Ready to check back in with Leo? I’m thrilled to share the cover of Leo and the Crazy Genre Hotel, the second book in the Leo’s Magical Journeys series. Scroll down to read the first chapter—where a new town, a mysterious flyer, and one curious bookstore set Leo on a path stranger (and more magical) than he could’ve imagined.

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Leo scuffed the sidewalk with his worn sneakers, wandering aimlessly through downtown Fairhope, Alabama. He’d started near the hospital—that sprawling redbrick building still humming with the sharp sting of antiseptic—before crossing a sleepy intersection shaded by old oak trees stretching their limbs across the street. Pastel storefronts opened their eyes to the sleepy morning, and a bay breeze wandered through the streets, leaving trails of salt and magnolia fragrance behind.

His mom kept saying it was a fresh start. “Un nuevo comienzo,” but to Leo, it felt more like a book with missing chapters—he had no idea how the story was supposed to go next.

Up ahead, a large bookstore stood proudly, its wooden sign catching the morning sunlight, inviting him forward from nearly a block away.

They had been in Fairhope for exactly two weeks. Fourteen days of living squeezed tight inside a tiny apartment, high above the street. The apartment had three little bedrooms, each hardly bigger than a closet, and a kitchen so small you had to apologize if someone else walked in. But there was a porch. And the porch was something else entirely. It overflowed with climbing aster and bougainvillea, blossoms of purple and pink tumbling down like laughter, like joy, like a promise made in flowers.

“¡Madre mía, qué belleza!” his mom, Maria, had said when they first walked inside. She stood there, hands pressed gently to her heart, tired from the ten-hour drive from Athens, Georgia, staring at the flowers as if they had bloomed there just to welcome them—as if those bright petals alone could turn a strange place into home.

On their first night in Fairhope, sitting in that tiny kitchen, she cooked arepas and stirred sancocho and promised homemade buñuelos soon. She talked about the hospital, about this new job, how it was their anchor. Stability, she said, as if the word itself might hold them steady. Leo understood. He knew this was her chance—maybe their only chance—to keep from drifting away. So he nodded, smiled, did his best to look hopeful. But deep inside, Leo still felt like someone watching through a window, wondering if he’d ever find a way in.

Strolling up South Section Street, hands shoved deep in his pockets, Leo couldn’t shake the ache for Shane’s lopsided grin or those random shouts of, “Leo, come on, let’s hit the court at school!” Life felt too quiet without his best friend around.

He reached the corner and there it was—Crossroads Books, tucked comfortably between a boutique draped in delicate ironwork and a café where the tables lounged in the dappled shade of a sprawling sycamore. Above the bookstore’s entrance, a deep blue awning sagged gently, like it had seen a thousand lazy afternoons. Leo nudged the door open, and a tiny brass bell sang out, as if it had been expecting him all along.

The air shifted, softened. And then—oh, that smell. It drifted over him gently: books, old paper, freshly brewed coffee—warm, familiar, comforting. It pulled him back to their little Main Street bookstore in Athens, Georgia, where his mom would bring him when he was younger, letting him choose books in English or Spanish. Later, he’d wander in alone, just to sit and read quietly before a guitar lesson or to catch his breath after playing basketball at the court next door.

He squinted into the bright Southern sunlight that stretched through the tall front windows, the letters from the sign casting “Crossroads Books” backward onto the polished floor. He stepped across them, feeling something ease inside—a quiet, unexpected comfort, like finding something he hadn’t realized was lost.

He wandered past shelves labeled Young Adult, History, and Local Authors, recognizing familiar titles: The Hobbit and Percy Jackson. He smiled a little, remembering how Shane used to joke about them setting off with swords like Percy or following hobbits into mist-covered mountains—adventures Fairhope felt too sleepy to imagine.

Above the register, a hand-stitched banner caught his eye. It read simply:

Crossroads Books – Every Story Leads Somewhere.

He wasn’t looking for anything special—mostly just passing the time until his mom finished her shift at the hospital. After drifting a little deeper into the store, he settled into a worn leather armchair by the windows. The seat creaked softly as he sank in, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Nearby, a woman flipped through a Southern Living cookbook, chatting softly with a friend about shrimp boils and peach cobbler. Across from her, an older man wearing a faded Fairhope Pirates baseball cap stood scanning the local history shelf, tracing book spines with a finger as if hoping to spot a story he remembered.

But something was missing. Something important. Leo looked around the bookstore, searching. There were no kids—at least, not any he could see. No clusters of teenagers flipping excitedly through graphic novels, no friendly arguments over which book had been made into a better movie, no whispered jokes punctuated by bursts of laughter. Where were they, he wondered. Where did the kids his age hide in this sleepy town?

With a sigh, he reached for a book from the nearest display—a mystery novel whose cover depicted an old inn surrounded by twisted oak trees, a rusted wrought-iron gate hanging open and a silhouette of a figure on the porch. He started to read the first lines and kept reading next to the display, until he reached the end of the first chapter, which wasn’t a long one.

A shift in the air carried over the warm scent of chocolate and fresh espresso from the café tucked at the back of the store, strangely pulling him out of his thoughts about the haunted inn. His stomach decided before he could even think it through—hot chocolate sounded perfect.

He rose from the chair, crossing the shop toward the cozy café nestled in a corner. The chalkboard menu above the counter listed an array of drinks—lattes, cold brews, teas—but his eyes went straight to “Dark Chocolate Mocha” written in looping script. He ordered one, pocketing the change from his five-dollar bill, then turned to wait as the barista steamed milk behind the counter.

That’s when he noticed the corkboard on the wall, crammed with colorful flyers—babysitting ads, guitar lessons, the local chess club. Typical small-town stuff. But one flyer, its edges curled, stood out. Unlike the others, it had no phone number, no tear-off tabs—just a message that felt oddly personal, like it was meant for him.

TEENS WANTED
Summer Hotel Staff Needed – 2 Months Only
Apply In Person – Magnolia House Hotel, 12 Fairhope Avenue

Leo’s gaze lingered on the flyer. A summer job could mean pitching in—lightening his mom’s load instead of just riding her coattails. A hotel gig, though? That hadn’t even blipped on his radar. He pictured pocketing his own cash, easing the strain of her long shifts. It’d be something, at least, for all she was pouring into this fresh start.

His hand grazed the flyer’s edge, a quick jitter kicking in his gut. What if they didn’t even give him the job? Or worse—what if they did, and he completely messed it up? It was the same queasy, heavy feeling he’d had right before stepping onto the stage with his guitar for the Christmas talent show in sixth grade.

But this wasn’t about music, he reminded himself. This was about doing something different. Something far outside his comfort zone.

The door jingled as someone else walked in, catching Leo off guard. He shuffled to the side, letting a woman slip past with a quick nod as she headed toward the shelves. He glanced once more at the flyer, then tugged his phone out and typed in the address for Magnolia House Hotel.

“Alright,” he muttered, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Leo grabbed his drink and headed back to that worn leather armchair by the window, sinking in as the bookstore’s soft buzz settled over him again. The mystery novel was right where he’d left it on the table. He scooped it up, skipped ahead to the next chapter, and took a sip of his hot chocolate while he read.

The bitterness of the dark chocolate mocha lingered on his tongue, its warmth spreading through him. Outside, the world kept moving—shop doors swinging open, passersby stopping to admire the flower beds—but here, time seemed to stretch out, holding still just for a bit.

He flipped to the next page. The story’s lead—Edwin, a hotel desk clerk—was digging into some old mystery tied up in the inn’s dusty ledgers, the kind of secret that’d been buried for years. Leo took another sip of his hot chocolate. His gaze drifted up to the corkboard where that flyer still hung, pinned to the wall.

A hotel job. A hotel mystery. Weird coincidence.

By the time he reached the end of the next chapter, his cup was nearly empty, and the weight of the summer job flyer still pressed in the back of his mind. Finally, he closed the book and exhaled, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the paper cup. Maybe this was a long shot. Maybe it wasn’t. But there was only one way to find out. He tossed the cup in the trash near the door and stepped outside.

The sticky summer heat wrapped itself around him, but somehow it didn’t feel quite as heavy now. He adjusted his backpack and stepped out onto the street, weaving between shoppers drifting lazily in and out of boutiques and cafés. A couple passed by, sipping iced coffees, and an old man wearing a sunhat paused near the flower beds, squinting thoughtfully down the street. On his shirt was a bright enamel pin that said ASK ME HOW.

Leo slowed as he approached, then stopped. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Am I headed the right way to Magnolia House?”

The old man turned slowly, his brow furrowing. “Magnolia House?” He pressed his lips together, thinking. Then his face lit up, as if a door had opened somewhere deep inside him. “My wife and I were married there—1945, just after the war. The hotel was something special back then. Everybody in town dreamed of getting married at the Magnolia. Folks used to say it brought good luck, that it gave you a love that lasted.” His voice softened, drifting back to another time. “It was warm that day, just like this. My Mary wore blue. Said white was too ordinary.” He smiled gently. “She was right about that. She was right about most things.”

Leo shifted his backpack, but the man kept going. “Mr. Carter gave a speech, welcoming everyone—he owned the place back then. And the Calloways? They danced till midnight, even though Mrs. Calloway swore her feet would give out.” He smiled, eyes distant. “Oh, and Thomas Winslow—he made the toast. Said something about how the world had just finished a war, and now it was time to build something new. We all raised our glasses to that.”

Leo swallowed. It was like the man had been transported back in time, standing in a different version of Fairhope. He cleared his throat. “So, uh… is this the right way?”

The man blinked, his expression shifting—confused, almost startled. He looked around, as if he had just realized where he was. “It… might be,” he said slowly. Then, with a sigh, “I’m sorry, son. I don’t remember anymore.”

Leo nodded politely, offering a small smile before heading off down the street. But something about the man’s words stayed with him. He couldn’t stop imagining the Calloways dancing in a hotel he had never seen with his own eyes. He could almost hear the jazz music spilling through the ballroom, the warm hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses. The scene played out in his head like he was right there—guests moving to the music, guys in sharp suits, women in flowing dresses, laughter floating through the warm summer night. It felt so clear, so alive, like he’d just walked out of that wedding himself.

That felt strange. Too strange.

When he reached the intersection at Fairhope Avenue, the bay breeze finally found him, carrying the briny scent of water and something floral—probably gardenias from somebody’s yard nearby. He swung toward the waterfront, letting the easy downhill slope pull him along. Near the end of the avenue, he finally saw it—the Magnolia House Hotel.

It was closer to Mobile Bay than he’d thought, sitting just beyond sidewalks shaded by old oak trees draped with Spanish moss. The hotel felt friendly and comfortable, like it had relaxed into itself over the years. The warm terracotta walls looked bright in the sunshine, gently faded from years near the bay. Bright geraniums, petunias, and bougainvillea spilled from flower boxes, purple and pink petals tumbling over wrought-iron railings.

The big front lawn stretched out beneath wide oak branches, inviting and open. Under a shaded porch, a shiny brass sign caught the sunlight:

Magnolia House Hotel – Est. 1926.

Leo paused at the curb, his eyes following the curve of the arched doorway, the brass handles flashing in the light. His heart fluttered. He pushed open the door.

Cool air and a faint hint of lavender welcomed him. The lobby was a mix of polished wood and marble floors, with a wide staircase curving gracefully to the second level. Behind the counter stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, his gaze fixed on a TV showing financial graphs. Seated next to him was a woman whose face reminded Leo of his mom—same bright eyes, same warm smile. She had a book open on her lap.

She noticed him first, smiling in a way that soothed his nerves. “Well, hey there,” she said, her Southern drawl gentle. “What can I do for ya?”

Leo felt his heart pound. “Uh, I… I saw your flyer? The one about the summer job?”

Her face lit up with a genuine delight that calmed the flutter in Leo’s chest. “Now, look at that! I told Jack if I put the flyer up at Crossroads Books, we might find someone nice—and here you are.” She glanced at the man by the TV, who barely tore his eyes from the screen. “See, Jack? Didn’t I say so?”

Turning back to Leo, she offered another kind smile. “So, what’s your name, hon?”

A sudden wave of overwhelm hit him. The grand lobby—the towering facade, the gleaming floors, the quiet elegance—momentarily stole his words. He just stood there, waiting.

She raised an eyebrow. “You got a name, or do you just go by ‘Kid Who Stares’?”

Leo cleared his throat. “Leo…Leo Hernandez. My mom and I just moved here from Athens, Georgia.”

“Athens, huh?” She said. “I hear it’s a lively place. What brings y’all to Fairhope?”

He shrugged, feeling awkward again. “My mom got a new job at the hospital—she works long hours. I wanted to help out, maybe earn some money. Just…trying to do my part.”

Her eyes lit up as she stood, setting her book on the counter. Leo caught the title: Because of Winn-Dixie.

“Well, now, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” she said. “We sure could use someone like you around here. But you know it’s only for a few weeks, right? What grade you in—seventh, eighth? Can’t have you working longer than that.”

“Got it,” Leo said, nodding slowly. “So after that, you hire somebody else?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she said, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “You’d be the last one.”

Leo scrunched up his face. “The last one? What do you mean?”

She set her book aside and leaned toward him. “I’m the one who put up that flyer. Jack over there didn’t think it was worth the trouble—he’s fixin’ to wash his hands of the whole place.”

Leo blinked, startled. “Wash his hands of it? Why?”

Missy’s smile slipped away. “This hotel’s been Jack’s family’s pride going back generations. His granddaddy—Jack the First—put it up in ’26. That’s 1926, mind you. Then his daddy took the reins. Now some fancy outfit, Mia’s Hotel Chain, wants to snatch it up, knock it down, and slap a shiny new resort in its place. Jack’s reckonin’ it’s time to let it go.”

Missy Carter let out a little sigh, shaking her head. “Funny thing, though—a couple years back, he’d have battled anybody to keep this place going. Took on the city folks and them big-shot investors too. But now…” She paused. “Now, I ain’t so sure. He’s just… different.”

“Why?” Leo asked.

She picked up the book from the counter, tapping its cover with a smile. “Now that’s a story even longer than this book, honey—and this one’s already pushin’ two hundred pages. Doubt you’ve got the patience to hear me tell it all. Speaking of patience, how old are you anyhow, Leo Hernandez?”

“I’ll be fourteen by the end of summer.”

“Well, shoot,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Jack and I could just about have a grandkid your age by now. But don’t pay me any mind. You sure you’re set on takin’ this job?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Leo said.

She smiled again, warmer this time. “Listen to me talkin’ your ear off without even introducing myself. I’m Missy Carter.”

“Good to meet you, Missy. So… what’s the job all about?”

Missy glanced toward the man still glued to his financial charts. “Jack, honey, how about you tell this young man what he’ll be doin’?”

Jack let out a low grunt, finally pulling his eyes from the screen. “Well, kid,” he said, voice rough around the edges, “best advice I got is keep your cash close—put some into stocks, watch those charts. Play it smart with the market—”

“Jack, no!” Missy cut in. “He’s here for the front desk job, remember? The one we’re tryin’ to fill before you run off after your big city plans?”

Jack blinked, finally focusing on Leo. “Oh. Right, front desk.” He tapped the counter absently. “Simple enough—check folks in, check ’em out, keep things steady. Just make sure nobody’s hanging around when the bulldozers roll in two months from now. Can’t have guests getting flattened before their coffee’s gone cold.”

He turned back to the TV, already drifting away.

Leo took a shaky breath. Bulldozers?

“So, sugar,” Missy Carter’s voice pulled Leo back to the lobby. “What about you? Got any hobbies? Bet you’re into somethin’ interestin’.”

“Me?” Leo blinked, momentarily thrown. He shuffled on his feet. “Well, I play guitar. Basketball’s pretty cool. And I guess video games.”

“Oh, mijo plays guitar too!” came a voice out of nowhere. It startled Leo—sounding exactly like his mom for a split second—but it wasn’t Missy who’d spoken. Missy was simply smiling, pointing toward a side doorway across the lobby.

A woman popped her head out, mop in one hand, a rag tossed casually over her shoulder, a bucket resting by her feet. She had dark, wavy hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and warm, lively eyes. Her uniform was neat, though her flushed cheeks hinted she’d been busy hustling around the hotel all morning.

“¡Ay, lo siento!” she said quickly, her cheeks turning pink. “Sometimes words just pop right out of mi cabeza before I can stop them!”

Missy swung back to Leo with a grin. “No fuss, Graciela. This here’s Leo Hernandez, lookin’ to join us at the front desk. Leo, meet our one and only—truly the only—Graciela Mendoza Saavedra.”

Graciela’s face lit up with a bright, welcoming smile. “Hola, Leo. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but…” She waved the dripping mop and laughed, sending a few droplets onto the marble floor.

Leo smiled. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Graciela propped the mop against the wall, stepping closer from the hallway to join them near the front desk. “So you play guitar? ¡Qué bueno! My boy Teo is seven—he just started, but he’s already pretty good. Like his papá used to be.” Her smile softened, eyes briefly shadowed with sadness. “His father played beautifully, too… but after he left, the house went quiet. No music for a long while, until Teo picked it up recently. Now, he’s bringing the songs back home. I’m so proud.” She paused, nodding gently. “Ya sabes cómo es—hijo de tigre, sale pintado.”

“Graciela’s from Colombia,” Missy explained, leaning closer to Leo. “Sometimes you gotta twist her arm a little to get a translation.”

“She said, like father, like son,” Leo explained, his chest suddenly tight. “Or literally, a tiger’s cub is born with stripes. Just means kids often follow after their parents.” His voice softened. He understood exactly how Teo felt.

“Oh, so you speak Spanish?” Missy said, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, shoot, Graciela, we’ve gone and hired ourselves a regular interpreter!”

Leo shrugged. “My mom’s like Graciela. One word in English, two in Spanish—sometimes the other way around.”

Graciela clapped her hands together. “Ay, Dios nos mandó un muchacho para la recepción que entiende todo lo que digo. ¡Qué bendición, Missy!”

Missy smirked. “I missed most of that, but sounds like she just called you her personal miracle.”

“Kind of,” Leo said, flashing a grin, then swung his gaze to Graciela. “And about your Teo—I totally get it. I started young too. Guitar’s tough at first, but man, it’s worth it.”

“Sí,” Graciela said, nodding quickly. “You have to practice, no?”

“Yep, all the way.”

Then Graciela’s eyes shot up to the antique chandelier swaying overhead. “Oye, you hear that? That ruido—‘crujido, clac-clac’—like it’s done for! I swear, one day this thing’s going to fall and aplastar us all!”

Missy looked at Leo. “Aplastar?”

Leo whispered, “Crush us.”

They heard Graciela mimicking it again, stretching out the “cruuuu-jido” with a dramatic groan and a quick “clac-clac,” her hands flailing like she was ducking for cover.

“Oh, hush now, Graciela, it’s alright! We had that checked, honey—solid as a mule’s back. You’ve hollered about it twice already, and I’m tellin’ ya, it’s fine. That old hunk of sparkle’s staying put even if the whole place turns to dust!”

“But those ruidos—‘crujido, clac-clac’!” Graciela pressed.

“Just let ’em be, alright?” Missy said.

Graciela shrugged, glancing at Missy. “Anything else you need, jefa?”

Missy waved her off. “Not right now, honey. You go finish what you were doin’. Don’t let us hold you up.”

“Ciao!” Graciela turned to leave, then suddenly stopped and swung back around, smiling wide. “Hey, Teo—I mean, Leo! Magnolia’s a place that loves its artists. You should play for us sometime, okay?”

“Uh, yeah—sure,” Leo said, glancing with uncertainty at Missy for a clue.

Graciela leaned in closer, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “You’re lucky you’re at the desk, mijo. Me, I’ve got laundry, a clogged sink—y quién sabe what else waiting today. Gracias a Dios, tomorrow’s my day off!”

Missy chuckled softly. “Holy Tuesday.”

“Exacto! Mi día de descanso,” Graciela replied with a playful wink. She gave Leo a little salute. “Welcome to the crew, muchacho!”

With that, she turned and disappeared down the hall, humming a cheerful melody as her mop and bucket rattled gently behind her. Leo watched her go, feeling oddly comforted. Anyone who talked about hearing music and artists playing here didn’t seem ready to let Magnolia House go anytime soon.

Missy let out a soft sigh and glanced back. “Graciela’s our whole show ’round here—she cooks, cleans, patches folks up, chases off raccoons, fixes things with duct tape, and probably keeps that chandelier hangin’ by sheer willpower alone. Truth be told, if she took more than a few days off, Magnolia would probably tip sideways and slide right into the bay.” She caught herself, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, shoot—maybe I shouldn’t say that.”

Leo looked up toward the chandelier. “She seemed pretty worried about that thing falling.”

Missy smiled, following his gaze. “Oh, honey, Graciela worries herself silly ’bout all sorts of things. I reckon it’s mostly ’cause she’s raising Teo all by herself. Always wondering’ what’s comin’ next—his future, her future, if they’ll have enough. But when she brings him here, and he’s running around laughing, having a good ol’ time, well, she don’t fret one bit—not about him, not about that chandelier, not about nothin’. She just relaxes into herself, enjoying that sweet little moment.”

A moment of sadness flickered across her face, but before Leo could say anything, her warmth returned. “Anyhow, you said you play guitar. Jazz?”

Leo nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Pop? Rock? That sorta stuff?”

“Yep,” he said, a spark of excitement hitting him at the chance to chew on music for a bit.

Missy clapped her hands together. “Well, ain’t that somethin’! You’ll have plenty of time for all that—but not while you’re punchin’ the clock. Jack can’t stand anything that ain’t the theme music for his stock show. Believe me, I tried Taylor Swift once, and he nearly threw the radio clear out the window.” She tossed him a teasing grin. “And don’t get too excited about basketball—we got exactly one deflated ball and a hoop that leans like it’s survived about twenty hurricanes. As for video games, don’t even think about it—I catch you chasin’ Pokémon at the front desk, you’re outta here. The Magnolia takes that stuff personal, like it’s got feelings—after all, this place is pushin’ a hundred years old.”

Leo’s heart dipped a little, imagining a summer without his favorite hobbies. But Missy leaned in, dropping her voice. “Now, you see that board over there?” She pointed to a wall lined with neatly hung room keys, each paired with a paperback. “Every key’s got a book to go with it. You can read whenever you’re sitting pretty while the guests ain’t around. What d’ya think?”

A little jolt of excitement flickered in Leo’s chest as he soaked in the place. The old chandelier glinting soft, the shiny floors, that faint whiff of lavender, and the far-off hum of cicadas sneaking through the glass doors—it all hit him like something he’d known without knowing he missed it. Even the fleur-de-lis designs—carved into the wood banisters and stamped into the tiles—snagged his attention. He’d never seen so many back home, but somehow they just pulled him in deeper, making him feel like he’d stepped into a story he’d forgotten but was finally ready to remember.

“That sounds… real good. So, when can I start?”

Missy’s eyes lit up. “Why, sugar,” she said, voice soft as a hush, “you can jump right in this very minute if you’re up for it.”

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