Witch please hes my cat.., p.1
Witch, Please, He's My Cat: A Comedy Fantasy Romance, page 1
Copyright Notice
Witch, Please, He's My Cat
Copyright © [2025] L. Ford. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or critical articles.
L. Ford is an independent author with a passion for crafting dark, visceral tales that explore the depths of human nature and the complexities of morality. This work is self-published and a product of the indie author community. Support for indie authors helps sustain diverse voices and creative freedom in literature.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter One
The late-afternoon sun vomits gold across the display counter, hitting every crystal like they’re auditioning for an amateur burlesque troupe. I glare at the one closest to my elbow-some over-enthusiastic quartz cluster that won’t stop humming-and try to remember which shelf I left the breath-freshening hex on.
“Sweet Mother of Magick, where is it,” I mutter, elbow-deep in the cabinet beneath the register. Bottles clink. Something growls. I shove a cursed perfume bottle back into its velvet-lined box and pretend it didn’t just whisper something about my thighs.
Puck doesn’t even lift his head from where he’s sprawled across the counter, one leg dangling like a disapproving comma. “You’re shedding stress like a diseased nymph. It’s exhausting.”
I straighten, my hair frizzing in six directions, cheeks flushed with the effort of trying to not accidentally summon a small tornado. “Do diseased nymphs have hot dates with handsome enchanters who own real estate on the Floating Strip?”
He yawns. The kind of yawn that says you’re boring me so hard my soul is trying to escape through my mouth.
“If by ‘handsome’ you mean tragic, and by ‘real estate’ you mean a glorified broom closet he overpaid for because it had mood lighting and a cursed bidet, then yes. You’re absolutely living the dream.”
I slam the cabinet shut with a little too much drama, which knocks a jar of aphrodisiac salt onto the floor. The glass holds-unlike my composure.
“Puck. Please. Just this once, could you not be a smirking heap of smug feline judgment?”
He licks his paw. Deliberate. Insufferable. “Mira, you’re wearing two different earrings.”
My hands fly to my ears like they’re under attack. “No, I’m not-”
I am.
One is a moonstone crescent. The other? A tiny resin frog holding a knife.
“I was going for eclectic,” I say, snatching them both off and fishing in the drawer for matching ones, any matching ones, gods, why are there so many frogs.
“You look like a chaotic spell ingredient with abandonment issues.”
I shoot him a look so sharp it could slice through his smug little cat ribs. “I’m closing in forty-seven minutes. I still have to finish inventory, prep the potion cooler for overnight enchantment, and shave my legs without bleeding out. Maybe direct your energy toward being useful for once instead of-oh I don’t know-a walking insult on four legs?”
He stretches, again. It’s the kind of stretch that belongs in a different story, one with fewer knives and more innuendo, if I’m being honest with myself. Then he hops down from the counter, saunters to the back shelf like he owns the place, and flicks his tail at the small bottle wedged between two dusty scrolls.
“Your breath charm’s there, next to the expired lust elixir. Which, considering your date, might still come in handy.”
I blink. “Wait. Did you actually help me?”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You hate expired potions.”
“I hate you kissing that man more.”
I grab the bottle and try not to smile. I fail, and it makes him scowl harder, which only makes the smile worse. “Puck,” I sing, overly sweet. “Are you being territorial?”
“Gods, no. I just refuse to let your tragically mediocre dating standards drag this shop’s reputation through the-”
The bell over the door jingles, and I lurch forward to shut off the OPEN sign. Puck darts behind a curtain like someone threatened to give him a bath. I turn, half-hysterical, half-ready to murder whoever dared walk in this close to closing.
It's an old woman holding a teacup poodle wearing a wizard hat. I blink. The poodle barks and sneezes glitter.
Puck snorts from the curtain.
And I think: this day might actually kill me.
“Oh gods,” I groan, plastering a customer-service smile onto my face that feels about as stable as my last relationship. “Henrietta.”
She beams like I just offered her immortality with a side of sponge cake. “Darling Mira! I was just thinking of you while my Harold was communing with the spirits.”
Harold, the poodle in question, lets out a wheezy little yap and attempts to levitate. He makes it about two inches off the ground before letting out an undignified fart and crashing into a jar of mood-altering bath salts. The jar wobbles ominously.
“Harold’s been channeling a soul fragment again,” Henrietta says, like this is perfectly normal and not the beginning of a cursed séance disaster. “We think it’s someone who was drowned in a cheese vat. He keeps demanding Brie.”
“Right. Of course,” I say, subtly pushing the bath salts out of Harold’s reach with my boot. “Brie. Naturally. Why wouldn’t a semi-possessed poodle have refined dairy preferences?”
Harold barks, does a little twirl, and then attempts to hump the base of my display crystal.
Puck slinks out from behind the curtain, his whole body radiating condescension. He jumps onto the counter with the grace of a creature who’s never once questioned his place atop the food chain-or the retail hierarchy.
“Well, if it isn’t the sentient dust mop,” he purrs, stretching luxuriantly as he locks eyes with Harold. “Nice hat. Is that from the discount bin at Familiars ‘R Us?”
Harold growls, which mostly comes out as a gurgling cough, then lunges two inches toward Puck.
Puck doesn’t move. “Do it. I dare you. I’ll send you back to the cheese vat myself.”
“Now, now,” Henrietta scolds, though she’s petting Harold like he’s a misunderstood warlock. “Play nice, Mister Puck. Harold’s just expressing himself. He’s got a very developed third eye.”
“Is that what you’re calling the uncontrollable twitch in his left leg?” Puck yawns, tail flicking. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s either a parasite or suppressed shame.”
Henrietta gasps. “He is spiritually attuned.”
“He’s chewing on his own foot,” I mutter.
“I heard that!” Henrietta tuts. “Now, I just popped in to ask if you’ve restocked the anti-were-dander soap. The full moon’s coming and Harold gets awfully sniffly.”
“I’ve got a new batch,” I say, moving to the back. “Stronger this time. Should clear out his sinuses and any lingering personality disorders.”
“Lovely,” she trills, then lowers her voice. “And Mira, do be careful tonight. I saw something odd in my crystal ball. Lots of red. Lots of…hair. Could be romance, could be arterial spray.”
“That’s the exact vibe of most of my dates.”
She giggles, pays with three glittering tokens and a coupon for half-off at a haunted spa, then scoops Harold up under one arm like a possessed purse.
Puck watches them go, smug as a cat who just shredded an important document.
“I give that dog two days before he starts pooping prophecy.”
“I give you ten minutes before I hex your whiskers into dreadlocks.”
“I’d look incredible,” he purrs. “You’d look like someone who got dumped by a man named Roland who collects magical spoons.”
“Enchanted cutlery,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”
He leaps onto the shelf, knocking over a box of enchanted condoms.
The condoms scatter like cursed confetti, the box landing with a thud beside my boot, unfurling a trio of glittering wrappers that proudly announce: MAGICKALLY ENHANCED-LASTS AS LONG AS YOUR SPELLCASTER’S STAMINA!
Puck blinks down at them like they’ve personally offended his sensibilities.
I crouch, snatching them up, cheeks blazing like I accidentally summoned a fire elemental into my pants. “Thanks, asshole. These were alphabetized.”
He snorts, curling his tail around his paws, already too pleased with himself. “Alphabetized? Are you planning to fuck your way from A to Z?”
“No,” I snap, shoving them back into the box. “But I like my protection organized. Unlike some people, I believe in safety, preparedness, and clean linens.”
“Oh, sweetling,” he drawls, a smirk curling like smoke in his voice. “You won’t be needing those.”
I pause, hands still gripping the edge of the counter. “Excuse me?”
He hops down, circles my ankles like a smug little demon in fur. “Roland’s more interested in hearing himself talk than in anything you’ve got under that disaster of a hemline. You’ll be lucky if you get kissed goodnight without signing a nondisclosure agreement.”
“I’m bringing them for just in case,” I say, standing tall. “Because unlike some bitter, four-legged celibates, I’m an optimist.”
“Optimist?” he echoes, leaping back up to eye level. “Mira, your optimism is the magical equivalent of wrapping a curse in glitter and hoping no one notices the hex marks.”
I flick a wrapper at him. It bounces off his head with a satisfying twang. “You’re just mad because no one’s ever spelled their name with your tongue and a vibrating sigil.”
“I’m mad because I live in this hellhole,” he hisses, knocking over a love potion vial. “And because I’m forced to watch you make terrible decisions in real-time, like some sadistic divination soap opera.”
“Your commentary isn’t mandatory.”
“It’s morally necessary.”
I cross my arms, leaning forward until we’re nose-to-snout. “I will go on this date. I will bring these condoms. And if I decide to use one, I will do it with reckless, irresponsible joy. You don’t get to ruin that.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m not ruining it. The date will do that all by itself. I’m merely providing live, emotionally-charged sarcasm as a service.”
“Your service is revoked.”
“You can’t afford to fire me. I’m the only one in this shop who knows how to properly organize your hex salt by mood category.”
“Mood category is not a real inventory system.”
“Says the woman who has an entire drawer labeled ‘bad decisions and nipple clamps.’”
“That drawer’s private!”
“And yet tragically underused,” he mutters.
I grab my cloak and the condoms, shove both into my bag, and stomp toward the front door. “I am going on this date. I’m going to have an orgasm so good it echoes in the astral plane.”
He yawns, tail flicking lazily. “I’ll be here when you get home disappointed, disheveled, and dripping in regret. Possibly literal fluids.”
“Maybe I won’t come home.”
“Oh, darling.” His eyes gleam with smug delight. “You always come home. Especially when it’s a disaster.”
He’s right. Which is the most annoying part.
But he doesn’t have to look so damn pleased about it.
I lock the door with a flick of my wand and a muttered incantation that feels more like a sigh. The runes shimmer for a moment before sealing the storefront, and just like that, Elderveil’s quirkiest potion shop is closed for the night.
I stare at the glowing “CLOSED” sign for a beat longer than necessary, then glance down at my reflection in the glass. The eyeliner’s already smudging. The dress looks like it’s trying too hard. And I-well, I look like someone who has no fucking idea what she’s doing.
Puck trots past my feet, tail high. “Don’t look so surprised. Self-sabotage suits you.”
“I’m not sabotaging anything,” I say automatically, though my voice has the conviction of over-steeped tea. I follow him up the creaky staircase behind the shop, trying not to let the weight of doubt press too hard on my spine. “I’m just…realistic. It’s been a while, okay?”
“Define ‘a while,’” he calls back.
“Since someone looked at me like I was worth unzipping pants for,” I mutter.
“Try being less… you,” he says, hopping onto the third step with unnecessary grace. “Might help.”
I groan, grabbing the banister like it can save me from this conversation. “Gods, you’re such a dick.”
“You own me,” he purrs. “What does that say about you?”
I shove the door to my flat open with a little more magic than necessary. The wards hiss in protest, the enchanted coat rack shudders, and a pile of laundry in the corner lets out an angry burp.
Puck trots in like he pays rent, immediately leaping onto the windowsill that catches the moonlight just right. He begins grooming his tail with fastidious attention, like it personally insulted him.
I, meanwhile, strip out of my work cloak and toss it over the back of a chair, already peeling off my boots. My legs are pale, patchy, and slightly glittery from a failed shimmer charm last week. Sexy.
I head to the armoire and yank it open, letting the faint scent of lavender and desperation waft out. There’s a red dress I’ve never worn, a black corset that’s seen better years, and a sheer lilac thing that technically counts as a top if you squint and suspend disbelief.
I hold up the red dress. “Do I look like someone who gets laid in this?”
Puck doesn’t even look up. “You look like someone who gets abandoned halfway through foreplay and cries into takeout.”
I throw the dress onto the bed and reach for the corset. “Okay, rude. But fair.”
“Don’t forget,” he adds, licking his paw and smoothing it across his ear with casual malice, “your last date ghosted you during dinner. The bread hadn’t even arrived.”
“That’s because he got hexed mid-meal!” I snap. “He choked on a cursed olive!”
“He choked,” Puck says dryly, “because you tried to flirt by explaining how to ethically harvest mermaid hair.”
“It’s an important topic!”
He huffs. “Just cast the damn enchantment, Mira. At least then, if the date goes to hell, it’ll do it with flair.”
I pause with one hand on the corset laces, considering. “You think I should charm myself?”
“I think you should charm someone, and gods know your personality won’t get you there.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s familiar manipulation.”
“That’s familiar rescue,” he snarks. “Do the spell. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to hide the fact that you’ve already mentally practiced saying ‘thank you’ after mediocre sex.”
I ignore the burn in my cheeks and grab my wand from the nightstand. The spell I’m thinking of is low-level glamour, subtle and technically legal, so long as I don’t enchant my underwear. Which I’m totally not doing. Probably.
I glance at him. “What if I overdo it? What if he thinks I’m trying too hard?”
Puck blinks at me. “You are trying too hard. Might as well own it.”
I flick the wand once, twice, and murmur the charm. A shimmer passes over my skin like warm wine. My hair fluffs just enough, my lips gain a soft sheen, and the weird zit on my collarbone disappears with a pop.
I turn to face him. “Better?”
He stares, then lifts one paw. “You’ve improved from ‘feral hedgehog in a dress’ to ‘passably enticing disaster witch.’”
“Be still my beating heart.”
He grins. A proper, evil, fang-baring grin. “Just don’t try to use the condoms, Mira. You’ll probably enchant one by accident and trap Roland’s soul in your uterus.”
I pause.
Then laugh.
Then consider the possibility. And that’s when I realize-I’m very, very doomed.
As I wriggle into the corset-one tit mildly escaping, the other contemplating freedom-I hear the familiar scrape of claws against my enchanted tile. Puck’s circling like a shark who just caught a whiff of tuna and insecurity.
“You gonna just watch me struggle with cleavage, or…?” I tug the laces tighter.
“Oh, I’m observing for scientific purposes,” he says, leaping onto the dresser. “Mainly how you still haven’t figured out left boob first. Rookie mistake.”
