Sex, Lies and Mistletoe. Tawny Weber

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      “I can’t give up. This is all I have, Kath. Not just my heritage, given that Moonspun Dreams has been in the family for four generations. But it’s all I’ve got now.”

      “What are you going to do? And what can I do to help?” Both questions were typical of Kathy. And both warmed Pandora to the soul, shoving the fears and stress of trying to save a failing business back a bit.

      “I don’t know. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure something out.” Her smile quirked as she gestured to the small table in the corner. Rich rosewood inset with stars and moons, part of the table was covered by a brocade cloth and a handful of vividly painted cards. “I’ve finally reached the point of desperation.”

      Kathy’s eyes widened. Pandora had sworn off all things metaphysical back in high school, claiming that she didn’t have the talent or skill. The reality was that Cassiopeia was so good at it, nothing Pandora did could measure up. And she’d hated knowing she’d never, ever be good enough.

      “What’d the reading say?”

      “Tarot really isn’t my forte,” she excused, filling her mouth with the sweet decadence of her éclair.

      “Quit stalling. Even if you don’t have that psychic edge like your mom, you still know how to read.”

      That psychic edge. The family gift. Her heritage.

      Her failure.

      “The cards weren’t any help,” she dismissed. “The Lovers, Three of Swords, the Tower, Four of Wands and the Seven of Swords.”

      The éclair halfway to her lips, Kathy scrunched her nose and shrugged. “I don’t understand any of that.”

      “I don’t, either.” Pandora’s shoulders drooped. “I mean, I know what each card means—I was memorizing tarot definitions before I was conjugating verbs. But I don’t have a clue how it applies to Moonspun Dreams. It doesn’t help me figure out how to save the business.”

      Yet more proof that she was a failure when it came to the family gift. Handed down from mother to daughter, that little something extra manifested differently in each generation. Leda, Pandora’s grandmother, had prophetic dreams. Cassiopeia’s gift was psychic intuition.

      And Pandora’s? Somewhere around her seventeenth birthday, her mother had decided Pandora’s gift was reading people. Sensing their energy, for good or bad. In other words, she’d glommed desperately onto her daughter’s skill at reading body language and tried to convince everyone that it was some sort of gift.

      Despite popular belief, it hadn’t been her mother’s overdramatic lifestyle that had sent Pandora scurrying out of Black Oak as soon as she was legally able. It’d been her disappointment that she was just an average person with no special talent. All she’d wanted was to get away. To build a nice normal life for herself. One where she wasn’t always judged, always found lacking.

      Then she’d had to scurry right back when that nice normal life idea had blown up in her face.

      “You’re going to figure it out,” Kathy said, her words ringing with loyal assurance. “Your mom wouldn’t have trusted you with the store if she didn’t have faith, too.”

      “The store is failing. We’ll be closing the doors by the end of the year. I don’t think it’s as much a matter of trusting me as it is figuring I can’t make things any worse.”

      Pandora eyed the last three cream-filled pastries, debating calories versus comfort.

      Comfort, and the lure of sugary goodness, won.

      “These are so good,” she murmured as she bit into the chocolate-drenched creamy goodness.

      “They are. Too bad Mrs. Rae only bakes when she’s pissed at her husband. Black Oak has a severe sugar shortage now that she’s retired.” Kathy gave her a long, considering look. “You worked in a bakery for the last few years, right? Maybe you can take over the task of keeping Black Oak supplied with sweet treats. You know, open a bakery or something.”

      “Wouldn’t that be fun,” Pandora said with a laugh. Then, because she was starting to feel a little sick after all that sugary goodness, she set the barely eaten éclair on a napkin and slid to her feet. “But I can’t. I have to try to make things work. Try to save Moonspun Dreams. Mom was hoping, since I’d managed the bakery the last two years, that maybe I’d see some idea, have some brilliant business input, that might help.”

      “And you have nothing at all? No ideas?”

      Failure weighing down her shoulders, Pandora looked away so Kathy didn’t see the tears burning in her eyes. Her gaze fell on the dusty box she’d hauled in earlier.

      “We’ve got a leak in the storeroom,” she said, not caring that the subject change was so blatant as to be pathetic. “Most of the stuff stored in that back corner was in plastic bins, so it’s probably seasonal decorations or something. But this box was there, too. It’s my great-grandma’s writing, and from the dust coating the box, it’s been there since she moved away.”

      “Oh, like a treasure chest,” Kathy said, stuffing the éclairs back in the bag and clearing a spot on the counter. “Let’s see what’s in it.”

      Pandora set the box on the counter and dug her fingernail under one corner of the packing tape. Pulling it loose, she and Kathy both winced at the dust kicking them in the face.

      She lifted the flaps. Kathy gave a disappointed murmur even as Pandora herself grinned, barely resisting clapping her dirty hands together.

      “It’s just books,” Kathy said, poking her finger at one.

      “My great-grandma Danae’s books,” Pandora corrected, pulling out one of the fragile-looking journals. She reverently opened the pages of the velvet-covered book, the handmade paper thick and soft beneath her fingers. “This is better than a treasure chest.”

      “Oh, sure. Piles of gold coins, glistening jewels and priceless gems is exactly the same thing as a box of moldy old books.” Still, Kathy reached in and pulled a leather-bound journal out for herself, flipping through the fragile pages. Quickly at first, then slower, as the words caught her attention.

      “These are spells. Like, magic,” she exclaimed, her voice squeaking with excitement. “Oh, man, this is so cool.”

      A little giddy herself, Pandora looked over at the book Kathy was flipping through. “Grammy Danae collected them. I remember when I was little, before she died, people used to call her a wisewoman. Grammy Leda said that meant she was a witch. Mom said she was just a very special lady.”

      “Do you think she really was a witch?” Kathy asked, glee and skepticism both shining in her eyes.

      “I’m more inclined to believe she was one of the old wives all those tales were made from.” Pandora laughed. “Despite the rumors, there’s nothing weird or freaky about my family.”

      She wanted—desperately needed—to believe that.

      “But wouldn’t it be cool if these spells worked? Say, the love ones. You could sell them, save the store.”

      “It’s not the recipe that makes a great cook, it’s the power,” Pandora recited automatically. At her friend’s baffled look, she shrugged. “That’s what Grammy always said. That words, spells, a bunch of information … that wasn’t what made things happen. Just like the tarot cards don’t tell the future, crystals don’t do the healing. It’s the intuition, the power, that make things happen.”

      “I’ll bet people would still pay money for a handful of spells,” Kathy muttered.

      “They’d pay money for colored water and talcum powder, too.” Pandora shrugged. “That doesn’t make it right.”

      “Maybe you can offer matchmaking or something,” Kathy said, studying the beautifully detailed book. “People would flock to the