The Magical Spice Tea Shop

by Amy Boyles

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Paranormal Romance; Small-town Romance

Synopsis

Welcome to The Magical Spice Tea Shop, where your wildest dreams can come true with just a pinch of cinnamon . . .

Paperback version drops December 1, 2026

🍁 Cosy romantasy
🍁 Rivals to lovers
🍁 Grumpy x sunshine
🍁 He falls first and he falls harder
🍁 Magical spices
🍁 Small town romance

On the edge of Willow Vale sits an tea shop, full of spices that can take you back into your memories, and if the rumours are true, even allow you to change those memories.

Left alone to run his parents shop, and very much out of his depth, Finn advertises for an assistant position. Lila, an ex-event planner with an uncanny ability to get under Finn's skin is the only applicant.

As an exasperated Finn and bubbly Lila struggle to find a working balance, terrible whispers begin to float in about a customer who is lost in her memories. Finn and Lila are forced to work together to find out what - or who - is sabotaging to their shop, before the accidents force them to shut down the shop and sell it to a shark who is already circling.

As things heat up between the pair, will Lila ever be able to win over the grumpy Finn, or will he remain as closed off to her as he is to the Magical Spice Tea Shop?

From the author of How to Fake it With a Fae comes the perfect small town romance with a sprinkling of magic and undercurrent of healing fiction. Readers adore Amy Boyles's cosy romantasy books!

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 'Magic, fun and romance'
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 'It will make you laugh and cry'
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 'A joy to read'
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 'Wit and great banter'
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 'Small town romantic comedy at its best'

For fans of The Ex Hex, The Baby Dragon Cafe, The Spell Shop and The Modern Girls Guide to Magic.

 

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Release date: July 2, 2026

Publisher: Headline Eternal

Sample

Prologue

 

‘Come, you need to see it,’ Dave said, tugging Sonali down Honeysuckle Lane. It was a winding road, filled with shops that weren’t popular enough to be nestled on the high street – a wool store, a second-hand bookshop and a quilting business with a lovely pink and blue patchwork coverlet in the window, a blanket that to Sonali looked soft and inviting, perfect for wrapping oneself in during a biting winter’s night. She rubbed her belly, which was round at the moment – pregnant-round, to be more specific, and heavy. Her feet ached, mostly because they were swollen, and also because Dave had said a walk would do them good. It would certainly do someone good – Dave. He wasn’t eight months pregnant and shaped like a cauldron. She didn’t know why ‘cauldron’ was the word that came to mind. Sonali wasn’t a witch. Not that there was anything wrong with that. ‘You’ll thank me for making you come all this way,’ Dave told her. ‘Funny, I was just thinking the exact opposite.’ He winked, and squeezed her hand. His wedding band, which was the mate to hers, glinted in the sun. A warm, fluttery feeling filled her heart, though it wasn’t quite warm enough to stop the ache in her feet. She glanced ahead as they approached a wrought-iron bench. Not the most comfortable seat, but it would do. ‘Can’t we sit for a moment? Little Emma is tired.’

‘You mean Finn,’ Dave corrected gently. ‘Emma,’ she argued. ‘For your grandmother.’ ‘Finn,’ he told her. ‘Because I like it.’ A throaty laugh filled her mouth. ‘Only if it’s a boy.’ Dave wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her into him so that she could smell his wonderful scent – musk, sunshine, pine. He always smelled lovely. It was why she’d married him. Well, that and she loved him. But his cologne helped seal the deal, she had jokingly told him on their wedding day. ‘Just a few more yards,’ he pleaded gently. She gazed at the bench longingly. Just then, a woman with auburn hair plopped down onto it and dropped her purse beside her. Well, there went a comfy place to ease her swollen feet. ‘All right. Lead on.’ A few more steps and Dave said, ‘Close your eyes.’ ‘Here? In the middle of the pavement?’ ‘I want it to be a surprise.’ ‘You’ll lead me?’ He kissed the heel of her hand. ‘Always.’ Sonali did as she was told, and Dave guided her carefully, telling her where each and every crack in the pavement was so that she could step over them. ‘Stop.’ He turned her a bit to the left. ‘Now open your eyes.’ She blinked and surveyed whilst he spoke. ‘It’s not much right now, but we clean it up a bit, repair the roof, replace the windows, paint the facade, and this could be it, darling. This could be the place we’ve been searching for.’ He paused a moment before adding, ‘Did the shipment arrive?’ ‘It did,’ ‘From Mirissa?’ ‘Straight from Sri Lanka,’ she confirmed, then a thought struck her. ‘You’re sure about buying it from that location?’ ‘I’m sure.’ She nodded, recalling how the cinnamon came packaged. Rolled by hand, packed with care, the entire box had smelled amazing when she’d opened it. But it wasn’t just the smell that had pulled her in. It was something more – something that could only be found in that particular spice, harvested in that particular part of the world. Dave scratched his head. ‘And do you think . . . Will it do what we want? Will the other spices as well?’ Her lips tugged up into a smile. ‘They will. We’ve been careful – bought from all the right places.’ He looked nervous. ‘We’ll need a trial run.’ ‘We will, but the chemistry is sound. The active compounds in this variety are three times more concentrated than in common cinnamon. If I remember correctly, I’m in charge of the science and you’re in charge of the sourcing.’ He gave her a warm smile, silently agreeing, before nodding back to the building. Her gaze washed over the store front. It was a shambles – and that was putting it nicely. The thatched roof didn’t just need patching. It needed to be replaced. The windows were old, the frames pulling away from the facade. A thick blanket of ivy wove tightly below the roof and just above the front door. She pressed a hand to the wood. It was the colour of espresso, and solid. This they could save. It wouldn’t need to be replaced. But the rest? Hmm. It would need work – a facelift at least and a complete overhaul at most. And Emma was on the way. ‘I know the timing is off,’ Dave said. ‘What with Finn coming and all.’ This man. ‘But,’ he kept on, ‘I can get the building into shape if this is what you want. Is this what we want? The baby will keep us very busy.’ The woman who’d sat on the bench was now up and walking towards them, talking to someone on her mobile. Her eyes were puffy and red and her nose was pink. She blew into a tissue and mumbled, ‘I just wish I’d told him what I really felt. If only I could do it all over again.’ 

She walked past them, and Sonali turned to Dave. His eyes sparkled with excitement, excitement that matched her own. ‘Oh yes,’ she said dreamily, ‘this is what I want. It’s what this town needs.’ Dave folded his arms as if it was decided, which she supposed it was. ‘Then we’ll draw up a contract.’

 

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, ADD SAGE

 

CHAPTER 1 There was a well-kept secret in the town of Willow Vale – spices couldn’t change a person’s fate, but they could change the way a person felt about said fate. A dash of sage could soften the sharp edges of regret, a whisper of allspice could stir up forgotten dreams, and just the right blend of ginger and lemongrass could turn even the weariest heart towards hope. At least, Lila thought so as she stood in the drizzling cold rain, clutching her CV to her chest. It hadn’t been sprinkling when she left the flat, but sure as luck would have it, three minutes into the walk over, the heavens opened and poured down on her as if she had a red bullseye on her head. The pop-up shower wouldn’t have been a problem if she’d still had her umbrella – the one covered with yellow ducks that her father had gifted her when she was little. But she’d abandoned it when she quit her job – left it right in the umbrella stand and forgotten all about it. Until now, of course. A gusty sigh slipped past her lips. But this was who Lila was now – someone who did things like quit her job unexpectedly. Someone who stood in a pop-up rain shower without an umbrella. Last week, she had been a different person, and a perfectly happy one. That was until her mother cornered her over a cuppa and said in a holier-than-thou voice, ‘You aren’t taking risks, Lila. You had so many plans after uni, and you haven’t done any of them. What’s happened to you?’

Basically, she had accused Lila of being scared to try new things, afraid to step out of her comfort zone. Her mother needn’t have worried about that now. No one in their right mind was comfortable in wet tights, and Lila proved no exception. So there she stood, drenched, bare knees quaking under her skirt as her gaze scoured over the humble little spice shop on Honeysuckle Lane. Woodsmoke puffed like a cigar from the chimney, filling the air with the cosy smell of burning logs. A bluebird peeked out from under the thatched roof, took one look at the rain, chirped as if to scold Mother Nature, or Lila – the bird could have been berating her for being foolish enough to venture into town without a raincoat – and then disappeared back into its nest. From inside the shop, the amber glow of gas lights flickered behind the lead-paned windows, welcoming all who entered. Welcoming her. So why wasn’t she going in? Because she preferred the rain, thank you very much. Besides, who would enter a shop asking for a job when they looked like a drowned rat? No. She’d come back another day, when she was dry. When the sun shone cheerfully and when her CV wasn’t stuffed inside an envelope dripping rainwater. A day when being dry would mean the difference between being invisible and being seen. And right now, with her sopping heels and wet hair, Lila felt quite invisible. She’d turned around to leave when a car hit a puddle on the street and a grimy grey mess splattered her. She swiped gritty water off her face. Yes. Time to go home. And that was when she heard the crash. Smash! Smash! Smash! She whirled around, nearly giving herself whiplash in the process.

Another smash came from inside the shop. It sounded like someone was being murdered, like they were attempting to defend themselves against a predator, and all they had was Gran’s best china for defence. No! Sonali must be by herself! Someone must be attempting to rob the place, steal the cinnamon! Nonsense. No one stole cinnamon. But they did steal money, and in that moment, Lila’s stomach cramped. She could see tomorrow’s paper if she didn’t go inside: WOMAN WAFFLED IN RAIN AS SHOPKEEPER WAS MURDERED FOR SPICES. Ugh. That appalling headline was worse than facing her mother. Still clutching her drenched, envelope-wrapped CV, she stormed towards the tea shop. Lila opened the door and peeked in, letting the warmth wash over her. There were no bloodcurdling screams. No signs of murder. Both were encouraging. She waited a beat, and deemed it safe enough to slip inside. ‘Hallo-oo!’ A dog the size of a Mini Cooper bounded up to her. Drool dripped from its tongue and splashed onto the floor in tad-pole-sized puddles. If this was what all the commotion was about, and no one was being murdered, then things were right in the world. Lila grinned and offered her palm for the dog to sniff. ‘Good boy.’ The Labrador gave her a good lick from chin to forehead, and raced past, whacking her in the face with its massive tail. A blow with such brute strength that Lila fell back on top of the door. ‘Oomph!’ The envelope dropped from her hand, gliding to a halt in front of the car-dog, who trampled across it, leaving fresh crimson and gold pawprints stamped on one side. ‘What the . . .?’ Several broken jars lay scattered across the honey-coloured floorboards. Spilling from those jars were brightly hued spices – gold and red. Ah, the plot thickens, she thought. The Labrador darted through the powder, tracking the spices across the store, filling the cosy space with the vibrant, though rather offensive mingled scents of lemongrass, sage, ginger, garlic and cinnamon. It was a bouquet that quite frankly should not have existed. Where was Sonali? Lila’s gaze shot to the counter, where two men stood, eyes locked on one another, scowls tipping their mouths. Her heart relaxed. Sonali was fine. No one was hurt. The smashing she’d heard was the dog destroying the jars of spice. Her gaze landed on the mutt. Not a mutt, really, a purebred, but the dog was certainly acting very lowbrow. There were unruly pawprints in the most unlikely of places – dotting the geranium pots, sprinkled on the side of the grandfather clock, topping the hearth, where a cheery fire crackled and popped. Ah, warmth! She longed for its embrace. Lila approached to heat her hands and maybe dry off before she launched into her employment-seeking pitch. But as she reached out – whoosh! The flames leaped forward. Orange tendrils stretched up to the mantel, to the world, she thought, attempting to set it on fire. The wooden shelf above was singed, charred by the blaze, which, she realised, had much too much wood in it. What was that man behind the counter doing, stacking so many logs? Trying to burn the place down? She touched her eyebrows to make sure they were still there. It was confirmed, they were intact. Then she grabbed the poker and pushed on the logs to spread them. ‘Don’t touch that,’ came a sharp voice. The man behind the counter glared at her, his jaw clenched hard enough to snap. His gaze lingered in judgement, his silent stare suggesting Lila wasn’t important enough for him to bother with.

Her throat shrivelled to the size of a pea. Why had he yelled at her when a dog was destroying the place? Who was this man? Him, she didn’t know, but she did recognise the other fellow when he slammed a meaty hand down on the counter. That was when the first man stopped glaring at her and resumed glaring at him. ‘You didn’t make the spice right! That’s what I’ve been explaining. You didn’t do as I asked. I told you I wanted to return to that blasted memory with my wife and keep every single thing she stole in the divorce!’ Oh dear. This is very bad. Lila wiped her grimy hands on her skirt and tiptoed towards the men. The dog was currently attacking a sofa cushion. Its smashing spree was over for the moment, it seemed. Which should have been somewhat of a relief. But it wasn’t, because the man standing opposite from the man who had reprimanded Lila as if she was no more than five years old, was Harold Ferguson, a person who delighted in making other people’s lives miserable. Sell him a scone with overly tart raspberry jam? He’d write a scathing letter in the Sunday paper. Throw a party that went on a bit too late? He’d call the police and tell them he was being harassed. Make him the wrong spice, one that wouldn’t retrieve the memory he searched for? Well, there was no telling what sort of retribution Harold Ferguson would seek. He’d probably get his hair combover to slap you in the face. Not really. But he did have one dandy of a combover, the likes of which were rarely witnessed in the male species in the wild, much less captivity. But Lila couldn’t have her one shot at the only job available in all of town burn up in flames just because Harold Ferguson had decided to destroy the Magical Spice Tea Shop. ‘You didn’t make it right!’ He punctuated each word with a slap of his hand. ‘Where is Sonali? Where’s Dave? Neither of them would have done this. You’re new. You don’t know what you’re doing. You probably sabotaged my memory on purpose.’ The man gave him a cold look. ‘I made your spice correctly.’ ‘Now look here – isn’t the customer always right?’ ‘No,’ the man said tersely. Lila thought she might faint. This was going from bad to worse. Mr Ferguson leaned forward and pulled his lips back in a sneer. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Finn,’ replied the man. ‘With two n’s.’ ‘You’re mocking me.’ ‘Not at all,’ Finn said, wiping down the counter with a soft cloth. ‘I would never do such a thing, nor would I allow my dog to destroy a business.’ ‘My Cyril is perfect.’ ‘Your perfect Cujo owes me two hundred quid. Now pay up and leave.’ Mr Ferguson scoffed in indignation. ‘Do you know who I am?’ ‘Someone who makes trouble, clearly.’ He gasped. ‘Young man, you have no idea what I can do.’ And Finn didn’t, as far as Lila was concerned. If he continued talking to Mr Ferguson this way, there was no telling what would happen next – the police and fire brigade might show up and shut the whole business down – just because Ferguson claimed he’d been attacked by a spice monster or something. Lila had no choice. It was time to intervene. She cleared her throat and gave them her most winning smile. Literally. She’d won best smiler at primary school. ‘Excuse me.’ Finn levelled a look of absolute steel at her. His dark eyes narrowed as they swept from her head (where there were specks of dirt in her hair, she was certain) to her skirt (mud-spattered) to her feet (more streaks of grit). Lila knew she resembled a living Jackson Pollock painting. If anyone asked, she’d claim to be a walking art installation.

But Finn didn’t ask. His brow furrowed as he gave her a look so sharp heat flooded her cheeks. Something twinged in his eyes – disgust, probably, and his full lips turned down in a frown. They were really full, she realised. Full, and sitting on top of a chiselled chin and a sharp jawline. He had brown skin, and if she had to guess, Lila would hazard that one of his parents was of Indian heritage. Along with his good looks, he smelled amazing – like cloves and cinnamon. The scent wafted up her nose, and even though she tried not to, she inhaled deeply. Guess she hadn’t tried all that hard. He wore a brown leather apron (which resembled something a blacksmith might wear), with slits running along the front. Pushed into them were various blades and other utensils that looked like they were meant for crushing and scraping. She must’ve stared at it a bit too long, because he snapped, ‘What?’ Her knees quaked at the sharpness in his voice, and if Lila remembered correctly, she had interrupted their argument in the hope of saving him from a Harold Ferguson disaster. Somehow she managed to ignore Finn’s Arctic-level stare and pinned her attention on the older man. ‘So sorry to interrupt—’ ‘Then don’t.’ Finn knocked his fist against the counter. Her resolve wobbled, but Lila took comfort in the fact that she was helping. She turned away from his blistering gaze to focus on Mr Ferguson. ‘Please, sir, I know this is rather rude of me, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you said before. You came to relive a moment that happened with your wife.’ ‘Ex-wife. Evil woman.’ ‘May I see the spice that was made?’ ‘What good’s it to me?’ He shoved the teacup with a golden handle towards her and Lila sniffed. She immediately recognised the top note – sage. Curled beneath it lay a blend of other herbs. She knew this tea mixture well: When Life Gives You Lemons, Add Sage. Sonali and Dave named each of their blends with whimsy and a bit of cheek – something she loved. She didn’t know every ingredient that went into the mixture, but she recognised the profile – warm, inviting, soothing. ‘Sage is used to see memories in a more positive light,’ she murmured, recalling what Sonali had once explained. ‘We know.’ Finn crossed his arms, which made him look as intimidating as a Viking – something Lila knew all about thanks to her Horrible Histories phase. She gulped and pressed on. ‘But sir, that isn’t what you wanted at all, is it? You came to crush your ex-wife in a memory. You called her an evil woman, for goodness’ sake.’ ‘And she is,’ he declared. ‘Well I hate to say it, I really do, because I love a good revenge story as much as anyone. But you’re in the wrong, and you owe Finn an apology.’ ‘Eh? What are you on about?’ From everything she knew of Mr Ferguson, what Lila said next wasn’t much of a leap. ‘You came to the Spice Tea Shop not to soften a memory or relive it because you loved it. You came to destroy your wife, to make her pay. That’s against the rules and I’m sure you know it. Neither Sonali nor Dave would allow you to seek revenge or get retribution. That’s not how spice tea works, and it’s not why this place exists. You owe him an apology.’ She set the teacup back on the counter with a thud and beamed victoriously at Finn. Lila couldn’t help but feel a bit of camaraderie with the man – they were in this Ferguson situation together. But that good feeling dissolved when his shoulders tightened as if her very presence irritated him. ‘You still owe me two hundred pounds,’ he pointed out. ‘Now see here—’ Mr Ferguson began. But Lila cut him off. ‘No, sir, so sorry, but this is a reputable business, and if you can’t abide by the rules then they won’t make your memory tea.’ He scowled. ‘And who are you to insist on this?’ ‘Well, I’m . . . I’m . . .’ She scrambled for an answer. Any answer. A reasonable answer. Her brain, usually helpful in times of crisis, coughed up one reply. ‘Me? I’m the new assistant manager.’ The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them, her cheeks now scorching hot. Worse, Finn took a long look at her. It was the sort of look that made her stomach swoop. His mouth twisted wryly, and he said one word, but it was enough to make Lila rethink all her life choices. ‘Really?’ ...