There are exactly three ways to start your morning if you're Marissa Lane:
1. A perfectly brewed espresso.
2. A review of your calendar for the day.
3. Not speaking to another human until item 1 and 2 are complete.
This particular Tuesday began with none of those things.
Instead, Marissa opened her eyes to the sound of a thump, followed by an ow, and a very chipper voice shouting, "The couch won again!"
She blinked. The ceiling wasn't hers. The curtains weren't hers. The man twirling what looked suspiciously like a magician's wand by the window was definitely not hers.
"Who are you?" she croaked, sitting up. Her voice sounded like it had been tumble-dried.
The man turned around, grinning as if this situation were perfectly normal. He had wildly curly brown hair, a bowtie, and—yes—that was a glittery cape.
"Oh good, you're awake!" he said brightly. "I made cereal! And also signed us up for a parrot adoption. Don't worry, we can name it together."
Marissa stared.
He waved. "Hi! Felix. Husband. Legally. Kind of."
"Legally?" she repeated, frozen. "Husband?"
Felix nodded. "We got married in Vegas last night. Elvis was the officiant. You cried when he sang Can't Help Falling in Love. It was adorable."
Marissa's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like a confused fish in a courtroom.
"You're joking."
"I have the certificate." He produced it from his cape with a dramatic ta-da. "Filed, stamped, and faxed. Remember fax machines?"
She took the paper with trembling fingers. It was pink. Sparkly. And horrifyingly real.
Her name. His name. A gold seal that said Official and Unofficially Fabulous. And worst of all—the date was yesterday.
"I don't do spontaneous," she whispered.
"You did last night," he said with a wink.
She ignored that. "Okay. Okay. We can fix this. Annulment. Lawyers. This never happened. I'm going to erase this from my memory with lemon tea and a documentary on spreadsheets."
Felix leaned on the counter. "About that…"
Her eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Well, apparently, you—you—insisted on including a prenup. One that says we have to live together for six months or forfeit something called the 'Great Latte Fortune.'"
Marissa blinked. "The what?"
"You wrote it on a napkin. In cappuccino foam. Elvis was very impressed."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is not happening. This is a nightmare."
Felix smiled. "If it helps, I made you coffee."
She looked at the mug. It had a mustache drawn in foam. The mustache winked at her. Actually winked.
"Why does the coffee have a face?"
"I'm also a part-time wizard. But mostly a barista."
She opened her mouth again, then thought better of it and closed it. Her lawyer brain was trying to reboot.
There was a pause.
"So," Felix said casually, "what do we do now?"
She sipped the coffee.
It was delicious. Infuriatingly delicious.
She glared at him. "We make rules."
Felix clapped. "Ooh! I love rules!"
"Rule one: No magic before 9 AM."
"Reasonable."
"Rule two: No talking parrots. No pets. No glitter in the sink."
He paused. "Even if the glitter is biodegradable?"
She gave him a look.
"Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands. "Rule noted."
Marissa stood up. Her suit from the night before was crumpled in a heap. Her heels were hanging from a potted plant. She didn't want to know why.
She looked at Felix. He was making toast by juggling slices of bread into the air and zapping them mid-flight.
She sighed. Loudly.
"You," she said, "are the exact opposite of my five-year plan."
"Aw, thanks," he said, catching the last piece with a bow.
She walked to the door, hesitated, then turned. "Don't throw a welcome party. Don't sign us up for couples' yoga. And absolutely do not tell anyone about this."
Felix gave her a salute. "Your wish is my legally-bound command, wife."
She groaned.
Outside, the city buzzed like it always did, full of normal people with normal mornings.
Marissa Lane used to be one of them.
Now she had a magically inclined barista for a husband, a six-month living arrangement based on foam-law, and a marriage certificate that sparkled in the sun.
She was definitely going to need more coffee.