Fairy Godmothers Aren’t Cheap, book 1 in the Fairy Godmothers and Other Fiascos series.
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If wishes were free…
No, really.
I’ve done a lot of wishing in my time: for hunky security guard James to like me back, for that cute skirt to zip all the way up, for my colleague to shut up about her amazing love life already, for my father to show up on my tenth birthday… The list goes on. And on.
But so does the bill that’s just arrived from my own personal fairy godmother.
Sure, my life has been semi-charmed up to this point, but a fairy godmother?
I don’t think so.
There’s only one way to prove this lady’s not real: wish for James to ditch his date and ask me out instead. Easy peasy. Fairy godmothers are all just a scam.
Except within minutes of making my wish, James breaks his date and asks me out. <swoon, faint, flail>
And yeah, that pricey wish just went on my tab.
Fairy godmother debt. Secret interactions with the magical world. And a new boyfriend who might be under a spell…
What’s real? And can true love break the binds of a magical spell? A light romantasy with paranormal twists, and sweet, heartwarming moments. This is also a friends to lovers romantic comedy that gets help from the paranormal magical world of fairy godmothers. And maybe a few ogres in accounting, too, since nobody wants to get fed to one if they default on their bill.
Sneak Peek from Fairy Godmothers Aren’t Cheap (unedited early sneak peek!)
Chapter 1
~ Char ~
Mail. Who sent mail anymore? I snagged the envelope addressed to me—Char McDonnell—from our cubby on the main floor of the renovated, clapboard rooming house. It didn’t look like junk mail and, standing in the middle of the entry, I hooked a thumb under the envelope’s flap. I froze as a tiny metallic scritch from a nearby apartment door echoed across the entry. Randy. I flew across the ancient checkerboard tile as his door creaked open. I slipped behind the door that led up to my shared second-floor apartment and flicked its lock into place with an exhale of relief. Randy, our building manager, was having a midlife crisis and had a tendency to corner the five of us women from upstairs. He wasn’t an awful person, but he wasn’t the person I wanted to spend three quarters of an hour with every day.
James, the security guard at the nearby museum, however, was a different story. Hence my always-renewed annual membership. Not that I ever cornered the poor, sweet hottie. At least not for very long. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and I did also go to the Museum of Culture for the ancient pottery displays. Sometimes even when my favourite Viking-like security guard wasn’t on shift.
I climbed the stairs that led to the top floor space I shared with four friends. We had the run of the whole level, unlike the main floor, which was divided into three apartments along with the shared entry. All five of us had our own bedrooms, a giant four-piece bathroom, a generously sized powder room, and plenty of living space to share. We even had our own secret roomie, a Richardson’s ground squirrel (otherwise known as a gopher in these parts), Felipe, who’d adopted us before last winter.
“Were you good today?” I asked him as he met me at the top of the steps. “Were you quiet so Randy wouldn’t hear you?”
Felipe chittered.
“Good boy.”
He sat up on his hind legs and impatiently stretched his tiny, tawny paws upward.
“Hold your horses.” I dug into my canvas courier bag and pulled out my lunch leftovers. “Apple core, who’s your friend?” I sang, handing our chubby little buddy the core.
He grabbed it with both paws and began gnawing.
I hung a right into the living room, dropping my bag on the faded red sofa along with my mail. My friends had cleared out for the May long weekend, leaving me kicking about on my own just like at Christmas. Only this holiday, I hadn’t planned a one-day visit to go see my dad who lived two hours away. And even though it was only Friday night, I was already lonely and wishing for something to keep me occupied.
Right. The envelope addressed to me. Probably junk. I flopped onto the cracked leather armchair Samantha had found in a thrift store, then muttered “sacrilege” under my breath while moving one of her half-full coffee cups off my new stack of Grecian pottery hardcover books.
Too lazy to get up again to retrieve my slate letter opener from my display of ancient pottery fragments near the window overlooking the street, I tore the envelope, curious about the sender, some place called YFGM.
Unfolding the enclosed invoice dated two days prior—May 15—I frowned. How could a place I’d never heard of be charging me for something? It didn’t even list what I’d purchased. I scanned the bottom line and choked at the amount due. Over one-hundred thousand dollars? Yeah, I would most definitely have recalled racking that up.
It had to be an error or a scam.
I toed off my pink slides and, tossing the invoice aside, rubbed my tired, blurry eyes. A day of data inputting at my temp job had done a number on them today. But I was one day closer to having enough money to take myself and my father to Athens on an ancient ruins and pottery tour.
I grabbed the invoice, double-checking the name and address. Nope. That was me. Oprah Charmaine McDonnell, Apartment 2A, Stone Street SE, Calgary, Alberta, Canada. They even had my first name, which basically nobody—and I mean, nobody—knew, because I went by my middle name, and always had. Tamara, one of my roommates, who I’d graduated from high school with, knew about the Oprah thing and that was it. Well, I guess, technically, my boss at the temp agency knew, too.
My first name was a shout-out to my mom’s most-favoured daytime TV host. I was lucky she hadn’t named me Oprah Howie Maury Joy McDonnell.
I flicked the invoice. My name had to be the key. Chewing on my bottom lip, I considered the possible implications of ignoring the invoice.
Maybe it was like the dust in this place—if we ignored it long enough, Gabby took care of it. If I ignored the invoice, maybe it would go away, too.
But what if this was a credit-rating-impactful error or an identity-theft scam? There could be consequences if I didn’t pay up. But what if it was a scam, and I paid it?
Ha. That was funny. I was lucky to have an extra two-hundred dollars in my account by the time the end of the month hit—especially with our financial savvy roommate Samantha making the group of us act like grownups. A year ago, she’d sat us all down and made us set up automatic deposits that went into our new tax-free saving accounts and RRSPs.
Despite her influence, I still only had enough money to buy a one-way ticket to Athens with my savings, as well as maybe retire for two whole weeks if I cashed in my RRSP. Which she’d told me numerous times to not do. Ever. Not until I was a withered old senior citizen. Yes, withered.
Which meant I probably needed to act like a grownup and deal with this invoice or suffer her wrath if she found out about it.
I considered the invoice. What did YFGM stand for? Your Financially Gouging Mega-Scam?
I laid back on the couch, thinking and rubbing my eyes, not caring if I was blending mascara and eyeliner into my cheeks.
Maybe this was just a prank. A financial test from Samantha. I could see her pulling something like this if she discovered my legal first name. Last year she’d managed to convince me that our boss had shut down the whole temp agency where we worked in honour of my birthday.
Sure, I’d been flying high due to recently earning employee of the month, but still. I’d fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker. Gulp, gulp like a baby fish who didn’t know any better.
She wasn’t a regular prankster, just like I wasn’t a sucker. But every once in a while….
It didn’t help that she had a certain regal gravitas about her, like pranks were beneath her. Although, just because she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, unlike me and our other roommates, it didn’t mean she wasn’t human. In fact, in some ways she was more down to earth than the rest of us and was probably the biggest prankster of us five.
So maybe it wasn’t the gravitas. Maybe it was those practiced innocent eyes and fluttering fake lashes that made me want to trust her. Every time.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Even when my brain was saying “Nah. That can’t be true. She’s got to be pulling your leg.” I found myself believing that an agency of a hundred people got the day off because it was my birthday.
Yeah. She’d made me look ridiculous, and I absolutely adored her for it.
Thank goodness she hadn’t noticed my crush on James, or who knows how she’d torture me over that.
I opened the group chat on my phone that the five of us had going. Tamara, who loved to name things, had called it GAL PAL, which was an acronym for something I couldn’t remember.
I typed out a one-word message and attached a photo of the invoice.
Me: Samantha?
While I waited for someone to reply, I shuffled to the thermostat, upping the heat. I knew Josie, the most environmentally conscious of us five, would turn it back down to save on fossil fuels when she came home Monday night, but until then I could happily bake in our drafty little abode.
Samantha: Is this what you owe Book Emporium? 😆
Ha, ha. Yeah, okay. So I had a little book problem, which was especially noticeable at the moment, since both Samantha and I were currently temping at a book depository. Everyone said I had a horseshoe up my you-know-what, because I always seemed to get the best temp jobs. Which was true—the job part, not the horseshoe.
Not to brag, but I was a fantastic manifester. For example, I’d wanted the apartment to myself for a few nights to binge watch some
Discovery Channel history documentaries without judgement, and to drool over possible tours I could book as a surprise for my dad, and suddenly my roomies all had plans this weekend. (That never happened.)
As for my book hoarding? I firmly believe it’s not hoarding if it’s books—unless the stacks become so numerous and precarious that they threaten to topple and kill you on a regular basis. And even then, I could just buy more shelves or get creative. For example, a solid stack of hardcovers made a great bedside table.
As for my noticeable bookish problem, over the past week, a number of books that were destined for destroying, had found their way home. I mean, with the discount they were offering us at the emporium, how could I not bring them home like poor abandoned kittens?
Samantha, on the other hand, was heartless. She hadn’t brought a single book home despite her plush savings account, rescuing absolutely nothing from the clutches of the spine grinder or page shredder. Completely. Heartless.
How many innocent books had been pulped on her watch?
Then again, she might actually leave her position at the end of our two-week stint with a pay cheque, unlike me. Again, my savings were not expanding and compounding like they should.
Tamara: 😳
Tamara: 💰
Me: I’m not falling for this one, S.
Gabby: Wait. ur first name’s Oprah!?!?! I’ve got to tell Lamonte. He’s going to die.
I rolled my eyes. Everything with Gabs was always about Lamonte. How had the man not yet figured out how eager she was to leap out of the friend zone? Then again, maybe he wanted her to stay there.
Just like hunky James. He probably felt I was best-suited for the friend zone, too.
Gabs and I needed to start falling for guys in our own league.
Tamara: Her mom’s a big Oprah fan.
Tam-Tam was my bestie for a good reason. She was always there for me. Just like I was with this apartment when her high school sweetheart decided—like most people in long-term relationships seemed to—that he wanted more excitement in his life. In other words, not Tamara.
We were currently in the process of showing him we were very exciting and doing just fine without him, thank you very much. (Not that I thought he was watching, but just in case.)
Gabby: How did I not know that?
Samantha: Same!! FYI, we would have paid big money for that info.
Tamara: 🤐
Samantha: Why u think I’m pranking u? One little time…
Gabby: Been more than once.
Tamara: ☝️ This. ☝️
Me: How come I’m the one who always falls for her jokes?
Maybe Josie, our fifth roommate, was the one pranking me. She hadn’t jumped into the text string yet, and was likely busting a gut at me all the way from the Kananaskis. She’d been hired to do some inventory management for someone with a bunker in the Rockies an hour from the city in her spare time. The whole thing was so hush-hush, she’d even had to sign a nondisclosure agreement when she’d taken the job. But she’d let it slip that someone super wealthy had built a secret bunker in case of an apocalypse.
We’d all looked to Samantha upon hearing that, as her family’s social circle ran a little higher than ours. As in, her family held a seat quite comfortably in the top one per cent of the city’s—and province’s, heck, probably Canada’s—financial elite. She didn’t act like it though, as she was slumming with the rest of us. But still—she probably knew whose bunker it was, and was on the list to get inside should we all face Armageddon.
Tamara: What’s YFGM?
Me: 🤷♀️
Was it Josie?
Tamara: 🤷🏻♀️
Gabby: 🤷🏽♀️🤷🏽♀️
Samantha: 🤷🏼♀️🤷♀️🤷🏽♀️
What a bunch of sassy brats.
Me: You guys have to try harder. I’m on to you now.
Samantha: Doubtful.
Gabby: 😂
I shoved my phone between the couch cushions and sighed in frustration. Not knowing was going to drive me nuts. Was someone stealing my identity, or was this simply a prank to wind me up? I should have waited until everyone was home and then questioned them in person. Tamara had the most obvious tells when she was hiding something, thanks to her sweet loyalty. All I’d have to do was wait until she came home from work on Tuesday night, exhausted and cranky, had yanked off her bra and made a nest of blankets on her bed to curl into while reading horse magazines and eating cookies—rice crisps if she was feeling fat. Her guard would be down and I’d see her blush, or act overly innocent, avert her eyes—anything that would tell me there was something to dig for.
But no, I’d jumped the gun and had no idea if she was in on it. Whatever this was.
My phone beeped with the horse neigh sound that meant a text from Tamara. I dug the phone out of the cushions and read the text she’d sent to only me.
Tamara: Probably junk mail. Ignore it.
Junk mail was such a boring theory. I wanted it to be more. It had to be more. I was overdue for some excitement.
Me: I think someone is messing with me.
Tamara: I don’t think it’s the girls.
Me: It’s driving me 🤪.
Tamara: You’re so impatient.
She was a big proponent of wait-and-see. Me? I got itchy just thinking about having to wait this one out. I wanted to know now.
Tamara: Google the return address.
Smart.
Wait. There was also a phone number on the invoice. I could get answers even faster.
Me: I’ll call them!
Tamara: No! What if it’s a scam? They want you to call them, because it’s some sort of reverse charging system where it’ll cost you a hundred dollars a minute.
Me: It’s a 1-800.
Tamara: It’s got to be a scam—phishing for personal data. They want you to call! Don’t answer anything they ask with a YES or they’ll record you and edit the conversation to make it seem like you agreed to whatever their scam is.
Me: Your mom has made you paranoid. I’m calling.
Mrs. Madden, a total small-town sweetheart of a mom, watched way too many news stories about bad things, and was the number one target for dramatic clickbait headlines. Then she’d call us up and warn us about whatever she’d heard or read about. She used to video-call us, but then she got worried that someone was going to hack our call and use artificial intelligence to create an avatar that mimicked her, and then scam all of her family and friends. She’d even created a secret word, so we’d know if we were talking to the real human version of her or not.
Tamara: I checked maps. Their address doesn’t exist. No 1010B on 10 Avenue! SCAM!
Me: Bet it’s a super-secret nightclub. This has Sam’s name all over it.
Samantha was my role model in so many ways. She was an inspiring rolling stone of adventure, and nobody would ever leave her for being too boring. She was always aware of the next hot club, and by the time I’d heard of it, she was already on a first name basis with the bouncer and cutting to the front of the line. Samantha wasn’t waiting for life to find her. Nope, she chased it down and make it submit.
Holding the invoice, I typed the phone number into my phone. I was not going to turn into a smoking ball of impatience! I was getting to the bottom of this, and if not, I would at least prove to my pranking roomies that I wasn’t always the overly trusting country bumpkin.
Shaking my head, I scoffed at myself. The whole agency got the day off…. Seriously? Was I really that self-centred or gullible?
Tamara: I don’t know… I get a weird feeling about this…
I ignored her text and hit the green button to connect me to the YFGM phone number.
“Hello,” said a chirpy voice, and I almost replied before realizing it was a recording. “You have reached the offices of YFGM, Your Fairy Godmother. Have a great day.” Beep.
I sucked in a startled breath. What on earth?
Your Fairy Godmother?
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