Love Spells and Other Disasters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Entangled Teen titles… Dating Makes Perfect

  Announcing Trouble

  The Bookworm Crush

  Whatever Life Throws at You

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

  Copyright © 2021 by Angie Barrett. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  [email protected]

  Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Heather Howland

  Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover photography by goodmoments/Getty Images

  tbtb/Deposit Photos

  ISBN 978-1-64937-125-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2021

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  This book is dedicated to Teagan, Warren, and Yendor.

  You are my heart.

  Chapter One

  Trust me when I say, there is nothing in the world more socially crippling than having a mother who rehabilitates ghosts for a living.

  “Bye, sweetie, knock ’em dead today!” She winks at me as she hands me a twenty.

  I push open the door to her precious 1959 Cadillac, a black, old-fashioned ambulance-slash-hearse that fits her ghost-friendly persona. The students walking by gawk, just like they have the last two and a half years of high school, and the eight years before that. She obviously finds it hilarious to watch her one and only daughter die of embarrassment every single day.

  I can’t avoid it though because Mom insists on driving me in the morning so that we can have mother-daughter time. Cute, sure, but Mom and I both know that if she didn’t have to wake up to drive me, she’d sleep through her alarm. I’m her morning insurance policy.

  “Be home by four. I’ve got some work for you later.”

  My mood instantly dampens, weighed down by a wet blanket of daughterly obligation. Some work for me later means that she has a butt-load of fan mail to answer, and she doesn’t have time to do it herself. No matter who they’re from, most of the letters are filled with heartbreak and pleading for help to reconnect with deceased loved ones. Others are stories about vampires and psychic encounters.

  The ones full of heartbreak and grief are soul crushing, but so are the stories that people think are real-life experiences. I alternate between feeling like I’m searching for the right response in a broken Magic Eight Ball and wanting to cry water balloons over just how sad these people are.

  But despite all that, I say, “Sure, four. See you then.”

  “Hey, Rowan?” My mom leans across the passenger seat and kisses my cheek. “You’re the only one who can do what you do. You give them peace in your way. You know that, right?”

  I nod, though I don’t actually believe her.

  Her smile shatters my angst. “Good. I love you.”

  “I lov—”

  “Hey, Ro! Get your butt out of that ghost mobile. We’re gonna be late!” Ethan, my one and only truest friend, says as he forcefully yanks me out of the car. “Hi, Dr. Marshall. Nice to see you today.” He nearly folds himself in half to lean down and wave at my mom. “Sorry about interrupting, but you know our math teacher. She’ll whip our butts if we walk in late on a test day.”

  “Nice to see you, too, sweetie.” Ethan could barge in at any time of day and Mom would give him a hug for it. “I like that shade of lipstick on you.”

  He grins, showing off his ruby lips. Ethan wears lipstick better than I ever could. “It’s totally me, don’t you think?”

  My mom laughs. “Totally you, Ethan. I might have to borrow it.”

  Groan. “We’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll be home by four.” I close the door before she and Ethan get sidelined by a makeup conversation. “You know you can call her Amy, right?” I say to Ethan. “She doesn’t mind.”

  “Oh no, my friend, I don’t call adults by their first names. That’s just weird as hell. Besides, your mom is Dr. Marshall, the famous ghost hunter, or whatever. It’ll ruin her dark and dangerous image if I call her Amy.”

  I snort. Right. Ethan and his images. There’s nothing dangerous about my mom but I’ll give him the dark part. She does love all her gothic things. Unlike most parapsychologists, she doesn’t abide by the phrase “ghost hunting.” It’s rehabbing, and she takes it very seriously. She believes that hauntings are all about unfinished business and that her role is to help the wayward souls who need her.

  “She doesn’t call herself a ghost hunter,” I remind him.

  “I know, but it sounds more thrilling than ghost rehabilitator. Don’t you think?” He sighs. “You know I think it’s super cool that she’s into all that dark stuff. I wish she were my mom.”

  I laugh. “She practically is!” In fact, with his honey-colored hair, olive skin, and impossibly high cheek bones, he often does pass as her son. More than I pass as her daughter, anyway, with my dark, shaggy mop and translucently pale skin. I could pass for a short, living dead girl. Maybe I am my mother’s daughter after all.

  “True.” He loops his arm through mine. “Hey, I read online last night that she’s got a show in the works.”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s always a show in the works.”

  Mom’s been waiting for the big one. The reality TV show that will make her famous like the medium in Long Island or the ghost hunters whose show she watches religiously, “helpfully critiquing” all the things they’re doing wrong. She always has this producer or that producer stopping by to talk about turning our life into a national brand, but the discussions always stall out somewhere around the time the p
roducer admits that he or she thinks my mom is full of it, then suggests that they can just fake whatever they need to in order to get ratings. Mom wants none of that. It’s the real deal or nothing.

  My insides furl into ribbons of anxiety as Ethan and I walk side by side up the stairs of our school, ignoring, as we normally do, all the strange looks we get just for being who we are. Ignoring as much as not ignoring is what I actually mean. Ethan feels it, too. Like we’re going on stage, expected to do impressive tricks or something, but in actuality usually can’t even make it up the steps without one of us tripping.

  “Did you study?” he asks to distract me. And probably himself.

  “You know I did.” I always study. I always do everything I’m supposed to do. I have no life and no friends besides Ethan, so there’s usually not much going on for me to get distracted by. Side effect of having a mom who lives for the undead? No one really wants me at their parties.

  “True.” He pulls me to the side. “We have five minutes. I want to touch up my eyes.” He flutters his eyelashes at me. They’re the prettiest eyelashes of anyone I know, and of course they’re on a guy. Girls have to work twice as hard—or wear falsies—to get lashes that great.

  We slide into the girls’ restroom and by some miracle we’re alone. He arches one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows to acknowledge our luck, then gets to work touching up his makeup. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. What’s there to look at?

  At least I brushed my hair today.

  I lean against the wall and try not to think about the work I’ll have to do later for Mom, which means that’s all I’m thinking about. I gnaw on my thumbnail. What kind of letters are waiting for me at home this time? Will there be letters from teenagers again? Those are some of the worst.

  “So, I was creeping on Malcolm last night.” Ethan’s lips curl wickedly. “He’s been posting pictures of him and the team doing their workouts.”

  “Ew, athletes.” All that sweat and testosterone.

  He points his mascara wand at me. “One day I’m going to find a shower shot of one of those guys and you’re going to want to see them in all their glory.”

  “Why in the world would one of them be taking pictures in the shower?” I laugh forcefully, an attempt to dislodge the sharp edges of my anxiety. I’ve bitten enough skin around my nail to make myself bleed. “That’s wishful thinking.”

  Ethan sighs. “Hell yeah, it is. Could you imagine, all those buff bodies getting soapy and wet?”

  I snort as he lets himself experience a full body shiver. “Dreamland.”

  “Fantasyland more like it.” He puts his makeup away, then turns to give me one of his looks. The kind of look that says you’re not fooling me today. “Quit eating your flesh, cannibal. Why are you so stressed? Is it the test? You know you’re going to ace it.”

  I drop my hand and pluck at the fraying edges of my sweater. “I’m not worried about the test.”

  “Well, I am.” He grimaces before dabbing some clear gloss over his ruby-colored lips. “So what’s bugging you?”

  I sigh. “Mom asked me to do some ‘work’ tonight.” I air quote the word “work.”

  He grimaces. I read him a few of the letters the last time I was too overwhelmed to come up with an answer. “Ohhhh. I guess you’ll be needing some BFF attention later, then? Maybe some warm and gooey chocolate chip cookies?” Ethan knows how much I dread working on my mom’s fan letters and he knows that my mood definitely needs an adjustment afterward. He also knows how much I love his baking. “I’ll pop by after I do some grocery sho—”

  The door opens and Abby Roxwell walks in with two of her pretty-in-pink entourage. Not the audience we’re after. Craaaap. If Abby’s here, I don’t want to be.

  “I should have known you two would be in here. Ethan, darling, this is the girls’ restroom.” Abby’s voice is saccharine sweet and dripping with sass. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  Ethan puts one hand on his hip and waves his finger with the other at Abby. “And we’ve also discussed that until you and the rest of the school council prioritizes a universal restroom sign in your budget meetings with admin, then I’ll be using whichever restroom I want. It’s not my fault you people are in the dark ages when it comes to gender rights.”

  “The girls don’t like you coming in here.” Abby’s smile drops and she narrows her eyes. “You’re infringing on their right to privacy.”

  “I’m a girl. I don’t mind him in here.” A punch of courage has me pushing myself from the wall. “And you’re infringing on his right to have a safe space to go pee.”

  Abby turns a scalding look my way.

  I gulp. She has always hated me. Okay, that’s a lie, she’s known me since I was in first grade and I kind of remember her sharing one of her snacks with me during recess one time, so she hasn’t always hated me.

  I’ve tried to narrow down what, exactly, her problem with me is. I’m currently considering three possibilities:

  Her elevated social status compared to my nonexistent one. She might think that’s reason enough to look down on me but it doesn’t justify the constant disdain I get from her.

  Her hatred might be a by-product of her mom’s overactive imagination. Abby’s mom was one of my dad’s girlfriends back in his teen years, and the way my mom says it, the woman thought they’d be getting hitched right out of high school. Mom says she’s just jealous. We do live in the biggest house in town and my mom is kind of a celebrity.

  I’m not convinced that Abby’s mom is jealous, though. We might live in the biggest house, but it’s falling apart and needs years of renovations still. Abby’s mom is a divorcée who doesn’t have to work and lives in a condo that probably cost more than Mom makes in five years. Abby doesn’t want for much.

  Also, my mom makes a living studying the afterlife and has made some pretty outrageous claims over the years. The most damaging of course is that she speaks to my dad on a regular basis. Talking to ghosts, or believing you are, isn’t exactly considered normal, so Mom gets a lot of strange looks and whispers when she goes out. Even worse than the ones I get. Mom ignores those looks and whispers but I can’t. Abby has made it very clear to me that I’m weird and she wants no part of that weirdness.

  Maybe that’s what it is.

  While I don’t think she ever found out what happened, Abby’s hatred of me might be because of the time I kind of obliterated her chances of getting the President’s Award in a STEM innovation fair after a teeny tiny explosion that was totally not my fault—at least, not on purpose—destroyed her near-award winning project.

  Abby cried publicly that day and I felt like digging a deep hole and burying myself in it. It was bad. Really bad. No one got hurt, but the explosion…

  Yeah, it’s totally possible that she found out it was me.

  Abby turns back to Ethan, her finger jabbing the air. “You two had better—”

  The bell rings. I reach around the privacy police to grab Ethan. “Math test, gotta run!”

  And that’s pretty much the standard day for me at school. Avoiding Abby and her many friends, if only to reduce the exposure to her constant disapproval and unending grudge. Less than a half a year to go before she graduates and I no longer have to deal with her scorn.

  By the time I get to second period, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for almost making it through another morning with minimal disturbances when Mr. Tremmel, my marketing teacher, ruins my life.

  I know he thinks it’s a great idea, partnering us up with Ms. Savey’s senior economics class so that we can co-learn or whatever, but it’s seriously the worst idea ever. Like putting pineapple on pizza or peanut butter on pickles, which is seriously something people do. How am I supposed to stay in my happy little bubble of indifference when he tells me I’m working with—

  “I think this is a fantastic opportunity
, Mr. Tremmel,” Abby’s honey voice oozes insincerity. “Rowan and I have known each other since we were kids, right Ro?” She links arms with me, or tries to anyway. I fold my arms across my chest to block her out.

  Mr. Tremmel frowns. I’m not even trying to hide how much I hate the idea. “Rowan, I can tell you’re not happy about this partnership but I’m determined to work with Ms. Savey’s seniors on this.” He gestures between me and Abby. “The two of you are both innovative in different ways. Ms. Savey and I were thinking your strengths would complement each other.”

  Abby’s fake smile widens, she flips her luscious brown hair over her shoulder. “I can see the logic there.” As soon as Mr. Tremmel turns to address another student, she motions to me with one manicured finger and leans in so only I can hear her next words. “You better not mess this up for me, Ro. I need to impress Mr. Tremmel with this assignment.”

  The venom in her voice sends a cool shiver down my spine like the finger of some angry god marking me for slaughter—or at least a very unpleasant afternoon.

  As soon as he turns back to us, Abby raises her voice and resumes her cheerleader smiling. “Come on Ro, let’s get brainstorming. We’ve got a business to build!”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mr. Tremmel says enthusiastically.

  Abby walks away, no doubt totally expecting me to follow.

  I curse Ethan for not taking marketing with me. If he were here at least I could laugh, maybe a little hysterically, about this messed up turn of events, but he’s not here and right now I’m not laughing. He has English with Ms. Smith this period, a woman who loves Shakespeare so hard she kind of looks like him. She’s also no fool and has forbidden restroom breaks for a certain lipstick-obsessed boy, so there’s no chance that Ethan will be paying me a visit in the library.

  “Rowan, will you come here please? We have work to do.” Abby says this loud enough for a lot of people to hear and the last thing I want is more attention, so I force myself to get a move on.

  She’s sitting at a table with a group of other seniors. “I have some ideas that I think will work.”

  I slump down in the chair next to her and wish I could just keep falling, right through the floor, into the ground where it’s quiet and I’m alone. “I’m sure they’re all for the greater good of the school.” Or the greater good of Abby. When I’m edgy, I get mouthy, a defense mechanism that usually doesn’t bode well for me and yet, words just keep punching out.