Backfired Magic: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (Mates & Magic) Read online

  Backfired Magic

  Mates & Magic

  Jade Alters

  Contents

  1. Dora

  2. Nathan

  3. Dora

  4. Dora

  5. Brett

  6. Dora

  7. Dora

  8. Dora

  9. Grant

  10. Dora

  11. Dora

  12. Jesse

  13. Dora

  14. Grant

  15. Dora

  16. Brett

  17. Dora

  18. Nathan

  19. Dora

  20. Nathan

  21. Jesse

  22. Dora

  Also by Jade Alters

  Afterword

  © Copyright 2019 – Starchild Universal Publishers. All rights reserved.

  It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Dora

  “Harrington and Associates, how may I help you?” I slide across the floor in my chair as the woman on the phone asks to be connected to Audree. I stick a pile of files into my bin for filing to be done later and slide back across just in time to connect the caller and answer another blinking red light.

  Somehow, I’ve managed to work right through lunch and my stomach is growling. But there’s no rest for the wicked, and the phones have been going nuts for an hour. I connect three more calls and take two more messages before there’s finally a lull, and I can jog over to the break room to grab my salad from the fridge. I take my lunch at my desk. It’s hardly even a lunch. It’s more like swallowing when I get three seconds together. Ted calls me from his office, and I lick my lips, taking a breath.

  I clear my throat and answer his call. “Yes, Ted?”

  “Hey, Dora, can you swing by and pick up the Littleton deposition and make five copies as soon as possible?”

  “Of course.” Ted hangs up without ceremony. So much for my salad. I head to his office to pick up the deposition, at which point I realize my feet are killing me. My new heels were marketed as being comfortable to wear to work. The advertising lied. For the hundredth time, I think about getting one of those foot massagers for when I kick back after work. Maybe the kind with water and little jacuzzi jets.

  The thing is, I like my job. It might sound crazy, but I’ve worked my way up from the mailroom to executive assistant, and the pay difference is substantial. I also kind of like handling legal stuff. At my last performance review, they encouraged me to think about becoming a paralegal, and I’m considering the classes. If I decide to go ahead with that, I’ll get reimbursed for the tuition. And it doesn’t hurt that my parents actually like this job too. When I majored in Anthropology just for fun, they rolled their eyes. Especially because I didn’t have any interest in teaching. This job is one of the few choices I’ve made that they actually respect...at least, for now, that is.

  I manage three whole bites of salad before my phone rings again, and I make the mistake of answering the call before I check the number. “Harrington and Associates, how may I—”

  “Dora!” My mom’s voice is shrill and I wince, sighing heavily.

  Oh great.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie!” My mom sighs in that loud, deliberate way she does that means she wants something from me. It’s kind of handy, really. At least I know something is coming, and I can brace myself.

  “Okay, Mom. What is it?” I’m talking with my mouth full out of necessity because I’m starving.

  “Beth’s wedding is coming up,” my mother says. “I was just wondering if you have anyone you’re thinking of taking?”

  Every muscle in my body seems to tense up at once. “Oh, um—”

  “I didn’t think so!” My mom sounds way too excited. The woman has been on my case to get married practically since I graduated from high school. I don’t even know where she gets the energy to concentrate so hard on my love life, or lack thereof. “Dora, I need you to do something about this.”

  I stab at my romaine and feta, glowering. “Why?” I say into my headset.

  “Why what, dear?”

  “Why do I need to do something about this?” I know better than to ask, honestly. I just get so fed up with her intrusiveness.

  My mom proceeds to lecture me on how I need to settle down and start a family. It’s the same old thing that I’ve heard a hundred times. The “why” of it really has no answer, and the truth is, I want to find someone, so I guess the question is really just me being annoyed. But my mother is still irritating.

  “Don’t you want someone to laugh with?” Her voice is soft now. The thing is, she does care. I think she even knows how much I would like to find someone, but the way she goes about “encouraging” me is the opposite of the way I would prefer. I’d prefer her to shut the hell up.

  “I do, yes, but—”

  “I think you should get a makeover.”

  Now I’m just pissed. I’m so pissed I have to rub my temples, and my appetite all but disappears. My mom starts talking about how I’m past my prime, but if I just put in a little more effort, maybe I’d find a man. Blah, blah, blah.

  “Mom.” I interrupt her, but my voice is serious enough to take her by surprise and she actually manages to stop talking. “Shut the fuck up. Can you do that? Just this once? Can you shut the fuck up?”

  “I’m going to ignore that,” my mother says, sounding as condescending as possible. “Because I know your little job puts you under a lot of pressure, and you’re just projecting. Sweetie, you only have a few years left to have children—”

  “I have way more than a few,” I say, as a headache begins to encroach. “Please chill. I’ll get a man when I get a man, if I feel like getting a man.”

  “I know you think I nag too much, Dora, but I'm thinking about grandchildren. I want to be a fun grandmother. I can’t do that if I’m old and decrepit.”

  “You’re already old.” Alright, that was mean, but she’s getting on my nerves.

  “Very funny, Dora,” she says dryly. I don’t know what’s more infuriating. That she talks to me the way she talks to me or that she can’t even absorb insults when I bite back. “Listen, sweetie. I wouldn’t be so worried if you were a normal girl, but you got that freak DNA from your father—”

  “No, no, no.” I shake my head. She hasn’t brought this up in a while. Nothing makes me angrier than this bullshit. “Mom, no—”

  “You need to hear this!” She says. “You have that awful voodoo blood from your father.”

  “It’s not voodoo,” I whisper furiously. “And I think that’s a little offensive—”

  “Oh, please. It might as well be. Your father was a freak. That’s the only real way to put it. Full of that magic nonsense, and if anyone sniffs that out on you, sweetie… Well, true love only goes so far.”

  Honestly, when she talks this way about my magical abilities, it makes me want to cry. It’s hard enough keeping that stuff a secret from regular people. But when my own mother talks shit about it just because it didn’t work out between her and my father, it makes me feel like I have something to be ashamed of. She’s always talked that way.

  “Are you resisting those, um, impulses?” She says it like I have an irresistible need to kill people.

  “Yes, mother.” I roll my eyes for what feels like the millionth time.

  It’s not really true though. I don’t do magic often, but I still do practice it from time to time. The hard part is ignoring all my mother’s lectures telling me I should resist my natural ability because it’s “freakish.” But I’ve gotten a little better at that over the years.

  “That’s good, sweetie.” She sounds so pleased, it only makes me feel worse. I talk back about a lot of things. But if I tell my mother I still practice magic sometimes, she’s just going to hassle me even more. “Just keep me posted. Let me know if you start seeing anyone. Especially if you find somebody you think you can take to the wedding.” She laughs then, long and loud. “My God! You think I put pressure on you? Everyone asks me about your love life!”

  Well, that only makes me feel much worse.

  She finally lets me go and I sulk, hunched in my seat at my desk, devouring my salad so I won’t be hungry later. I need to copy that deposition, but screw that. I worked through lunch. The deposition can wait. I just need to eat.

  When I see Ted coming, I sit up a little straight in my chair. I check myself in the mirror. I just got a haircut the other day, and my dark red hair is falling in pretty waves, long and shiny. I check my teeth for any stray salad bits. I look nice. Or at least, I think I do. My green eyes are popping with the eyeliner I tried for the first time today.

  I don’t have a crush on Ted exactly. It’s more like...he’s good-looking and not obviously objectionable, and I haven’t been getting out enough. I figure if there’s something there, it would be worth pursuing.

  He stops near my desk, and I smile in his direction. “Hey, Ted. Ho
w’s your day going?”

  “Alright…” He’s looking at this phone, completely ignoring me. Alright, he’s kind of just generically good-looking with one of those old fashioned businessman haircuts. I think he was possibly born wearing a golf shirt. But it’s something. I don’t know much about him except that he likes golf. Which also means I don’t know what there is to dislike. Sometimes that’s the best thing you can know about a person. “Did you make those copies of the Littleton deposition yet?”

  If I were stronger with my magic, I think I’d hex Ted with hives right now. Instead, I just take a deep breath. “Um, no, not yet. But I had to work through lunch, so I’ve just been scarfing this down first—”

  “I need that ASAP,” Ted says, giving me a dark look. “Don’t make me ask me a third time. Okay, Dora?”

  What a day. What a fantastic and wonderful day for me.

  “Sure thing, Ted.” I smile tightly, and he stands there watching to make sure I get up and take the deposition to the copy room like I’m a small child.

  In the copy room, I get a lump in my throat. It’s just been a crappy day. I don’t mind things being busy, but today was jam-packed, probably because the firm has been advertising a little more lately. We got swamped with phone calls, most of which won’t actually lead to new clients. A lot of people just call up wanting to weasel some free legal advice out of an associate without paying for a consultation. There’s also the fact that I’m an executive assistant for both Charles Harrington, the big boss, and two of the associates, including Ted. They haven’t wanted to pay for proper support staff because the last couple years have been tight. That puts too much work on me and other assistants who are double or tripled up. Plus, lawyers don’t want to do anything themselves. It’s a pain in the ass.

  In the copy room, I stop myself from crying by force of will. If I cry, then mom wins. Then Ted wins! Mom and Ted can’t win. At least, not today. I tell myself that maybe Ted is just having a really busy day. He’s been friendly to me plenty of times. My mother, I make no excuses for. Her, I know too well.

  It’s times like these that I really do wish I had somebody else in my life. I would text them right now and they’d send me back a racy picture or a kiss emoji or they’d know just what to say. I could text my best friend, Callie, but she won’t get back to me for a few hours, and it’s just not the same as having a someone. I want a someone.

  The little voice in my head that’s quiet because my mother has constantly been telling it to shut up my whole life tells me there’s another answer. I could find someone right now if I really tried, and it wouldn’t be as difficult and tedious as finding that one good date in a million.

  I stand there, staring at the copier, as page after page of the deposition slips out onto the copier tray. But my brain is thinking about magic. I’m no expert at it, it’s true, but sometimes you have to take a risk for true love.

  Maybe it’s about time I took a risk too...

  Nathan

  I’m on my laptop scrolling through the attachments Jesse emailed me this morning. They’re all photos of estate pieces we might be interested in buying from sellers down in the city. I gaze around our shop trying to gauge how much room we have for more stock. We just had a sale, and it cleaned half the place out, but I still think Jesse’s eyes are too big for our stomach right now. Especially considering the rate at which we got referred to estates. I’m not even sure all this stuff will fit in one truck on a drive back from Manhattan. I don’t want to do two trucks...I hate doing two trucks.

  The bell over our door rings and an upwardly-mobile-looking young couple walks in. I love upwardly mobile young couples in our town of Coleridge in Upstate New York. Upwardly mobile young couples like to buy old houses Upstate and then fill them with expensive antiques that come from our shop on the first floor of our giant house that sits in the middle of town. Some of them even give us little winks and ask to see the back room.

  “Hi, there!” I nod at the couple from my stool behind the counter. The counter is by the corner window and gives me a nice view of the sidewalk when we part the curtains, which we only do when it’s too sunny. Too much sun will fade the furniture we keep by the windows. “Let me know if you need anything.” I don’t miss how the woman does a little doubletake in my direction and gives me an appreciative once over before taking her husband’s hand.

  For the most part, my looks help me out as a factor in the business, as do the looks of my three buddies. The body comes from, well, working out a lot when I’m not in the shop. The guys tease me about it, but they’re not laughing when I don’t need help to haul a piano. I’m 6’2” and I’m made of muscle. As a bear shifter, it’s not hard for me to pack it on. I’m also...pretty damn good-looking if I’m being honest. The guys tease me about it (as if they’re not all hot too). They call me Superman because I have jet black hair and bright blue eyes and a jaw to cut glass. For the most part, it’s helpful in business. It’s always helpful to be good-looking in this world. Unless you’re dealing with guys who feel threatened or jealous when their companion is looking at you. Then, it’s a pain. A few times, when it’s been enough of a problem, I’ve pretended to be gay. It’s not exactly difficult since I run the shop with three other guys who I also live with and also, not to be stereotypical, but we sell antiques. Plenty of people assume we’re all gay, to begin with.

  For now, I just keep my head down and let the couple browse as I make notes on Jesse’s choices. When the bell rings again, I look up to see if it’s a customer. But this time, it’s just Jesse and Grant coming in with lunch. Took them long enough. I already know Brett is upstairs in the office, working on the books. He’ll come down soon enough when he smells the tacos.

  “Did you go to Mexico to get this stuff?” I mutter as Grant hands me a bag.

  Grant rolls his eyes and smiles knowingly at Jesse. Yeah, that’s typical too. We’re a tight sleuth of bears, but we have our little pairings. Jesse and Grant are thick as thieves. One of them never even makes a decision without consulting the other. The two of them sit down at the dining table by the counter and swipe paper towels from under the counter, spreading out to eat.

  “We got customers,” I grumble.

  “Okay,” Grant says, as he unloads his small mountain of steak tacos. “Well, if they want to take a closer look at this table that’s been sitting here for six years, we’ll be happy to clear out.”

  I growl in his direction because, if nothing else, I’m the alpha and he should remember that. Grant only looks at me with his big brown eyes, all innocence. Jesse snorts a laugh at the both of us, stuffing chips in his mouth.

  I unwrap my burrito and give Jesse a nod. “You flagged too much stuff from those estates in the city.”

  “We need stock,” Jesse says, shrugging.

  “We can do better than some of that stuff,” I point out. “I can tell some of those pieces are pretty run down.”

  “Bring em’ anyway,” Grant says. “We’ve gotten a lot better at upholstering and refinishing. It’ll be fun.” I give Grant a dark look, but the brown eyes go all soft again. “C’mon, Nathan. I want to fix some stuff. At least the consignment stuff?”

  “Consignment only,” I say, sighing. “But I want to approve the markups and the cost of refinishing. Whatever it is you’re...doing.”

  “Yes!” Grant gives Jesse a high five.

  “And you have to do the drive up to the city,” I tell them. That makes them less cheerful. It’s not so much the drive as it is the truck. They hate driving the big truck into the city.

  “Alright,” Grant says. “But we’re going to stay overnight and eat all the good food in New York while we’re there.”

  “Hell yeah, we are,” Jesse mutters.

  “Oh, whatever.” I can’t help but smile though. Grant loves to think he’s getting one over on me no matter what it’s about.