Potion Perfect

by Billie Dale

  Potion Perfect

  By Billie Dale

  Potion Perfect

  Copyright @ 2017 by Billie Dale

  All Right Reserved.

  Cover Design:

  Spellbound Cover Designs

  Editor:

  Asli Fratargangeli

  Formatting:

  Type A Formatting

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  For my children and grand-daughter:

  Beauty is within you. The outside is just the wrapping. Be strong, be brave, be you because you are beautiful.

  Books by Billie Dale

  If you are a fan of Birthday Witch then make sure to look for a surprise inside this book.

  THE REIGH WITCH CHRONICLES

  Birthday Witch

  Princess Witch ~ Coming Soon

  STAND-ALONES

  Potion Perfect

  Join Billie Dale’s Mailing List to stay up-to-date on all news, releases, giveaways and exclusive excerpts.

  Synopsis:

  She fled here to start over, reinvent herself. Running has its perks. She learned that when she met him, fell for him, then used that same skill to run from him.

  She was smart, a seventeen-year-old college sophomore. A viral photo made her trusting and naïve heart more cautious until an old gypsy made her believe love might be possible.

  As her friendship bloomed with Kohl, deeper feelings followed. But the basketball star and the geek only ends well in a fairy tale. He crushed her heart and showed her that everything she thought she believed and trusted was a complete lie. He was a lie.

  She made many mistakes over the years, but the biggest was seeing Kohl Black again.

  Her beauty stunned him, but what was inside owned him.

  Being a star basketball player and a part of campus royalty, you have certain expectations. Expectations he couldn’t give a damn about when he finally spoke to her.

  He wanted her back then just as much as he wants her now.

  He didn’t get a chance to fight for them before. Now, nothing will stand in the way of getting Tensanne Craig back into his arms.

  Contents

  Potion Perfect

  Dedication

  Books by Billie Dale

  About Potion Perfect

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  “OH, MY GOD, Ten. I went on the most amazing date. When he kissed me goodnight it escalated and became a good morning kiss with a whole lot of naked time in-between. There was an explosive electricity between us that had me seeing fireworks. The way his body moved with mine, I swear my body melted right into his. The fates have sent me Mr. Perfect,” she says her eyes sparkling, full of hope and joy.

  Rolling my eyes, “The fates, the stars, Mr. Perfect? Seriously, Erika? You’re divorced and over forty,” I state rolling my eyes at her absurd beliefs.

  “You still believe in that foolish nonsense? Didn’t your last ugly divorce, or the three before, convince you that love does not exist? Didn’t you read my last book, ‘Love is a Belief for the Foolish’?” Sighing, I grab her hand, “Love is simply a state of mind, it doesn’t involve the actual beating heart in your chest. It’s merely a stimulating activation of the striatum, the part of the brain involved with trained behaviors. The part where the joy of food, sex, and every other rewarding activity are given merit. It’s the same part that creates drug addictions. It’s the equivalent of giving a dog a treat for practicing good behavior. Don’t you see? Love is the same as an addiction to crack or learning to play fetch,” I inform her putting my cold psychologist mask firmly in place.

  “No, I didn’t read your book; your words are always over my head and to be honest their kind of depressing,” she replies, shaking her head. “What happened to you? Don’t you miss the heat, the magic, knowing the one is out there waiting for you to find him?” continuing with a gleam in her eyes, “You know, when the stars align and the sparks explode, you get flutters in your stomach that tell you this man is your destiny. The first kiss that melts your body then evolves into a relationship that morphs into years of kisses goodnight and cuddles under blankets. The excitement flooding your veins. I know you don’t believe anymore. I know the decision you made all those years ago turned you into the cold person you are now, but spending your life refuting loves existence for everyone else is sad,” she finishes, her voice losing its jubilee; sadness replacing the twinkle in her eyes.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I stand, leaning to kiss her cheek then bending to grab my purse, I lie, “I have made peace with my decision.” Rubbing my hand down my black pencil skirt and straightening my cream silk blouse, I place my Prada purse on my shoulder, “I have to go. I still have some packing to do and I need to finish a few clinical trial studies before I head to the airport.” I refuse to relive the pain of my past in a public place.

  “I forgot you’re returning to Indiana today. The scene of the crime. Plus, you’re avoiding again. When will you be back?”

  “Roughly twelve weeks. I’m only filling in for one term, while Dr. Riggs is on maternity leave.” Leveling my gaze at her, “I’m not avoiding anything. I’m happy you found someone. I’m just prepared for when it crashes, and it will. I’m afraid I won’t be here to put you back together.”

  “If I wasn’t your longest friend, I would throw my coffee at you and stomp out. Don’t transfer your animosity toward love on to me. I love you, Tensanne. I understand your resistance but I don’t have to agree with it. I know you; therefore, I will forgive you dooming my relationship before it begins,” she says with a grim smile but her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Do you think you will see him? Better yet, find yourself an undergrad to play with; start something taboo that will get your blood pumping?”

  “Why on earth would you ask
that? You know I don’t care if I see him; nor do I care where he is.” Blue eyes flash in my memory, I shake my head to dispel the disrupting thought. “Holy baby Jesus, Erika. I’m not hooking up with an undergrad. I must go. I’ll text you when I land.”

  When I’m walking to the door of the small coffee shop we have been sitting in, she shouts, “Well, at least get laid, would you? Stimulate that stupid part of the brain and stop being such a bitch.”

  Heat claims my face when all eyes turn my way, I throw a backward wave to her, ignoring her final comment. She’s right. I am a bitch. But, in my life, being a bitch is the only good thing that keeps me warm at night.

  A familiar sadness closes in on me while I drive, reaching my driveway I frown to my empty house. A beautiful home, once full of children and laughter, now an empty shell that provides shelter and a place to rest my head at night. A two-story, Brady Bunch style home, covered with periwinkle blue siding, a huge bay window brings in glorious rays of light during the day and a wonderful view of the stars at night. The picturesque American Dream to someone on the outside looking in. Looks can be, and usually are, deceiving. I spent many of my nights sitting at this window, staring at the stars, knowing what I had done all those years ago but still wondering how I could love my children so much but never let the ice melt enough to love my husband. I tried. I wanted to make it work, despite knowing the truth of my past decisions. No matter how hard we tried or how many counseling sessions we attended, he could never garner my love. My coldness sent him right into the arms of another woman. The one true love in life I still believe in is the love for my children.

  Sighing, I pull my tired body from the car and head inside to my office. Scattered on the large oak desk are the stacks of papers from my current clinical trials. Hanging my purse on the back of my chair, I sigh in relief when I kick my heels off. Moaning as the cool air hits my wiggling toes. The relief feels positively orgasmic, bringing a dread of the hours I will be standing in class with these torture devices attached to my feet. Just because they bear the name Jimmy Choo and cost a mint, doesn’t mean they are any more comfortable on the feet than any other high-heeled shoes. I miss the days of wearing Chucks everywhere I went.

  I have packing to do, tons of it, but for the moment, I plop down in my office chair heaving out a huge cleansing breath. I look at my desk at the pictures of my four grown children, placing a hand over the ache in my heart, I gaze into the backyard.

  Out the large window is the wooden swing set my granddaughter finds hours of amusement playing on; I smile thinking of her giggles as she swings. Mountainous hills rise off in the distance, glowing green in the sunshine, their peaks touching the clear blue of the sky that matches his eyes. Allowing my mind to open Pandora’s Box to the memories kept locked away, the ones that tried to surface in the café. I bring his handsome face to the forefront of my brain.

  Memories of a time when I did believe flash before my eyes. A time full of magic. A time where crushes lived, friendships formed and love was in the air. A time before I surrounded myself in ice and ruined any chance I had at finding real love. Remember what was at the bottom of Pandora’s box? Hope.

  Chapter One

  Brains do not equal common sense. Some of the smartest people make the dumbest mistakes

  —Tensanne’s inner thoughts

  Tensanne

  20 Years Earlier

  “WHERE DOES SHE shop? Panties for Grannies?”

  “Look at those rolls, gross.”

  “OMG, she is way too much of a fat ass, and who makes duck lips anymore?”

  The comments keep going. A whole new barrage of venom for the day. They’re not wrong, I think, closing the Instaword app on my phone, internally wondering why I subject myself to this torture. I need to be like an ostrich and bury my head in the sand until it’s safe to come out.

  Fluffy, fat, chubby, you have such a pretty face, you have a great personality, perhaps you just need to burn more than you eat, exercise some, lose a little weight and you will be perfect. Perfect, what does that even mean? My idea of perfect is different from the haters, perfect to me is more than what is visible on the outside.

  Mom always said, “You’re so smart and your face is so pretty, you should never judge a book by its cover.” Before her mind left her, she emphasized, “Ugly can live in some perfect packages. The packaging may look great but it doesn’t mean what’s inside is worth anything.” I know she meant well and was trying to be supportive. Her motherly attempt to make me feel better after a rough day of being picked on at school, but still criticisms masked as compliments, even if they were said with love behind them.

  The mirror is my enemy but its honesty is brutal; even when you want it to lie it tells the truth. The image staring back at me is the same one from yesterday and the day before; the same ugly one from last year. My eyes are harsher than any words ever said to me. I am my own worst enemy.

  My waist length, flat, lifeless brown hair, always pulled up on top my head, plain brown eyes hidden behind glasses so thick they magnify the eyes making them look like bug eyes, bushy eyebrows, round full cheeks with some acne scars and a double chin. Nothing spectacular, glamorous or unique. Nothing worth taking the time to improve on.

  Moving my eyes down my five-foot-eight-inch body, the reflection gets worse. Flabby upper arms that flap when I move, I’m certain if I flap them fast enough, I would take flight. Jiggling, flabby rolls make up my stomach, along with my huge thighs, round ass, large calves, all the way down to my size ten feet.

  The piece de resistance is the two huge mountain lumps right in the middle of my chest. Most women call them boobs, I call them back breakers: my size triple D breasts. The only thing half-assed good about my body is my small ankles and skinny hands and feet. At least I can’t add cankles and sausage fingers to the list of ‘ugly’.

  “Always find something positive,” Mom would say. I’m positive I’m ugly. I’m also certain that’s not the positivity she was referring to.

  “Stop staring in the mirror, Ten, you’re going to be late for class,” Ronnie calls standing in the bathroom doorway with her hands on her hips.

  Turning my eyes in her direction, I envy her beauty. Veronica “Ronnie” Leeland is the quintessential perfect woman if there is such a thing. Long, shiny blond hair ending at her waist and always styled with precision, big sparkling aqua eyes framed by long lashes, her smile lights up a room with pearly white, straight teeth and dimples dotting either cheek. Her body toned, muscularly thin with athletic definition and she is one of those people who can eat whatever they want and it never goes to their ass.

  I hate those people.

  I smell a piece of cake and I gain ten pounds of ass. Proving once again the universe does hate me.

  The icing on the cake is, on top of being glorious on the outside, she is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet. Once you get to know her, you will love her. She’s nice to everyone, she volunteers her time at the local homeless shelter, her grades are impeccable and she volunteered to be my roommate and guardian when no one else wanted the job. If I didn’t love her so much, she would be one of those people I would run from. She’s a people magnet; everyone wants to be in her orbit. She radiates a light that draws you in and keeps you warm.

  Tensanne Craig, that’s me. Seventeen-year-old, college sophomore. A child genius, the former apple of my parent’s eye and target of every school bully I came across. I’m the fat girl no one wants to be friends with, the smart one in the corner with her nose in a book. The one trying to hide, the one you laugh at when a joke is made at my expense. The one you don’t want to sit with at lunch or play with at recess. The girl with only one friend, the one never invited to birthday parties, the outcast.

  Once I escaped high school and fled to the Hoosier state to Jalapa, I thought I left all the bullies behind.

  College would be better, right?

  Jalapa State University, JSU, one of the premier colleges in the country for the
study of psychology and the brain is what drew me here. I could start over, reinvent myself, be a better me. Throw away the shy girl who was always hiding in libraries and sticking her nose in a book. I had this enamored vision of college being a huge turning point in my life.

  College is worse than high school. Hindsight is always better, I should have stayed invisible.

  “I’m not going to class, Ronnie. I can’t, I’m not ready,” I sulk, walking over to flop down on my bed. The bed dipping and the springs groaning from my weight.

  Sighing, she replies, “Sorry but you have to. You’ve already been out for three weeks. Your professors are going to fail you if you don’t start showing up for classes in person. Besides, I’m sure the worst of it has passed. I’m sure the student populous has found something else to focus on and share.”

  Tears fill my eyes, pissing me off, damn it, I’m not going to cry anymore.

  Seeing my tears, she sits next to me on the bed wrapping her arms around me in a sideways hug. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? Really, Ronnie? Did you see it?”

  “Well, yes, I saw it. But it’s no worse than if you had been wearing a bikini top. You know, an old, 1940’s retro bikini.”

  “A retro bikini? I don’t think they had bikini’s in the forties. A picture of me in my bra goes viral and you’re comparing it to a ‘retro bikini’?” I sulk.

  “Maybe you need to update your underwear collection. It could have been worse; he could have talked you into being nude,” she retorts, “You put your trust in the wrong person. The sooner you show everyone you’re better than their nasty comments, the sooner they will stop bothering you.”

  Rubbing the spot between my eyes to alleviate a forming migraine, I respond, “He tried for topless, I refused. I wasn’t ready to be that exposed; plus, no one needs to see that much of me.”