With unforeseen twists, romance, and a heavy sprinkle of magic, The Enchanted Hacienda is a captivating coming-of-age debut exploring identity, unconditional family love, and uncovering the magic within us all.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Enchanted Hacienda by J.C. Cervantes, which is out May 16th.
When Harlow Estrada is abruptly fired from her dream job and her boyfriend proves to be a jerk, her world turns upside down. She flees New York City to the one place she can always call home—the enchanted Hacienda Estrada.
The Estrada family farm in Mexico houses an abundance of charmed flowers cultivated by Harlow’s mother, sisters, aunt, and cousins. By harnessing the magic in these flowers, they can heal hearts, erase memories, interpret dreams—but not Harlow. So when her mother and aunt give her a special task involving the family’s magic, she panics. How can she rise to the occasion when she is magicless ? But maybe it’s not magic she’s missing, but belief in herself. When she finally embraces her unique gifts and opens her heart to a handsome stranger, she discovers she’s far more powerful than she imagined.
I’m inside Pasaporte not two seconds before I hear, “Harlow!”
I spin to see Roberto, the owner, fifty-something, on his third marriage to someone half his age; he also happens to be my godfather.
He picks me up and whirls me around, forcing a laugh to erupt out of me.
“¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?” I squeal.
“Amor, I own the place,” he says, switching to English.
I smack his chest playfully. “I thought you’d be at one of your other bougie restaurants in Mexico City or…”
“Needed un poco change of pace,” he tells me. “Your booth is open. ¿ Qué quieres beber?”
“Surprise me,” I tell him as he heads to the bar where a couple of new baristas are staring, likely wondering who I am and making all sort of assumptions, but today is the first day of a new beginning and nothing, absolutely nothing is going to sour my mood.
I take the two steps to the small back area and find my favorite booth tucked in the corner where the day’s light doesn’t reach. I love the café’s dark rich leathers, tan colored walls, and stacks of journals that can be found in every nook and cranny. This was Roberto’s very first business venture; he named it Pasaporte to remind himself of his dream to travel the world. Over the years he found himself in conversations with travelers that passed through here, so he began bringing in journals to give visitors a place to record their adventures. Before he knew it the place was filled with stories from all around the globe. We call those people vagamundos, those who wander the earth.
The journal idea caught fire and pretty soon there were love journals, funny journals, mystery journals, life’s big questions journals. You name it, there’s a journal for it. But what I love most are the stories that are recorded in the pages, better than any book I’ll ever read and a gold mine for story ideas.
I slip into the booth nearly knocking over the jar of pens as I pick up the green leather-bound journal with gold embossed letters: First Impressions. I don’t know why but a strange feeling of triumph spreads through me; or is it giddiness, or maybe the feeling of freedom? Or possibility?
Staring at the journal, I wonder if today is the day I find the spark, that magic flicker of an idea for a story that begs to be written, that haunts my days and nights, that won’t let me go. An old receipt slips out of the book. Five words scrawled sloppily across the section where the tip amount should go: What do you really want?
The answer rises inside of me: I want to be inspired.
A server brings me a large mug of coffee that smells like a nutty dark chocolate.
With a contented sigh, I sit back, open the journal, and just as I’m about to read, two things happen at once.
A cool swish of air.
And someone snagging the journal out of my hands. I’m too stunned to process that a guy in aviators and a wrinkled T-shirt has just slid into my booth and is now hiding behind the pages of the journal. Correction, wrinkled T-shirt with a small hole near the shoulder seam.
“Excuse you!” I say, indignant.
He says nothing.
“Hey!” I practically kick him under the table.
Still hiding behind the journal, he says in a low voice, “Do you see a blond girl, short, wearing a pink sweater anywhere near me or in the general vicinity?”
I glance around, but there are no windows in this area and I can only see the edge of the bar, so it’s not exactly a great lookout perch. And no way am I about to get up and check the café for this guy. I don’t really give a rat’s ass about why he’s hiding from pink sweater girl. “That’s my book,” I insist.
“Please,” he says, his tone even, but polite, “just help me out here.”
With a grunt, I tell him, “No, I don’t see anyone like that. Can I have my book back now?”
Slowly, he lowers the journal, so I get a better look at the intruder. He’s maybe thirtyish with jet-black hair, cut short, but definitely leaning toward curly if he let it grow another inch. His shades are in danger of slipping down his nose but not enough that I can see his eyes, and the Rude Rogue looks like he hasn’t shaved in days. As a matter of fact, between the wrinkled shirt and the almost beard, he looks like he just rolled in from a desert island. I’d absolutely put him in the category of ex-athlete who thinks sloppy is a fashion trend, except that his hair is too precisely cut, and nails are too precisely trimmed, and glasses too precisely clean. The guy is a walking contradiction.
His lenses are so dark I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or the book, so I clear my throat and gesture to the journal.
He points to it. “This is yours? Does it have your name in it?”
He’s joking. Surely he has got to be kidding.
I cross my arms and lean back casually. “As a matter of fact, it does,” I lie because no way am I letting this guy ruin my mood or inkling of inspiration I was just feeling.
He starts to flip through the pages. “Oh, wow…this stuff is really good,” he muses. “Are you Tiffany who says her first impression of Jack was hate at first sight?”
My blood is boiling. “Yep.”
“Nice to meet you, Tiff.” He doesn’t extend the customary hand. “I’m Benjamin.”
Are we really going to do this? Introduce ourselves and make small talk, when all I want to do is read in peace and drink my coffee and not have to socialize with a stranger.
“Okay, Benjamin.” I ground out every syllable like it’s a dagger. “Can you leave now?”
“Why are you frowning like that?” he asks, pushing his shades back up so I still can’t see his eyes. I bet they’re green, maybe hazel. Like a murky swamp where there’s no sun.
“Why are you wearing shades inside?” I ask, refusing to give him an inch.
He taps his long fingers on the table to the beat of the jazzy café music. “I’m hiding.”
“Yeah, I got that, but why?”
“First tell me why you’re frowning.”
“I’m not.”
“Kinda still are.”
I inhale sharply, release slowly. “How about this? How about you leave now so I can enjoy my coffee in peace? And then you don’t have to worry about my face.”
“Not until I know the coast is clear,” he says, ducking low. “She’s like a police dog. She’ll sniff me out, so if you don’t mind, I’m just going to hang out for a few minutes? I’ll be quiet and here…” He pushes the journal across the table. “All yours.”
Actually, I do mind, but I’m more curious than enraged now, so I ask, “What did you do to her?”
Expressionless, he asks, “Why do you assume I did anything?”
“You have a very punchable face.”
“And you can tell that in under the two minutes we’ve been sitting here?”
“Face is immediately obvious. Plus I’m a great judge of people.”
He leans closer and I pick up the faint scent of cedarwood. “I’m going to bet that’s another lie, Tiffany.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee never taking my eyes off of him. I decide to prove my point and start with the easy stuff. “You’re American.”
“Did the accent give me away?” There’s a slight quiver at one corner of his mouth, and I think he might actually smile but he doesn’t.
“Your name is Benjamin,” I go on, guessing that he hates the formality of that designation as I add, “but people you like call you Ben.”
“Mmm. Profound.” He tilts his head with clear condescension.
And given that he’s bold enough to slip into a stranger’s booth and ask for favors tells me that, “You’re someone who thinks quickly on his feet and knows what he wants.” And your amazingly good looks have taken you far, but not far enough to make up for your lack of manners.
I pause, knowing I’m on the right track by his silence and the fact that I have always been freakishly observant. Maybe it’s the almost writer in me, mining the details of people, places, events, thinking that maybe someday that information will be put to good use. “And you happen to look like the victim of a crime because it’s been a long night and no one knows you here so appearances don’t matter, especially not when you’re running away from your girlfriend, which also tells me you’re in the business of something ego driven or something that requires you to be on all the time so you absolutely welcome anonymity.”
His jaw tenses and I taste victory. “Wow,” he breathes. He lets out a low whistle, but his face is still devoid of all human expression. How does he hold it blank for so long?
Okay, here it comes. My congratulations on being so perceptive. Any moment now. He’s going to eat crow. Right this…
He looks down. Removes his shades, then ever so slowly, he looks up.
His wretched, unshaven, excruciatingly handsome face breaks into a smile.
Damn.
Excerpted from The Enchanted Hacienda by J.C. Cervantes. Copyright © 2023 by J.C. Cervantes. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
