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“I’m here at the Bucktown Holiday Market with one of my favorite people in the entire world, Moonie Miller. You may recognize her name from my feed…she’s the spiritual goddess of Chicago and she’s out here today selling…”

“Love Potion,” I speak into the camera.

“Love Potion,” Shereé repeats. “Perfect for…?”

“The holidays!” I say—or, shout , rather. “Especially New Year’s Eve. It’s never too soon to start planning not just who you’ll be snuggling up to at midnight, but how you’ll be snuggling up.”

“Ooooh, I’m intrigued. Moonie, why don’t you tell my followers a little bit more about your Love Potion? And also, what your sign that says ‘F Tinder’ means.”

Shereé pans the camera over to the chalk sign.

“So the potion is actually an oil that I mixed by hand. The recipe has been passed down generation to generation in my family and is meant to attract and promote love. You use it to manifest your romantic desires,” I explain. “No dating apps required, hence the sign.”

“I see. And have you used it for yourself?” Shereé asks.

When Ollie went over to the coffee booth next to mine, I quickly rubbed some of the anti-vision spray on my hands in preparation for any physical contact.

I know if I double up and use Love Potion too, it’ll cancel out the vision protection—which is what I need most right now.

That said, Ollie tried a bit and I’ve never been more attracted to a guy wearing plaid while writing a swear word on a chalkboard sign before, so…

“I’ve seen it work wonders, yes,” I say with confidence.

“Amazing. Ladies and gents, you heard it here first. Close out the Tinder app and get your butts over to the Moon Batch Apothecary booth now before there are no bottles of Love Potion left!”

Shereé ends the Instagram Live and asks to take a quick selfie before she puts her phone back in her purse. It appears to be an alligator skin bag that I’m sure costs as much as a new car.

“I have a suggestion,” she says.

“Hit me,” I say, fully expecting her to tell me to lean into the uncouth swear word from the sign and add back in the ‘U’.

“If I keep sending all my fans and followers to your account, I think you should reword your Instagram bio a tad. Just so it’s more in line with what they want to see.”

“Oh. What did you have in mind?”

“I want you to say that you’re a witch— Chicago’s Favorite Witch , to be exact.

Really lean into what Mal and Antonio were throwing down during the Windy City Today segment.

I have a hunch it would go over really well with people.

I mean, think about it. How crazy cool would it be to buy something online or in person from a real-life witch. ”

“But…I’m not a real-life witch,” I say with a slight nervous giggle.

“You can play one on TV,” she says with impressive speed and certainty—and a wink that gives me a bit of the ick.

My nervous giggle continues, which is strange considering I’ve never actually heard myself make this noise before.

“Take it from me. It doesn’t matter what you really are. It’s all about what people on the internet think of you. Check out the traffic at your table now,” she says.

I turn around and see a line of people waiting to for me to wrap up with Shereé and check them out.

“Wow,” I say in actual disbelief.

“And that’s all because of the caption I threw on our selfie just now.”

Shereé hands me her phone. The text accompanying the photo of the two of us says: “From Rags to WITCHES! As seen with Chicago’s Favorite Witch, @MoonieMiller.”

I hand it back to her, slightly horrified that she’s charged ahead with a persona I didn’t approve. Behind me, hordes of people—cash in hand—keep lining up.

“I’ll leave you to it, Witchy Woman,” Shereé says.

God, she’s good.

“One bottle of Love Potion, please,” Ollie says, making his way back to my booth at the end of the show.

I know he’s joking, but feels good to tell him the truth.

“No can do,” I say, sorting a bunch of cash behind my desk. “I’m totally sold out.”

“In hotel speak, that’s called a perfect sell ,” he says.

“And I have a waiting list thirty people deep. What’s that called in hotel speak?” I ask.

“That would be known as an overflow —meaning there are no rooms left and we have to literally walk guests over to competing hotels for a free stay. No good.”

Thankfully I can’t think of anyone else in Chicago doing what I do, so there’s nowhere else for anyone to ‘walk’ to. Or maybe, people like me are out there. They’re just not willing to say that they’re “a witch” in their Instagram profile in order to attract more followers.

Yes, that means that I did it. In a quiet moment when the line finally died down, I pulled up my Instagram profile and edited my bio text like Shereé suggested.

The only thing I want to call myself less than ‘a witch’ is ‘a sellout’.

But this is not that, I assure myself. This is, as Ollie would say, Marketing 101—a lesson in branding.

I know I’m not a witch, but explaining what I am will take more characters than an Instagram bio will allow.

I need to be understood, easily and quickly.

Plus, there are other five-letter words out there that are far worse to be called and for what it’s worth…

it’s kind of catchy. Maybe I can do amerch line with the slogan? We’ll see.

“Hopefully it won’t take me long to whip up all these extra orders,” I say. “I’ve promised them all before the holidays.”

“Many hands make for light work, my dad would always say at the hotel.”

“I’m a one woman show,” I remind him.

“I aced chemistry, you know. I can help mix up some potions.”

“ You want to mix Love Potion ?” I say as I proceed to break down my desk. It’s time to officially close up shop.

“I’m good with my hands and I like to try new things.”

My face is turned away from him when he says that, which is the perfect time to bite my lip, close my eyes, and pray to god that vision of us in a bed comes true so I can find out just how much truth there is behind those accidentally-kinky words.

“By the way,” he says. “I have to confess I didn’t stick around this market the whole time, and frankly, I didn’t plan on coming back to see you now.

But there was something really bothering me about your little table set up here so I had to make a run to the hardware store while you were busy slinging potion. ”

Ollie pulls out up a plastic bag and a power drill from a backpack I didn’t notice him wearing. I say nothing as I wait for an explanation.

“These are called caster wheels,” he says. “And they’re about to rock your world.”

“Tell me more, Tim-the-Tool-Man Taylor.”

I immediately realize my throwback Home Improvement reference will be lost on the Swede.

“Sure, it’s great that your desk folds flat for fitting into the back of car. But how will you move it there?”

“I’m going to just wait for the other vendors to be done using the one communal dolly. When it’s my turn to borrow it, I will hoist it on there, then roll it out to an Uber. Why do you ask?”

“This set-up should be mobile. It needs wheels. That way, you don’t have to wait your turn for the one communal dolly .

Plus, you have a habit of posting up in front of fire doors.

Think about how much easier it’ll be to move this bad boy around on a set of wheels that can lock into place when you get it where you want. Not to mention, it’ll save your back.”

“I’m twenty-six. My back is fine,” I say.

“When you turn thirty, you’ll understand. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind. I just saw a design flaw and needed—”

“—an excuse to whip out your power drill?”

As soon as I say it, I realize how it sounds. In response, herevs the drill in the air.

“May I?”

“Only if you promise to never refer to my pop-up desk as a ‘bad boy’ ever again.”

After giving Ollie the greenlight to install the wheels, he gets to work.

Surprisingly the first step of modifying my table is…

removing his shirt. Well, his plaid overshirt .

Underneath it is a snug-fitting white tee that I’m pretty sure Jeremy Allen White made famous on The Bear .

The sleeves are tighter and shorter than a standard t-shirt, revealing even more of the tattoo I saw a glimpse of at the escape room.

I can now confirm that the entire bottom portion is comprised of roses—petals and leaves.

There’s something else above it, but I can’t make it out just yet. More to come… I hope.

“Hold this for me?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply as he hands me his button down.It’s still warm and woodsy smelling.

“This too,” he says, plopping the peridot bracelet in my hand. It’s a little stretched out by now, but I’m certainly impressed with his commitment to wear a crystal bracelet.

Ollie lays down on the floor like he’s a mechanic working on the underbelly of a vehicle.

He moves his hands quickly and purposefully.

The muscles and veins in his hands and arms come into full display, pulsing and tensing, as he works his magic on my table.

I don’t need to touch his hand for my brain to start mentally picturing what it would be like to be horizontal next to him with his shirt off.

He may have described himself as a bit of a nerdy prick, but as I soak him in—tall, muscular in all the right places, swift with his hands—all I can think is: boy can get it.

While he’s still busy tinkering, I peel myself away for just a moment to refresh my application of the smudge spray. I rub my hands together before returning to the scene.

“All set,” he says with a hint of a sweaty glow across his forehead. “Give it a whirl.”

I hand him back his shirt, reluctantly, and push the cart around with ease.

“Wow, thank you,” I say. “This is a game changer.”

“Good. Let’s keep with that as the theme of the day. I’ve got one more ‘game changer’ in mind for you,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I made some pannkaka batter and I picked up a jar of lingonberry preserves from The Swedish Store. I know you don’t get a chance to eat when you do these things, you must be starving. Come over, let me feed you. I’ll even wheel your tableacross the street.”

“ Mmm , pannkakas and lingonberry . Just what I was I craving.”

“The plural of pannkaka is pannkak or , smart-ass. And don’t knock ’em until you try ’em.

Who wouldn’t love Swedish pancakes with a side of jelly?

As I recall, Moonie , your favorite meal of the day is breakfast. You just never eat it because it’s a whole to-do and you’re way too single for that. Did I capture all that accurately?”

There’s that elephant-like memory of his flaring up again.

Since he willingly tried some of my Love Potion, I feel like I owe it to Ollie to try some of his native foods. Although I do need to test something out before I officially agree to head over to his apartment, pop-up desk and all.

“If I don’t like your smorgasbord, promise me you’ll whip up some scrambled eggs instead?” I ask.

“With ketchup,” he remembers.

“Then, you have a deal. I’ll come over,” I say, extending my hand.

He grabs my palm firmly and we shake. I see nothing. My visions, for the moment, are temporarily blocked and I can’t wait to text Angeline that the smudge spray we created is a hit.

The spiritual dream team strikes again.