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  WishCraft

  A Touch of Magick (Book 1)

  Savannah Kade

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Published by Griffyn Ink

  www.griffynink.com

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  Copyright © 2016 Griffyn Ink

  All rights reserved.

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

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  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Griffyn Ink at [email protected].

  Contents

  Join Savannah

  Also by Savannah Kade

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Never miss a sale or a free book! Keep up with Savannah HERE.

  Novels by Savannah Kade:

  The WILDER Books:

  Our Song

  Heartstrings

  Love Notes

  Music & Lyrics

  The Wilder Complete Book Set

  The TOUCH OF MAGICK Series:

  WishCraft

  DreamWalker

  LoveSpelled

  SoulFire

  ShadowKiss

  The Touch of Magick Series: Complete Set

  * * *

  The HOLLYWOOD NIGHTS Series:

  Wildest Dreams

  Sunset Promises

  Shooting Star

  Hollywood Ending

  Hollywood Nights Complete Set

  Chapter 1

  The olive told Delilah no. It went counterclockwise, and that clearly meant no.

  Tonight, the olive had turned down every single man she had asked about. Maybe Gin’s was serving her past-their-expiration-date olives in their martinis.

  Surely someone in this crowd was suitable, but the olive wasn’t telling. Delilah ate the little green liar and signaled the bartender for another drink. Her third. At this rate she was merely going to get drunk, by herself, and have to walk home all alone. Because the olives kept saying no.

  Short, buffed nails graced the ends of the long fingers she used to push her empty martini glass to the back of the bar. She grabbed the new drink by the stem and gave it a swirl. In her mind she could see the man coming up behind her at the bar. Good-looking and full of himself—if the way he walked was any indicator—he was perfect for her.

  The toothpick and olive swirled counterclockwise again.

  Delilah sighed.

  His elbow entered her field of vision as he leaned against the bar next to her. “Can I get you another martini?”

  Yes, he was definitely full of himself. He was about as subtle as a dog scenting for a female in heat. But she wasn’t his girl.

  Well, maybe.

  Delilah gave him one more chance and gently shook the stem of the martini glass again. The liquid almost sloshed out, telling her she wasn’t as gentle or as sober as she thought.

  The olive went counterclockwise again.

  “No, thank you.” She sighed even as she spoke it. “I don’t need another martini.” I need a man who can make my olive go the other direction. She let her chin find her palm and she sat, propped up and discouraged, ignoring him until he took the hint.

  He didn’t.

  “Maybe you need something else . . .” He let the words and the innuendo trail off.

  “No. Thank you.” Delilah may have wanted to go home with someone tonight, but she had learned a long time ago not to argue with the answers. People, even witches, could ask whatever they wanted, but you really had to take the answers you got. The universe was always right—even when the messenger was an ornery, little, pimento-stuffed, pickled fruit.

  She sipped at the martini, but still Mr. I’m-your-dream didn’t leave. “I know I can make you scream.”

  She closed her eyes and fought the urge to show him right there in the bar that, yes, he could make her scream. But not the way he wanted. Big, bad trouble always happened when you went against the powers that be.

  Instead of screaming, she sighed again. He wasn’t just full of himself, he was a total ass. Already the olive had been proven correct. He was a definite no. What had she been thinking? So she said it again. “No, thank you.”

  “I’m extra nice to blondes.” He leaned even closer, his mouth quirking at the corner as though the two of them shared a secret.

  Delilah fought the urge to yank a hair from his head right there at the bar and show all the drunk patrons exactly what she could do. But casting spells in public was a bad idea. And casting while drinking was a really bad idea.

  Before she could form words to express her revulsion, he reached up for her hair, trailing his fingers through the curls she’d liked so much just a few hours ago.

  “Don’t touch me.” Her voice was low, and she was mad enough to work a little mojo into the glare she gave him. Delilah did not want him to have a piece of her. She had already given him her time and her voice, and they were far more than he deserved. She knew what could be accomplished with a single strand of hair even if this idiot didn’t. She wasn’t about to let him get one, so she added a little red into her eyes and some depth into her voice, and made certain that only he could see and hear it. She repeated her words. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

  His eyes widened and his brain was clearly fighting for comprehension through the mild beer haze he was in. At least no one would believe him if he told anyone what he saw. Finally, he backed off.

  Delilah breathed out her relief. Seriously, the night had been a bust. No men. Not a single one had made it past the olive. Usually, her internal radar was in much better alignment with the universe. She could spot a liar across the room. Almost as though he had it tattooed across his forehead. She’d warned more than one friend away from a bad egg, and avoided becoming the topic of gossip or the paramour of an ass herself when men weren’t as honest as her instinct. It was simply that she’d been sure tonight was a good night to go out. Something had told her to just come here. To walk the four blocks to the bar, even though she was by herself. Even though she had to be at work at three a.m.

  Her instinct told her to be here. It was supposed to be good. So why was she here with Mr. I’m-so-hot coming back again?

  He slipped in next to her barstool and seemed to get comfortable. This was going to be bad.

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  Her mouth fell open. Delilah only managed a squeak instead of a comeback. Was he going to offer to let everyone
know that she wasn’t if she would sleep with him? She hadn’t heard that one since high school.

  She was about to tell him just that, when a masculine hand fell on his shoulder and a voice came from the other side of Mr. Slick.

  “If you don’t leave the lady alone, she might have to become a lesbian out of self-defense.”

  She must have been tipsier than she thought, because she had to start laughing at that.

  The voice was soothing and determined at the same time. “Richard, really, you must leave this kind woman alone. I would never have ordered that last round if I had known it would come to this. Now, back to the table.”

  With that, Mr. Hot-and-bothersome was gone.

  And so was the man attached to the voice.

  Bummer.

  Well, she hadn’t seen him anyway. Who knew what he was?

  She decided to sip at the martini, and maybe enjoy half of what she had paid for. Delilah took a few deep breaths between each taste and rubbed her finger in a small circle on the bar as she did it. The sobering spell was an old one, and she’d practiced it enough this last year that she could perform it accurately even when drunk.

  She was taking her last sip when the voice came again to her right. “Three more drafts, please.” She recognized the hand as well when he held up three fingers to be sure the bartender had understood above the cacophony that was the usual music in Gin’s.

  Her mouth got ahead of her brain, and she spoke before she even looked at him. “It’s bad enough that you’re friends with him. You’re giving him more beer?”

  “He’s not a friend. Just a buyer that didn’t pan out.” He turned to look at her, green eyes making contact with her own, and she read the sincerity there. She also read the straight nose, full mouth, and molasses hair that was cut just long enough to bear a full curl. His voice brought her wayward thoughts of him back around. “And yet, here I am buying him the beer. I’m really sorry about him. I regret unleashing him on a bar that I used to be welcome in.”

  She laughed a little at that, then reached for her martini as he turned back to the bartender.

  Delilah blinked.

  She didn’t remember bumping her glass. But she must have.

  The olive was swishing in the half-drunk liquid.

  Clockwise.

  Before Mr. Green-eyes could reach for the mugs of draft in front of him, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Delilah.”

  The lush smile banked by a pair of dimples hit her full in the gut. “Brandon.” His fingers curled warm around her own, just the right amount of pressure, his palm slipping flush against hers.

  Delilah pulled her hand back at the small sizzle that hit her with the touch. She usually avoided palm-to-palm contact as it tended to let her see and know things she was better off not knowing. But the handshake was intended to set the evening off as less formal, almost like a business agreement.

  In the moment it took her to register what she had learned from the contact—he was unattached, just looking for a good time, he worked with something involving computers, and loved grapes—his attention turned back to the bartender. He slid bills across the smooth wood and grabbed the handles of the three frosty mugs. “It was great to meet you . . . Delilah.”

  With that, Mr. Clockwise-olive disappeared.

  She wanted to scream. How much more frustrating could this night get? Maybe aliens could abduct her right from the barstool. Or a llama could appear and spit on her. There just weren’t that many ways for this night to get worse.

  She figured she’d polish off the martini because it clearly didn’t matter if she was drunk or sober. She lived only a few short blocks from Gin’s, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to take advantage of her anyway.

  Delilah held the toothpick with the lone olive out of the way while she drained the glass. Then she fixed her gaze on the last of the green liars and gave it a good stare down before she popped it into her mouth and chewed it to a pulp so it could never give another bad answer again.

  Funny, it tasted just like any other olive.

  It was so rare for a night to go awry like this that she just got horribly frustrated when it did. Usually there was a man. One who just wanted to get laid. One who would happily go away in the morning. But tonight was not going to be her night. Now it was late and she had to get some sleep, because she did have to get to work at three a.m.

  Placing both her hands flat on the bar, Delilah gave up. She pushed away and turned to leave, not reacting fast enough to avoid the green button front shirt that was apparently hiding a granite sculpture behind it.

  “Umph.” The sound she involuntarily made was muffled against the fabric and her nose started that low throb of anger at being banged.

  One hand grabbed her arm to steady her and, before she could look up to see who she had literally run into, she recognized the voice. “I’m so sorry. And I was coming over here to apologize for releasing Richard on you.”

  Her fingers found her nose and quickly she made the pain disappear. “Really I’m fine, and that was my fault. I had a little more than I intended.”

  With the haze of pain having vanished, she could see him looking at her, searching her face. “Were you leaving?”

  Okay, maybe the night wasn’t going to be such a bust after all.

  Before she could respond, he spoke again. “Because I just left my partner back at the table with Richard so I could come . . . beg forgiveness from you.”

  Her mouth spoke without warning, nice and loud over the din in the bar. “Are you gay?”

  He frowned. “No. Are you?”

  “No.” Delilah shook her head. How had it all gotten so tangled up? It had made total sense when she thought it in her brain. She pointed back to the other man sitting in the booth with Richard-the-far-too-brave. “You called him your ‘partner’.”

  Brandon laughed out loud. Even teeth showed through the wide grin, and his eyes crinkled above cut cheekbones. It was a good thing he wasn’t gay.

  Within a moment, he led her to a table that had miraculously cleared out. Delilah blinked. She hadn’t done that. Had he? But she found herself seated and ordering a soda and watching his eyes while he spoke. “Dan is my business partner. And Richard spent the day taking up a lot of our time only to back out on the deal at the last minute.”

  Maybe that sobering spell hadn’t quite done the trick. Her brain twisted itself up at that. “So you took him out and bought him beer? Did you think he’d sign on if he was drunk?”

  “No.” Brandon drained the beer that had been in his hand and ordered a soda from a passing waitress. “He’s a lot better at talking people into things when he’s sober. And he does know a lot of people who might like to get on board. So we thought we could use his contacts. We’ll see.”

  Delilah nodded. On the one hand, she didn’t need all the chit-chat. On the other hand, she didn’t want to alienate the only man that the universe deemed suitable tonight. “So what do you do?”

  “We build video games.”

  She had absolutely no way to respond to that. She didn’t think she’d ever thought about what went into a video game. Didn’t own any. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d even played one. So she smiled, and shook her head. “I can hardly hear what you’re saying. But I live four blocks up. Do you want to go?”

  A few minutes later they were out the door, the night air just a little chilly against her skin. It had been hotter than Hades when she’d walked down, so she hadn’t brought a jacket.

  “Are you cold?” Brandon watched her rub at her arms as she started down Hollywood Boulevard. People passed by on either side of them, not really observing any kind of traffic pattern.

  “It was warmer when I came in.” She shrugged. But he was out of his button-down shirt before she really even managed a protest. The move revealed a t-shirt underneath that looked expensive, soft, and slightly frayed as he draped the green cotton shirt around her shoulders.

  Delilah grabbed at it to pull it clos
er. As she did, her palms brushed against the material and she felt the lingering traces of information he’d left on it: he didn’t wear it very often. She should have finished the sobering spell before she left the bar. She shouldn’t have shot the last of that martini. Because the universe was always right. So here she was, catching images that she usually avoided.

  “Up here.” She pointed up Poinsettia Street and made the turn. In a block they were beyond the buildings and the businesses that made up the main drag. Condos and apartment complexes marched up the Hollywood Hills, crowding each other for space and straining to see over the adjacent rooftops.

  As the two of them climbed the steep sidewalk, Brandon turned, commenting that he thought he might be able to see his own roof from her place. Delilah smiled and nodded politely, but didn’t care. She wouldn’t be going to his place, so she didn’t need to know where it was.

  Inside her building, she fitted her key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  He frowned down at her hand. “You really should do the deadbolt, too, you know. You should lock up better than that.”

  She fought the urge to laugh. Just because there was only one lock on the door didn’t mean the place wasn’t protected. Instead, she grabbed the front of his t-shirt in her fist and invited him in by tugging on the fabric.