Brewed with Love - Softcover

Page, Shelly

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593897625 ISBN 13: 9780593897621

Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

A cozy, contemporary romantasy about a teen witch who wants to keep her family’s apothecary from falling to the competition but can only do so with assistance from her first crush.

Plant witch, Sage Bishop, is determined to run her family’s old apothecary one day. She spends her time trying to invent the perfect tonic to put Bishop Brews on the map. And she’s going to need one quickly, too, because their biggest competitor is drawing away customers.

Short-staffed, her nana hires Ximena Reyes, Sage’s ex-best friend and first crush, who’s more of an unwelcome distraction than anything. Ximena has always dreamed of leaving their small town behind while Sage wants to tend to her roots. And during one of their first shifts together, someone breaks into Bishop Brews, stealing several tonics, including the one Sage has been working tirelessly on, the same one that wipes a councilmember’s kid’s memory.

To avoid being shut down by the sheriff, Sage decides to investigate. If so much wasn’t at stake, she’d do it alone. But with her grandmother’s legacy and her future on the line, she must partner with her ever smug and unfairly pretty new coworker. As Sage begins to fall for Ximena (again), she’ll have to decide if the comfort of the familiar is worth missing out on a chance at real happiness.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Shelly Page lives in Los Angeles, in an apartment overflowing with books and unfinished oil paintings. Her co-edited QBIPOC YA horror anthology, Night of the Living Queers, sold to Wednesday Books; Brewed with Love is her debut novel. By day, she works as an attorney representing homeless LGBTQ youth.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

My tonic is out for blood. Raucous green bubbles burst from the mixing pot, spilling over the sides and rushing at my feet like starving mice. Unruly fizz chomps at the toe of my high-­top Converse, instantly melting the rubber with its searing heat.

In hindsight, adding the carnations to the pot after my magic was a bad idea. Magic brews are fickle, and this one doesn’t have neatly printed instructions in my family grimoire for me to follow. I’m creating it from scratch, a feat only a witch as skilled as Nana manages to make look easy.

A smoky haze clouds the kitchen, and the scent of charred rubber fills the air as I lurch away from a particularly large bubble.

“Sage! What’s that smell?” Nana yells from her study.

“Um . . .” My gaze whips around for a way to stop the foamy mess before it escapes into the rest of the house. I’m not supposed to brew at home. Most of my supplies are at our apothecary, but after spending all night tink­ering with this blend, I thought I’d finally cracked it. Joke’s on me.

Nana’s heavy footsteps and her signature scent—­rose oil and lemongrass—­meet me before she does. A second later, she’s standing in the doorway, wiry bifocals sagging halfway down her broad nose. Her large gold earrings match her gold bangles. The green monstera hair clip I gave her last Mother’s Day holds her tiny gray afro in place. It complements her olive linen shift perfectly. If Nana was a succulent, she’d be aloe vera—­nourishing and sweet with a hardened exterior.

“I know you are not brewing in my—­ Oh! Not my rug!”

The poor rug she’s had for the last three decades is fighting for its life against the remnants of my failed tonic. Scorch marks decorate the patterned fabric. Nana’s stricken, and my most apologetic smile doesn’t help the situation.

“Which rug, Hazel?” Tiva hollers from the other room, though her footsteps are light and swift as she heads our way.

“The purple runner from Rugs R Us, but that’s hardly the point,” Nana replies sullenly.

Tiva pokes her head into the kitchen with our oldest pothos tucked under her arm like a baby. Her thick, waist-­length hair frames cheekbones as sharp as blades.

Sizzling bubbles charge toward her on a mission to destroy anything in their path, but Tiva’s fast. She flicks her wrist, gathering magic in her palm, and extends her hand. Instantly, the angry bubbles turn into harmless puddles.

Misbrewed tonics can do anything from itch to burn if touched. They leave behind nasty stains that are nearly impossible to get out (RIP my rainbow cacti shirt), and if ingested, they can cause dizziness, fever, pain, or even memory loss.

The key to brewing the perfect tonic is not only the ingredients—­all grown in the Hemwood, a redwood forest soaked with more magic than a fairy tale—­but how and when you put them in the pot. If the grimoire says “toss in” an herb, you better toss it. If it says to add a burst of individual magic after the mixture, don’t add it before. The order of operations, the attention to detail, and the witch’s intentions are what make a brew glow. Brewing isn’t a problem when I have guidance, but inventing something new is advanced magic requiring a deep understanding of herbal properties and the problem in need of remedying. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that.

“Explain yourself,” Nana demands, her round face pinched with annoyance.

I turn to Tiva for a show of support, but she shakes her head and covers a smirk with her free hand. Her and Nana have been together longer than the rug has haunted our kitchen, long enough to be like a second grandparent to me—­one who is all too amused by my predicament.

Nana levels her gaze. “Well?”

“I swear I thought I finally cracked this tonic. It’s going to put Bishop Brews back on top.”

“Ah yes. Your breakup cure.”

“It’s not a breakup cure. It’s an emotional recovery tonic, not just for heartbreak but for anything emotionally difficult someone might experience. It’s genius.” All the tonics we sell are healing, and this one would mend the mind and the heart.

Nana hums noncommittally. “And this has nothing to do with Ximena Reyes starting at the shop today?”

Ugh. As if I needed reminding. I’ve been dreading today since Nana told me Ximena applied for the open cashier position two weeks ago. Back then I could pretend it wasn’t happening. It was easy to imagine Ximena’s full day of training with Nana last weekend as a fluke. Now I have no choice but to face the music, which is easier said than done, because I’d rather pull out my teeth than spend fifteen long hours a week alone with Ximena.

I skirt around the counter, stepping over the now harmless mess on the floor, and throw the residue floating at the bottom of the pot into the trash. “Of course not. I’m doing this for Bishop Brews.”

It’s not a total lie. I am creating the tonic for our family apothecary, but I’m also doing it for me. I just don’t mention that part because it’s embarrassing enough to admit to myself that I’m still not totally over Ximena, even though it’s been four years since she ghosted me.

I dust my hands off on my jeans, blow a frizzy curl out of my face, and add for good measure, “Something needs to be done about Bottled Wonders.”

Bottled Wonders is an apothecary in the neighboring town of Crimson Grove, the only other town in Northern California with a reputation for magic. The store is a force to be reckoned with. Customers say their prices are lower than ours, and their tonics work faster. Nana’s too tired from running Bishop Brews for the last thirty years to try to compete with them, but at the rate Bottled Wonders is growing, our business won’t survive much longer. I can’t let everything she’s worked so hard for crumble.

Nana grabs the mop from the hall closet and starts sopping up the remainder of the fizz. “Don’t you worry about the apothecary. Tiva and I will figure something out. You should be focusing on—­”

“School. I know, Nana, but Bishop Brews is important too.”

Nana shakes her head, probably because she knows I’m not giving up. “Actually, I take that back.” She points at the charred remains of her precious runner. “If you want to worry about something, worry about getting me a new rug.”

A car horn blares from outside. Perfect timing. “You needed to upgrade, anyway. This thing is nearly as old as you,” I tease.

Tiva covers a laugh. Nana scowls half-­heartedly and pushes the mop in my direction. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. Go on, or you’ll be late. It looks un­professional if Ximena gets there before you.”

“Can’t we switch shifts? You work Sunday mornings, and I’ll work evenings.” I don’t even try to keep the desperation out of my voice. I wouldn’t have stayed up half the night if I wasn’t desperate for a fix to this Ximena-­size predicament.

“Sage, we’ve been over this. You have to be eighteen to work the farmers market on Sundays. Tiva has her own stall to run. She can’t manage Bishop Brews as well. It has to be me.” Nana peers at...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Children's Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593897625
• ISBN 13: 9780593897621
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland