A little magical mischief never hurt anyone until a love potion goes terribly wrong. Magic, Mischief, and Kilts! A modern-day Scottish paranormal romance by NYT Bestselling Author Michelle M. Pillow. “A mesmerizing and magical read!” From the Highlands of Scotland to the valleys of Wisconsin… Erik MacGregor is from a line of ancient (and mischievous) Scottish warlocks. He isn’t looking for love. After centuries of bachelorhood, it’s not even a consideration… until he moves in next door to Lydia Barratt. It’s clear the beauty wants nothing to do with him, but he’s drawn to her and determined to win her over.
Michelle M. Pillow
Give us the one to two sentence tagline for your book.
A little magical mischief never hurt anyone until a love potion goes terribly wrong.
How do you use magic in your book?
The series follows a family of immortal Scottish Warlocks living in Wisconsin. Everything in their life is magic, and it’s not always a good thing.
Would your hero enjoy pumpkin spice lattes, candy corn, or apple bobbing?
His family is more into Scotch and Pranks.
What costume would your heroine (or hero if MM) wear to a halloween party?
What scene did you adore writing in this book?
I loved writing the interactions between the MacGregor family. They’re always pulling funny pranks on each other and have been trying to one up each other for years.
Is this book a spooky/scary PNR, or a cozy/snuggling with a monster PNR?
Warlock, Shifter, Suspense PNR
What is your favorite monster to write?
I love writing magical creatures. There is so much potential to what they can do.
If you had to pick, would you rather have fangs, claws, or wings?
Wings. I hate traffic. I can’t type with long nails so claws are a definite no.
Halloween’s coming. Do you do anything special to celebrate?
I love Halloween, then again, I love all of the food holidays, lol.
Excerpt from Love Potions
“Ly-di-ah! I sit beneath your window, laaaass, singing ’cause I loooove your a—”
“For the love of St. Francis of Assisi, someone call a vet. There is an injured animal screaming in pain outside,” Charlotte interrupted the flow of music in ill-humor.
Lydia lifted her forehead from the kitchen table. Her windows and doors were all locked, and yet Erik’s endlessly verbose singing penetrated the barrier of glass and wood with ease.
Charlotte held her head and blinked heavily. Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with the all too poignant look of a hangover. She took a seat at the table and laid her head down. Her moan sounded something like, “I’m never moving again.”
“You need fluids,” Lydia prescribed, getting up to pour unsweetened herbal tea from the pitcher in the fridge. She’d mixed it especially for her friend. It was Gramma Annabelle’s hangover recipe of willow bark, peppermint, carrot, and ginger. The old lady always had a fresh supply of it in the house while she was alive. Apparently, being a natural witch also meant in partaking in natural liquors. Annabelle had kept a steady supply of moonshine stashed in the basement. If the concert didn’t stop soon she might try to find an old bottle.
“Omigod. Kill me,” Charlotte moaned. “No. Kill him. Then kill me.”
Erik had been singing for over an hour. At first, he’d tried to come inside. She’d not invited him and the barrier spell sent him sprawling back into the yard. He didn’t seem to mind as he found a seat on some landscaping timbers and began his serenade. The last time she’d asked him to be quiet, he’d gotten louder and overly enthusiastic. In fact, she’d been too scared to pull back the curtains for a clearer look, but she was pretty sure he’d been dancing on her lawn, shaking his kilt.
“Omigod,” Charlotte muttered, pushing up and angrily going to a window. Then grimacing, she said, “Is he wearing a tux jacket with his kilt?”
“Don’t let him see you,” Lydia cried out in a panic. It was too late. The song began with renewed force.
“He’s…” Charlotte frowned. “I think it’s dancing.”
Since the damage was done, Lydia joined Charlotte at the window. Erik grinned. He lifted his arms to the side and kicked his legs, bouncing around the yard like a kid on too much sugar. “Maybe it’s a traditional Scottish dance?”
Both women tilted their heads in unison as his kilt kicked up to show his perfectly formed ass.
“He’s not wearing…” Charlotte began.
“I know. He doesn’t,” Lydia answered. Damn, the man had a fine body. Too bad Malina’s trick had turned him insane.
NYT & USAT Bestselling Author Michelle M. Pillow is an award-winning romance and cozy mystery writer with over a million books sold. Romance Writers of America has recognized her for publishing over 100 titles.
Michelle is always up for a new adventure or challenge, whether it’s a paranormal investigation of an old Vaudeville Theatre or climbing Mayan temples in Belize. She was a refugee extra on SyFy’s Z Nation.