Hearth, Home, and Havoc

  Hearth, Home, and Havoc

  A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

  RJ Blain

  Pen & Page Publishing

  Hearth, Home, and Havoc

  A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

  by RJ Blain

  Warning: This novella contains excessive humor, excitement, adventure, magic, romance, and bodies. Proceed with caution.

  Dakota never intended to become the single mother of a goddess. To make matters worse, her daughter hadn’t quite figured out her role in the grand scheme of things.

  Havoc isn’t supposed to be part of Hestia’s portfolio, but where the young goddess of the hearth and home goes, trouble surely follows.

  When Dakota’s ex-husband barrels his way back into her life, a heavy dose of havoc is just what the doctor ordered. She just never expected to find love in the midst of murder.

  Copyright © 2017 by RJ Blain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by J.L. Weil

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  Magical Romantic Comedies (with a body count)

  From Witch & Wolf World

  Other Stories by RJ Blain

  Witch & Wolf World Reading Order

  Chapter One

  As always, the Monday mail brought nothing but heartache. I considered flinging the child support statement in the trash; did I really need to confirm California had garnered five hundred from my bank account to pay my multi-millionaire ex for the care of our son? Add in the three other bills, and I needed a shovel to dig my way out of my financial hellhole.

  In reality, I did all right. I made enough to put aside a hundred every month for a rainy day. I’d gotten lucky. Ever since fleeing a smothering, unhappy marriage, I hadn’t needed much of my safety net. I chucked the bills on my coffee table to deal with later, leaving me with the child support statement and a handwritten envelope from an anonymous sender. On my way to the kitchen, I bucked up and tore open the statement to confirm Adken had, as always, received the money for Nolan’s care.

  He had.

  Nolan’s name on the paper was as close as I got to my boy—no, young man. At fifteen, I needed to think of him as a young man preparing to venture into the world.

  In one month, to the day, I would celebrate ten years of freedom from Adken. The state and my son had sided with my ex-husband, not that I’d ever blame Nolan for his choice. With Adken, he enjoyed a pampered life of wealth and luxury.

  I missed my son, but when he turned eighteen, I’d have my chance to start over with him. The first thing I’d do was reach out to him, prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. Humming a merry tune, I dropped the paper and unopened letter on the kitchen counter so I could start my day in earnest.

  The sink and its many dishes needed vanquishing, and after two days of studiously ignoring them, I needed to pay penance for my neglect. Grabbing the dish gloves, I snapped them on, held my breath, and plunged my hand into the water in search of the stopper.

  Instead of the plug, I discovered something else. Groaning over the probable loss of a dish cloth, I plucked it out.

  A very dead squirrel dangled from my hand.

  I screamed and flung the rodent, which splatted into the wall. In defiance of gravity, it stuck to the white paint before sliding to the floor.

  “Oh hell no.” I shuddered, dipped my hand into the sink, and found the stopper, yanking it out. Swallowing so I wouldn’t add to the carnage in my kitchen, I considered my sink.

  Who needed pots, pans, and dishes anyway? Would lighter fluid and fire purify my home? I doubted bleach would do. No, nothing but fire—a lot of fire—could conquer such a disaster.

  Ditching the gloves, I hunted for my disinfectant wipes and scoured the first few layers of skin off my hands.

  I hated Mondays. I was supposed to leave for work in less than an hour, and I had a dead squirrel on my floor. When all else failed, blaming Adken usually worked. Pointing at the child support statement, I declared, “This is all your fault.”

  “What’s whose fault, Mom?” my wayward two-year-old, a newly fledged young woman and immortal goddess, asked from behind me. “Why’s there a drowned rat on the floor?”

  “Hestia!” I shrieked. At the rate I was screaming, the neighbors would call the cops.

  My daughter snatched my child support statement and looked it over. “Is this what you do on Monday mornings since I moved out? Holy Zeus. Rats belong outside. Also, while I was practically born yesterday and may have only learned to read this morning, I’m pretty sure this says you’re paying that ill-bred horse turd five hundred a month. What gives?”

  Damn it. Hiding anything from a fledgling goddess took too much work. Groaning, I slumped over the kitchen counter. “I’m paying for my mistakes one month at a time.”

  Then, I straightened and faced my daughter. She held the child support statement in one hand and the dead squirrel in the other. I hadn’t even noticed her pick the damned thing up. Closing my eyes, I sighed and counted to ten. When that didn’t help, I counted to ten again.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  “It’s not fair, Mom. The sperm donor’s rich, and you’re—” Hestia clacked her teeth together.

  I opened my eyes, focusing my attention on the statement in her hand. “I’m not. I know. Also, what have I told you about calling my ex-husband a sperm donor?”

  “To not do it.”

  “Yet here we are. I’m going to count to thirty, Hestia. When I’m done counting, my child support statement will be on the counter, the rest of my mail will remain untouched, and you’ll get rid of that dead animal and wash your hands like a civilized being. When you return, you won’t materialize behind me because you think it’s funny to scare a few years off my life. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  I waited.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why is there a drowned rat in your kitchen?”

  Kids. “I don’t know, baby. I found it in the sink. I guess the sides were too slick for it to climb out. I don’t even know how it got into the apartment. And it’s not a rat, it’s a squirrel.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, closed my eyes, and began counting. A pop announced my daughter’s departure. Cracking open an eye, I checked to see if she’d done as told. The statement was on the counter, the squirrel was gone, and she’d left a new bottle of dish soap and a note, which informed me a thorough scrubbing would sanitize my dishes.

  Why couldn’t my ex-husband drown himself in my sink? A drowned ex would make for a memorable and pleasant Monday. In fact, I’d help him drown in my sink.

  My daughter reappeared in a flash of golden light. “So, Mom. Question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you looking for in a man?”

  Lovely. My daughter was already growing into her profile, although I suspected the Greeks and Romans had made a few important omissions in their naming of her. Of all the women in the world, how had I ended up with the goddess of hearth, home, and havoc as my daughter? “I’m not, Hestia. There aren’t any good men left in the world. The smar
t women have already claimed them. Do yourself a favor. Don’t make any deals with the devil, and should a man want you to sign any papers before marrying you, run, do not walk. He’ll never love you, and as soon as you give him what he wants, that’s when the trouble starts.”

  “I see I have my work cut out for me. Thanks, Mom. Have a good day at work.” My daughter kissed my check before popping out of existence.

  When my daughter schemed, I had reason to worry. I just hoped she wouldn’t cause too much mayhem before I managed to rein her in.

  Per my employment terms with my old, cranky mechanic boss, I never showed up to work before noon. Nine to noon were his power hours, and he needed to spew his profanities without a lady hearing him. The arrangement amused me; he paid me more to work less so he wouldn’t damage my delicate sensibilities.

  At two after twelve, Mr. Rogers belted out a concerto of his favorite swears, and I giggled while creeping through the entry to reach my desk. I put my money on the customized BMW as the source of his frustrations. The owner couldn’t get her to start, and I expected to spend most of the afternoon expanding my vocabulary. So far, scobbelotcher was my favorite, although abydocomist came in a close second. I had no idea what either word meant, but my boss flung them with vehement vigor.

  “Fopdoodle!”

  “He’s got to be making these up,” I muttered, shaking my head while I worked at sorting through the stack of letters, invoices, and bills littering my inbox. When he finally stopped cursing, I’d help him in the garage, passing him tools while he muttered the sort of words young children used to cover their slips.

  Inevitably, I’d leave work craving fudge.

  An engine backfiring in the garage startled a yelp out of me. I twisted around, straining to peek through the frosted, oil-greased window. Tomorrow, I’d finally get around to cleaning the damned thing.

  “Dakota!” my boss wailed.

  Uh oh. I lurched to my feet, threw open the door, and entered hell. A mess of tools littered the floor, taking over the three-car garage like a demented, metallic patchwork rug trying to hide the concrete. Narrowing my eyes, I planted my hands on my hips. “I left you alone for one whole day, Mr. Rogers. Why has a tool tornado swept through here? And don’t you blame it on the tremor, sir.”

  “I fixed the BMW.” For an eighty-year-old man, my boss put me to shame with how gracefully he hopped to his feet. “The owner is coming in twenty. Can you hose it off so it doesn’t look like I tortured it in a grease vat?”

  “Please tell me you protected the interior.”

  “Only a smudge or two on the wheel. Won’t take you but a minute to clean. I’ll be inside cleaning the grime off. Owner likes shaking hands.”

  I rolled my eyes but went off to find the hose, a bucket, and the cleaners. With a little luck, the BMW wouldn’t need more than a quick swipe with the sponge and a rinse. Armed with everything I’d need, I marched through the back door.

  The once silver BMW was covered in black handprints. “Mr. Rogers! You’re supposed to fix them, not fondle them!”

  He cackled. “But I couldn’t help it. She’s a beauty.”

  “She looks like a filthy harlot.” Since the power washer would strip the paint, I filled the bucket with sudsy water and flung it over the BMW, attacking the vehicle with the sponge so she’d be presentable. By the time I made a full round of the car, my soaked clothes clung to me, and I bore a depressing resemblance to the drowned squirrel.

  At least my boss hadn’t lied about the interior; two swipes with a soapy cloth and a paper towel restored the steering wheel to rights.

  “If you’re trying to win a wet t-shirt contest, you’re going to have to do better than that, Dakota. Long time no see,” the sickeningly smug voice of Adken’s best friend murmured.

  I considered killing the next person to sneak up behind me. If I murdered Maxwell Timmins, could I claim temporary insanity?

  He chuckled, and I tensed, clenching my teeth. “Those jeans look fantastic on you. Since when do you work on cars?”

  “Since I ditched the ass and got a life. If this is yours, it’s ready. The keys are with Mr. Rogers. Good afternoon, Mr. Timmins.” If I shimmied around the BMW, escape wasn’t far; five feet and a quick turn to the right would land me in the office, where I’d hide behind my boss.

  “Wait, Dakota. It’s been years. How are you? Is everything all right? Adken’s been asking about you lately. No one’s seen you in at least five years, maybe ten now.”

  I’d tried to teach my daughter to be kind, and all I wanted to do was murder the asshole behind me. “There’s a reason for that, Mr. Timmins. It’s called a restraining order. Adken shouldn’t have threatened me during the trial where the judge could hear. I requested the order. It was granted. If you need proof, you can look it up. It’s public information.”

  “He doesn’t even know where you live.”

  “He’s lying to you. The child support statements have my address on them.”

  Maxwell didn’t reply, and I took the chance to head for the safety of the garage.

  “Dakota, wait,” he ordered.

  I ignored him and marched for the door.

  “Dakota!”

  Balling my hands into fists, I turned. Adken’s friend hadn’t changed over the years. He oozed wealth from the collar of his pristine black suit to his brocaded oxfords. “What do you want? I have work to do.”

  “I’ll cut you a deal. I won’t tell Adken I ran into you if you do me a favor.”

  Great. Blackmail. I expected nothing else from the scum. “What favor?”

  “A friend of mine has a reservation at Calgatto’s on Friday night. His date bailed. Kel’s not friends with Adken, so no harm done. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not your type. It’s just for one night, right? Anyway, there’s a reservation for two under Dundalk. Deal?”

  While I didn’t understand why Kel Dundalk needed a date to go to Calgatto’s, I assumed it had to do with maintaining appearances. Then again, I didn’t really care, either. A reservation at San Francisco’s premier restaurant was worth the headache.

  I’d been to Calgatto’s once with Adken. He’d taken me to the place before we’d gotten married, when he’d been worming his way into my good graces. It took months to get a reservation, the food was the best in the area, and knowing Maxwell, his friend had no intention of showing up, leaving me to foot the bill for the reservation so he wouldn’t get barred from making another reservation at the restaurant for six months.

  I’d always thought the policy insane, but who was I to complain? I had the money for one extravagant night, something I hadn’t done since the day I’d left Adken. “Fine. I’ll do it, but only this once. You never saw me, you never talked to me. Got it? I don’t have time for this. I have work to do.”

  “Got it. I’ll swing by if there are any changes. Eight at Calgatto’s, Friday night.”

  I hoped the setup would be the end of it, but I doubted it. Maxwell was worse than a leech, just like Adken. “Goodbye, Mr. Timmins. Remember, you never saw me.”

  Maxwell smiled, confirming my worries. The bastard would betray me somehow.

  Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t a stupid little girl anymore. I’d be ready for anything he threw my way.

  Chapter Two

  Calgatto’s in San Francisco catered to the wealthy and talented, of which I was neither. In a way, I had Adken to thank for being able to use the valet without shaming myself. When I’d won the car in our divorce settlement, the Porsche had been on its last leg. With my boss’s help, I’d restored it to its full glory. It turned heads, and when I slid out of the car wearing the sort of dress Adken would’ve loved, so did I.

  If Maxwell’s friend didn’t show, which I expected, I intended to enjoy myself, squandering several hundred dollars in the process. If Kel Dundalk did show up, everything else in my evening would likely go wrong. Maxwell, Adken’s partner in crime in all things, wouldn’t hesitate to screw me over. He’d screw me, too, given
half a chance.

  I’d heard him talking to Adken about me too many times. At least I could trust Maxwell to exercise caution. Before he did anything, he’d confirm the terms of the restraining order.

  I refused to let the two worst men in my life ruin my evening. Doing my best to ignore those staring at me, I strode to the restaurant’s foyer.

  The host smiled at me. “Do you have a reservation, ma’am?”

  “Dundalk at eight for two,” I replied. I wanted to lower my eyes like Adken had drilled into me, but I lifted my chin instead. The old me, the one who flinched at Adken’s disapproval, had lived in fear.

  No more.

  I still feared, but it wouldn’t control me, not anymore.

  He checked his reservation list, nodded, and picked up a pair of menus encased in black leather. “This way, ma’am. Your table is ready, but the other member of your party hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “His work has been busy lately,” I said, not certain if I lied. “If he’s not here soon, I’ll enjoy my evening regardless.”

  That part wasn’t a lie; I’d make certain to enjoy a quiet, pleasant meal. Armed with a book in my purse and plenty of time, I had every intention of snubbing Maxwell if he tried to pull anything during the so-called date.

  I’d been stood up enough times by Adken to understand how the game was played. Maybe I wasn’t the perfect broodmare—I lacked the pedigree Adken truly desired—but I didn’t care.

  Fake date or not, I’d like eating at the sort of restaurant I otherwise wouldn’t have gone to. No, I wouldn’t like it, I’d love it. I’d love it so much I wouldn’t be able to hide how much I’d enjoyed spending my money on myself for a change.

  At a quarter after eight, the waiter came, and I cheerfully informed him my date probably wouldn’t make it because of work. The second place setting disappeared, and I took over the entire table, ordered two appetizers, neither of which were the socially acceptable salad, and planned on eating so much I’d have to suck in my gut to fit in my car.