sank McGregor Technologies.”
“I cannot wait, Amelia Rose. Bring it on.”
The two stormed in opposite directions, each raving mad.
Marylou groaned and leaned against the pillar. The thing about a spark was it had the potential to ignite a brilliant love affair or to burn the bridges between two lovers. It was a fine balance, one a fairy godmother was supposed to be good at keeping. It appeared, yet again, that Marylou Goodwin had failed. She knew the repercussions of Amelia and Grayson not falling in love would have far-reaching effects and would undoubtedly hurt the world at large.
Chapter Two
Strong hands grabbed Paris Westbridge’s shoulders, yanking her hard off the giant she was assaulting. He was easily double her size and a lot uglier by anyone’s standards.
“Don’t,” she hissed as she struggled to get out of the grasp of the detective who was trying to pull her off the giant. Detective Nicholson was stronger than Paris, but she was nimbler. She dropped her body weight, diving under his arm and backing up several feet as the stupid giant Madow threw his fist. The attack was meant for her, but slammed straight into Detective Nicholson’s face, sending him back several feet.
Gasping, Paris grabbed him as he stumbled and kept him from falling to the ground. Madow, realizing he’d just made things ten times worse for himself, turned at once and sprinted down Roya Lane, fleeing the crime scene like the coward he was.
Holding the side of his face, Detective Nicholson turned and looked at Paris. He shook his head and squinted with the one eye that wasn’t obstructed. The fairy lowered her chin, knowing that there would be no fleeing for her. She had to face this and knew from experience it wouldn’t be pleasant.
With an authoritative glare, Detective Nicholson pointed at the building at the end of the street. Paris had been in there many times. Hell, she sort of lived there lately, but not by choice.
Swallowing her pride and not needing any more directives, she marched in the direction of the Fairy Law Enforcement office, where she was certain there was a jail cell with her name on it. At this point, she should keep a toothbrush there like it was a boyfriend’s place…if the boyfriend was a warden who served really bad food and kept her rap sheet on his desk since it was referenced so often.
Trudging toward the office, Paris sighed. This was her third strike in so many terms. She wasn’t getting a slap on the wrist, and both she and Detective Nicholson knew it.
Paris Westbridge was in a world of trouble, and there would be no talking her way out of it this time.
Chapter Three
At the glass door to the Fairy Law Enf
orcement office, Paris caught her reflection. She grinned, proud that she looked a lot less messed up than Madow. The fairy was pretty certain she’d given the giant a black eye and loosened one of his teeth with her fists. She laughed to herself, thinking it was an improvement on his ugly face.
In contrast, Paris’ shoulder-length blonde hair was hardly mussed and fell straight around her face. Her blue eyes blinked back at her, and she was grateful to see no scratches or swelling from the fistfight. To her disappointment, her favorite leather jacket had a rip in the arm and her boots were scuffed. As she normally and most fairies in the modern world did, her periwinkle-blue wings were glamoured not to show, but she was certain they were unscathed.
“You know where to go,” Detective Nicholson told her when they entered.
Paris nodded and walked past the reception desk where Charlotte sat filing her nails as her sparkly blue wings fluttered behind her. Since she hardly left the magical area known as Roya Lane, she never bothered to glamour her wings.
“Oh, good to see you, Paris,” the receptionist said, smacking her gum. “Do you want some green tea? I have a new Moroccan mint flavor.”
Paris was about to respond when Detective Nicholson cut her off. “This isn’t a social visit, Charlotte. She’s in police custody.”
Paris flashed the receptionist an apologetic smile as she passed, heading for the detective’s office down the long hallway.
“So, no tea, then?” Charlotte called. “I have a hibiscus flower one too. John, it would be good for you to drink some tea.”
The detective shook his head as he followed Paris into the messy office. “Just coffee for me.”
“Please,” Paris added and threw herself in the chair on the other side of Detective Nicholson’s desk. The vinyl was ripped in places, and the metal armrest was rusted.
“What’s that?” he asked, taking a seat behind his desk, which was piled high with folders and day-old donuts.
“You forgot to say please,” she explained. “Just coffee for me, please.”
He shook his head of short white hair as he picked up a file folder and pretended to read it. Almost at once, he gave up the charade and thumped it back down on the desk, making it slide off a stack of papers. “Seriously, did you have to pick another fight with Madow?”
Daringly, she nodded. “He started it.”
Detective Nicholson sighed and shook his head. His face was starting to swell from the assault, but he wasn’t giving it any notice. “Someone else always starts it, Paris. That’s always your excuse.”
She held out her hands. “It’s true, though. He was totally bullying a couple of elves. They were about to give over their money, afraid Madow was going to snap off their pointy ears.”
Running his hands through his hair, the detective groaned. “It’s not your job to fight bullies who steal other people’s lunch money. That’s my job.”
Paris wanted to point out that the detective obviously wasn’t doing his job if she was stepping in so regularly, but she didn’t think that would go over so well for her. She knew he was overworked and understaffed, so instead she said, “I was just trying to help.”
He pressed his hand to his face, the throbbing from the attack starting to register as the adrenaline subsided. “That’s just it. You’re always trying to ‘help.’” He said the last with air quotes. “Like last week when you stole levoroxy from those gnomes at the market?”
She narrowed her eyes, the recent memory burning her up again with anger. “Those gnomes were taking advantage of the magician who needed it. He’s ill, and when they realized he needed that medicine, they jacked up the price. He was about to sell his possessions to get that drug.”
Detective Nicholson shook his head. “That’s the thing—it’s a free market. That’s the gnomes’ prerogative. You can’t go around enforcing things just because you think they are wrong.”
“Then who is going to?” she blurted and instantly regretted it. Paris knew she was only making things worse for herself, but as usual, she didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.
“It’s my job to uphold the law,” he argued. “It’s the magical law enforcement agency’s job. Yours is to mind your own business and stay out of trouble, but after this, there’s little hope of that happening.”
Paris dropped her head, feeling the inevitable about to befall her. “Detective Nicholson, I promise that I’ll—”
“Don’t call me that,” he interrupted, a punishing look on his face. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by pretending.”
Paris laughed. “By pretending that you’re not my uncle and I’m not a criminal?”
His blue eyes fluttered with annoyance as Charlotte brought him a steaming cup of black coffee. “Things are hard enough without you acting like you’re just some fairy on the street I’ve brought in for breaking the law yet again.”
“I’m just not asking for any favors, Uncle John,” she said, offering a dry smile to the receptionist as she left the office.
“No, you never do,” John Nicholson agreed. “And unfortunately, there’s no way I can grant you any leniency.” He picked up the file that had her name on it and was, not surprisingly, thicker than most of the others on his desk. “I’ve bent every rule I can for you, Paris, but I’ve got management breathing down my neck now. If they find out that I’ve let you off again, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“I don’t want that for you,” she said, feeling the weight of her bad decisions suddenly. Paris didn’t want anything to happen to her Uncle John. He had always been there for her. When her parents had up and left town, deserting her, or when she couldn’t pay her rent. Even when her dumb ex-boyfriend had left her with a mountain of debt Uncle John had been there for her. And this was how she was repaying him. Paris felt awful, but that wasn’t fixing anything.
He shook his head. “I just don’t know what else to do at this point. If my superiors find out about this incident, which I suspect they will since Madow can’t keep his trap shut, they might have my badge.”
“Then put me in jail,” she stated at once.
The look that snapped to his face made Paris’ heart ache.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, his voice gruff. “The sentence for the charges will be quite long. You could be locked up for ages.”
She shrugged, pretending not to care. “I’ll make the most of it. I’ll pick up a hobby. Learn a new language. Take up meditation. Maybe try some yoga.”
A smile nearly cracked on Uncle John’s lips, but he covered it up by taking a sip of his coffee. It was obviously too hot by the grimace he made. “What if there was another option? A community service of sorts?”
Paris sat forward fast. “No. Please don’t send me to Tooth Fairy College. I can’t. I will take jail. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t throw me in with those goth fairies and their emo music. I. Won’t. Survive.”
He actually chuckled. “I think those delinquent fairies are the ones who wouldn’t survive you, Pare.”
Uncle John was right. One day with those juvenile fairies who wore all black and talked in monotone voices while reciting Edgar Allen Poe poetry would push Paris to her limit. Most knew that underage fairies who broke the law were sent to Tooth Fairy College for reformation and to fulfill their sentences for wrongdoing. At the age of eighteen, Paris was almost over the limit, but her uncle could get her in there if he wanted to. She desperately hoped he didn’t because the last thing she wanted to do was collect gross teeth from mortal children’s pillows for the next century. Anything but that.
“I can take a few years in jail,” she argued. “Do what you have to do, but I don’t want you suffering for my actions. Punish me, so you don’t get punished.”
She expected him to argue, but instead, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. Paris remained quiet, listening for the voice on the other side of the line. Unfortunately, when the person picked up, she couldn’t hear what they said.
�
��So, I have a proposition for you,” Uncle John began, talking to the person on the other side. “Rumor on the street is that your enrollment is down. What if I help you out?”
He waited and listened. After a moment, he said, “You know my niece Paris Westbridge, right?”
There was another pause. “Yeah, she’s a good kid. Just a bit…” Uncle John cut his eyes at Paris before adding, “spirited. She needs discipline, that’s all.”
Paris felt like sliding down in her chair and muttering a few curse words but refrained.
“Great!” Uncle John cheered, a real smile spreading across his mouth. “Then we have a deal. I’ll send her over…well, if she agrees.” With that, he put the phone on the receiver and gave his niece a measured glare. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Pare. You’re not going to like it, but hear me out.”
Chapter Four
The lilac-infused breeze that trespassed through the open window of the fairy godmother college made the lacey drapes sweep up, like a woman’s dress after a gust of wind. Willow Starr glanced out at the grounds of Happily Ever After, enjoying the spring weather. It was always springtime at the college. It had been since the beginning, some three-hundred years ago.
Spring was the season of love. It symbolized birth, new beginnings, and a time when all things thrived. The college didn’t have a mappable location. It existed in a bubble, very much like the fairy godmothers themselves.
Willow Starr had been the headmistress of Happily Ever After since the beginning. Back then, things had been easy. The rules of courtship were black and white. But things had changed in the modern world, and nothing had changed at the fairy godmother college. Willow knew it was only a matter of time before she was brought in by the governing agency for discipline. Saint Valentine had to know what she was in denial about. Her boss would know enrollment at the college was at a dismal low, and that the cases were piling up. Worst of all, he’d know the cases that were worked ended in complete failures.
