The Witch Upstairs

She moved in upstairs on a Tuesday. By Saturday something gold was dripping through my ceiling.

I'm a structural engineer. I deal in what holds things up, what holds things together, what breaks under load. I don't deal in magic. But when the woman in 4C knocked on my door and told me — matter-of-factly, without apology — that the full moon and the old limestone building had combined badly, I believed her. Because I'd taken measurements.

Rowan Fell is a witch. She's been practicing for eleven years, and she's precise about it the way she's precise about everything: the labeled jars in her kitchen, the plants that grow healthy in the wrong light, the way she knew how I took my coffee before I sat down. She's warm-skinned and green-eyed and built like someone designed her to be noticed, and she wears an oversized cardigan that keeps slipping off one shoulder.

For six weeks I lived directly below her and told myself I was just paying attention.

She knew better. She felt it — the quality of my attention, rising through the limestone, showing up as heat and gold light that she couldn't contain no matter how carefully she tried.

The building amplifies what's already there. It turns out there was a lot.

Steamy paranormal romance. Full-heat MF. Slow-burn neighbours tension with a supernatural twist. HFN. No cheating. Fully explicit.