on January 1, 2014
PMS can be a real witch. Ivie McKie isn’t your run-of-the-mill kindergarten teacher.
After an encounter with a horny goat, Ivie has a confrontation with her lying, cheating fiancé.
She is shocked when the big jerk suddenly transforms into a skunk—the black and white furry variety.
Enlisting the help of her shopaholic friend Chloe and sexy club magician Jackson Blake, Ivie is forced to play a literal game of cat and mouse as she races against the clock to change her ex back before she’s arrested for his murder.
With every new spell, a fresh wave of sexual desire draws Jack further into Ivie’s troubles, along with her panties, the car, the kitchen, and assorted seedy bathrooms.
Ivie soon discovers what every witch worth her spell book knows:
There’s nothing worse than a bad case of Post Magical Syndrome.
5 of 5 Suddenly Sorceress
OMG first I have to say that I absolutely love Erica Lucke Dean! She had me on the floor laughing my ass off because some of the situations in this book had me holding my ribs because I was laughing so effing hard. I am not going to give away any spoilers but I will say this if you want a crazy mix of chick lit and paranormal with a side of revenge then this is the story for you.
Ivie is living her dream. She is a kindergarten teacher and she is engaged to a very popular Chiropractor Matt. She thinks she has the life until one day she is waiting for Matt to come home and when he does he is there to break off the engagement and tell her he has moved on and is marrying someone else. Lord she gets so mad I mean she saw red and something snapped inside her and she turns Matt into a skunk.
Lord I have never laughed so hard in my life! She turned that lying cheating bastard into a skunk and now she has to find a way to change him back into a human. This is where the hot ass magician comes in. Jackson aka Jack is a magician and he is going to help Ivie change Matt back to a human. But along the way Ivie and Jack start to have feelings for one another and can't keep their hands off one another and holy eff the scenes between these two is hot and steamy and yes you will need a glass of ice cubes.
So what happens to the Matt the skunk? Does Ivie and Jack change him back or will Ivie go to jail for murder?????????????????? This is one kick ass story!
“You’re too sexy, my ass!” I tried to tune out the Right Said Fred ringtone as I fished my fiancé’s cell phone from the pocket of his discarded Dockers. I glared at the flashing caller ID. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
That was lucky number thirteen. Thirteen missed calls in the span of an hour. Thirteen calls he was unable to answer.
Because of me.
After pressing ignore one more time, I shoved the phone back into the pocket where it belonged, hoping it would muffle the sound somewhat. I didn’t know why I didn’t just turn off the damn thing. I’d endured his ridiculous ring tone more times than anyone should have to, obviously determined to punish myself. Between the maddening song and the horrible smell, I certainly felt punished. Even if it wasn’t nearly enough.
Way down deep in my bones, I knew my life had been forever changed. Even if I could somehow fix things—put them back to normal—nothing would be the same again. Not ever.
Swallowing against the crystal ball-sized lump in my throat, I dropped Matt’s pants where I’d found them, along with his shirt, his boxers, and his shoes, and I collapsed onto the rumpled blankets on the bed.
That sort of thing didn’t happen in the real world. Only small children or crazy people believed in… no, I refused to even think the word, let alone say it. It’s impossible. But I’d seen it with my own eyes, and whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t normal.
My scruffy housecat made another frantic orbit around my feet as the phone sounded again, the self-centered lyrics looping, making me cringe. Apparently, he’d also grown weary of the tune.
If only I could say the choice of ring tone was ironic, a product of his wry sense of humor. But he didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Matthew Green was exactly that arrogant. Despite every despicable thing he’d done to me, every insult, lie, and betrayal that had led us there, I truly wished Matt could answer his stupid phone himself. Unfortunately, wishing didn’t seem to be on my side that morning.
Stifling a groan, I pulled myself from the warmth of the bed to dig the phone out of Matt’s pocket again. Geez, persistent much? With a deep, cleansing breath, I mashed down the button to accept the call.
“Matt! Where are you?” Matt’s receptionist, Ginger, snapped before I had a chance to say hello. “Friday’s your busiest day. Do you have any idea what time it is? You’ve already missed two appointments.”
Even without caller ID, I would have recognized her breathy Betty Boop voice. She sounded as though she’d been sucking helium all morning. I didn’t know her well, but I suspected she was banging my fiancé.
“We’ll be lucky if there’s enough time for a quickie before the next patient arrives,” she continued in a whisper.
Yep… definitely banging him.
“And another thing.” Her sweet baby voice morphed into a feral growl. “Candy’s been standing outside your office all morning. I thought you said you were done with her? I’m not kidding, Matt, if I find out you’re still screwing her, I’m going to cut off your balls.”
Apparently, I was engaged to a pathological cheater. Of course, I hadn’t known that when I agreed to marry him. There were a lot of things I didn’t know about Matt. Then again, there was a lot I didn’t know about me.
“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“Uh… hi, Ginger.” I cleared my throat and resisted the urge to “say anything.” “This is Ivie. Matt can’t come to the phone. I… uh… don’t think he’s going to be able to… uh… make it into work today.” I managed to stammer through the basics without my voice cracking.
“Oh, hi, Ivie.” Her voice changed again; she sounded as if she’d been sucking lemons. She didn’t even have the decency to be embarrassed. “What’s wrong with Matt? He hasn’t missed a day in… Actually, I don’t think he’s ever called in sick.”
My eyes darted to the closed bathroom door, and I shuddered. “He’s really not feeling like himself today.” Understatement of the century.
“Is he sick?”
“Um… I definitely don’t think anyone wants what he has.” I tiptoed around the answer. I wasn’t good at coy, but I gave it my best shot.
“Oh… Well, in that case, maybe it’s best if he stays home.” I could almost see her coiling a lock of her thick red hair around her finger as she spoke. “Just tell him I hope he feels better, and not to worry. I’ll reschedule his appointments for him. Do you think he’ll be well enough to come in Monday?”
I tamped down a flicker of panic. “I really hope so.” But I seriously doubt it.
After listening to Ginger rant for a minute about missed appointments and the difficult task of rescheduling, I ended the call, staring at the bathroom door as if I expected a silent command to open it. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the door swinging wide and my fiancé sauntering out. I popped open one eye. The door hadn’t moved—not even a crack.
For far too long, I’d avoided that room. With three tentative steps, I closed the distance between myself and the master bathroom, covering my mouth and nose with one hand as I cracked the door. I’d almost gotten used to the foul odor in the bedroom. It was bad but not unbearable. The stench in the bathroom was overwhelming. The fumes poured out, bringing tears to my eyes. The small space reeked worse than when I’d locked him in there last night. It smelled as if someone had cooked up a potion of burning tires and rotten eggs in a boiling vat of sour ammonia, and even that comparison wasn’t quite bad enough.
Blinking back the sting of tears, I scanned the room. I didn’t see him anywhere, just a puddle that looked suspiciously like urine in one corner and in the other, a makeshift bed fashioned out of—were those my good bath towels?
A quick rush of adrenaline kick-started my heart. What’s happened to him now? This is bad. Very, very bad. As if things weren’t bad enough already. What sort of person was I? What I’d done was unspeakable, so horrible even I didn’t know what I’d done.
Just as I was about to have a full-blown panic attack, he slinked out from behind the hamper. I should have been relieved he was still alive, but I wasn’t sure if his current state was much better. He stared up at me—his beady little black eyes blinking in the harsh fluorescent light—so much smaller than he used to be and covered in a thick pelt of black and white fur. My fiancé.
I’m not proud of it, but I once had to cut myself out of a pair of pantyhose. I don’t know what possessed me to put them on. Okay, that’s not true. I was possessed by my need to hide my expanding midsection. And believe me, I knew I should’ve taken responsibility for my lack of self-control and willpower around sweets, but I’m going to go right ahead and say it… I blamed the holidays. And when I say “holidays,” I mean all of them. Every. Last. Holiday.
It begins with Halloween. Back up. It begins sometime in September when the Halloween candy first goes on sale. You’ve seen it. Those bags of miniature Hershey’s, Snickers, and Reese’s, piled up in the center aisle of the stores. Every store. Bright colored wrappings designed to draw in the eye. The smell of chocolate permeating every square inch of the place. And you can’t just walk by. You have to grab a few bags. The sign says so. It says get your candy now!
So I do. I toss a few bags into my grocery cart and finish my shopping. But when I get home—easily six weeks before Halloween, mind you—those same bags of candy call my name. Oh sure, I tossed them into the freezer, because out of sight, out of mind, but unless my husband installs a lock on my freezer door, they’re not going to be far enough out of sight. And hardly out of mind. (Who doesn’t love mini Reese’s right out of the freezer? Am I right?)
So I eat one. One. Piece. Of. Candy. But I do this over and over, because who can eat just one? Before I know it, I’m out of Halloween candy, and it’s still a month away. So, of course, I buy more. I even buy the stuff I don’t like in hopes that I’ll be able to resist. But within days (okay, hours) of bringing it home, I’m breaking into that bag of Mary Jane’s like nobody’s business. Then I eat all the Tootsie pops (and don’t ask how many licks it took to get to the center, because I don’t know) and I have the sticky lips to prove it. By the 31st, I’m officially candied out. But you can’t waste the leftovers…am I right?
November 1st—I feel like I’m going to get a reprieve. I’m going to give up the sweets. But the Halloween candy is half off. Half. Off. And once I’ve gone through all of that, it’s time for pie. Pumpkin. Apple. Pecan. The entire month of November is dedicated to preparing for Thanksgiving. And once that’s over, it’s time for Christmas. Christmas cookies. Christmas candies. Christmas fudge. Bake. Bake. Bake. All I do is bake. And when I bake, I absolutely MUST taste test. And then I have to bake again because I’ve tested the entire batch. By the end of December, I’m anxious for my New Year Resolution to give up sweets.
But that only lasts until the Valentine’s Day candy hits the shelves.
Oh, Valentine’s Day. Chocolate, chocolate everywhere. Eat enough to puke. And the Valentine’s Day flowers haven’t even wilted when the Easter candy hits the shelves. And right in the middle of all that? The freaking Girl Scouts show up with their addictive Thin Mints. And those little crack peddlers know there’s nothing better than a frozen Thin Mint.
I once ate an entire sleeve of cookies belonging to a coworker. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t mean to eat them. They were calling my name, so I had to see what they wanted. And the package was opened. Someone had already taken one, but they’d left the rest unattended.
I blame them. Who leaves an open box of Thin Mints in the break room freezer unless they want someone to eat them? Right? And how was I supposed to resist such delicious temptation? Exactly. I don’t have super human strength. I’m only one woman. One woman with a major problem.
Which is exactly why I quit my job the bank and became a full time writer who lives and breathes in her favorite pajamas. I’ll never have to wear panty hose again. Problem solved.
"I’m an author of fluffy romance and paranormal romance novels, with a twist. I blog about life in my haunted farmhouse and other ridiculous things. And I laugh at myself when I trip. ”
After walking away from her career as a business banker to pursue writing full-time, Erica moved from the hustle and bustle of the big city to a small tourist town in the North Georgia Mountains where she lives in a 90-year-old haunted farmhouse with her workaholic husband, her 180-lb. lap dog, and at least one ghost.
How she’s managed to survive this long is one of life’s great mysteries.