Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance Book 3)

by Dakota Cassidy

  “I don’t know how to whip up something fabulous anyway. I can, however, apparently whip up a good campfire.” Let it go, Bernie…

  Winnie barked a laugh as she made her way across the planked-wood floor, her ballet slippers hushing out a soft rhythm. “We do roast weenies out in the garden from time to time. You’ll fit in here fine, Just Bernie. Good to have you aboard!” She let the door close behind her, leaving Bernie to wonder what Winnie had done to come into all this good fortune.

  Fee stretched and yawned, his mouth opening wide. “These are some pretty sweet digs. We’re off to a good start, Bernie girl.”

  Bernie sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to rumple the beautiful yellow and blue quilt with patches of pink and red flowers, and stretched her legs.

  “You smell like dead people.”

  “Have you smelled dead people?”

  “You’d be surprised what I’ve smelled.”

  “No. I probably wouldn’t.”

  “Go get a shower, Farmer Sutton. Take a load off for a little bit.”

  “Did you know the showers are timed? I read that in the rules.”

  “Then you’d better shake a leg, because you have a lot of showering.”

  “Fee?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for forcing yourself on me. I kinda like you right now.”

  He rubbed his chin on her thigh. “The same way Batman likes Robin?”

  Bernie popped her lips and grinned teasingly down at him. “More like Bert likes Ernie.”

  Fee chuffed. “Bert doesn’t really like Ernie. He tolerates him.”

  Bernie chuckled as she rose to shuffle off for her timed shower. Bert did tolerate Ernie and his shenanigans, but in the end, Bert needed Ernie in his life.

  She was okay with admitting she needed Fee in hers.

  * * * *

  Fee’s mouth dropped open when Bernie rushed back into her assigned bedroom, closing the door behind her and hoping no one saw her until she could figure out how to do something—anything—with her loaned clothing.

  She planted herself in front of the mirror as her mouth fell open, too.

  “Is that an elastic waistband?” he asked in horror. “And oh, holy slap in the face to Louboutin, are those orthopedic shoes? In mud brown?”

  “What of it?” She hiked her loaned pants up under her breasts and sighed as she eyed them in the mirror. Sweet Susan, she looked like someone’s grandmother.

  No. Even the seniors from the center she’d caught a quick glimpse of dressed more stylishly than she was dressed.

  Fee moaned, falling to his back in dramatic Fee fashion. “I feel faint.”

  Bernie gave him some side eye. “Judgment from a cat who wears a tutu and a tiara?”

  “All from this century, I might add. You know, the after-the-churning-butter-and-beating-your-clothes-on-a-washboard-at-the-creek past, but before-we-successfully-land-on-Mars future. Listen, we can fix this, Granny. Come here.”

  She straightened the collar on her button-up shirt with the pocket bedazzled in splashy red and yellow butterflies and the doilies ironed on the front of it and shook her head. “No, Fee. No magic. You heard Winnie.”

  He clucked his tongue. “You’re right. Besides, I don’t think even magic can help that get up, Pook. Was there nothing in that cubby more suited to a thirty-something?”

  Smoothing her hair down, she wrinkled her nose. “There was a dress that came straight off the back of Laura Ingalls fresh from the prairie, and some more pants with elastic waists. Oh, and a yellow velour tracksuit. I’m saving that for the ice storm I prayed for this afternoon or a special occasion—whichever comes first.”

  “Then maybe we could offer Winnie a hand going through those donations?”

  “We don’t have time for that now, Fee.”

  “How are you gonna wow Ridge in grandma pants and old-lady shoes?”

  Her brow furrowed as she put some ointment on her dry lips. “Ridge? Why would I have to worry about wowing him?”

  “Because he’s downstairs.”

  Bernie froze, her hands going icy. She didn’t know what it was about him that made her feel so damned raw, but it was there and as plain as the nose on her face.

  You do know. It’s because he’s so damned good-looking and even in lava-like conditions, he smells like he just got out of the shower.

  “Why is he here, Fee?” she moaned before she could stop herself.

  “They’re havin’ some kinda barbeque to welcome you. That’s why he’s here.”

  A thread of fear laced the pit of her stomach. “But I thought it was just a welcome dinner with the rest of the women here—like a normal ex-con dinner. You know, all of us felons gathered ’round the table, waiting to see who’s going to heist the silverware first?”

  “Winnie’s invited everyone to get to know you. Paris is a small southern town, honey. It’s what they do. Bake pies. Make casseroles. Butt into your business. The women here in rehabilitation aren’t hardcore criminals. They didn’t buy plastic sheets and disinfectant for their serial kills. They’ve committed petty crimes and abused their magic. So the people in town like to get to know them and make them feel like they’re a part of the community. In fact, some of the best friendships and working relationships have been forged from the women who came to Winnie and Ben’s.”

  Community.

  That meant a crowd. God, she hated crowds. Something always went wrong when there was a crowd and she was in the mix. Chandeliers fell on people’s heads. Cakes exploded in unsuspecting faces. Halter dresses untied themselves with magic invisible fingers and fell to the floor, revealing her high school best friend’s breasts to everyone attending prom.

  Pulling her hair up into a ponytail, she sucked in some air and sat on the edge of the bed, her stomach in a tight knot as she looked at her now crushed faux Academy Award. She was never going to be able to get through this.

  “Can’t do it, Fee.”

  “Can so and you will, Bernie. I won’t have you slightin’ these nice people. I raised you better n’ that.”

  She gripped the quilt in her fist and squeezed the material. “No…you don’t understand. Things happen when I’m nervous or uncomfortable. Bad things. Like today.”

  “Okay, Bernie, enough! You hear me? Enough hiding from whatever you’re hiding from and take charge of this. Take charge now. I will absolutely not be a familiar to a whiner. This ‘I can’t’ attitude’s ruled your life far longer than should have been allowed. But that’s all over now, Miss. We’re through with the pansy-ass portion of this rodeo. We have a real chance here, B. A real chance to learn and grow and make friends with people you need in your pathetic life. Now, get off this bed, march your sweet granny pants downstairs and focus on keeping your cool or I’m going to give you a hemorrhoid the size of a hot-air balloon!”

  “Can you really do that?”

  “Do what?” he huffed, jumping off the bed and heading for the door.

  “Give me a hemorrhoid.”

  “I might blow chunks at elementals, but afflictions I got down to a science, Bernie girl. Your anus will weep like a big ol’ willow.”

  Fee was right. The key to making this better was to learn how to handle it. But that didn’t make the moving any easier.

  Fee moved in menacing circles, herding her like he had when it came time for a support group meeting back in prison. “Get up, Bernie, or prepare to buy Prep H in bulk.”

  Her legs were stiff when she rose, but who wanted a hemorrhoid in this heat? “Will you come with?” she asked, hating how shaky her voice sounded.

  “As the great Bette Midler once said, just call me the wind beneath your wings. I’ll always go where you go. Always, Bernie.”

  * * * *

  Bernie slipped through the crowd of people, smiling at the occasional friendly face, and headed straight into the kitchen, hoping to hide in the pantry until this was over.

  “Bernie!” Winnie called, waving her over to a group
of people and Ridge.

  Shit.

  Fee swished his back end up against her legs. “Focus, Bernie. Focus on the situation. Say hello, pleased to meet you, and breathe. You can hear me in your head if you need me, so just listen. Now git ’er done,” he whispered up at her.

  She made her way past some of the seniors she recognized from this morning, who waved and patted her on the arm encouragingly, and smiled at Winnie, keeping her eyes locked on her face for all she was worth. “Evening,” she murmured to them.

  Winnie’s grin was broad, beautiful, full of life as she stood next to her handsome husband Ben, who shot a welcoming tilt of his lips down at her. “This is our girl of the hour, everyone. We’re so glad she’s here with us!”

  A woman with blonde hair, big breasts and the most statement jewelry Bernie had ever seen on any one person opened her arms to her as though they’d always known each other.

  She hugged Bernie hard before looping her fingers through a large, very good looking man’s arm and briefly smiling up at him in adoration. “Welcome, welcome to Paris, Bernie! I’m Daphne and this handsome devil is my husband, Fate.”

  Fate? What mother named her child Fate?

  The kind of mother who gives birth to the dude in charge of fate, Fee whispered in her head. Now, hand out, greet, breathe, Bernie.

  She awkwardly jammed her hand forward and inhaled the scent of Daphne’s perfume. “Nice to meet you.”

  Fate took her hand and gave it a firm shake, his eyes warm and reassuring. “Great to meet you, Bernie.”

  Winnie squeezed her shoulder and turned her toward the rest of the group. “This gorgeous, supermodel-tall Amazon is Calla Ryder, who you sort of missed a formal introduction to in all the excitement this afternoon. She runs the senior center. And this is her husband Nash. They own the farm neighboring Ridge’s.”

  Was there a single ugly soul in this town?

  Witches are stupidly beautiful, Bernie, Fee said.

  Which should just prove I’m not a witch.

  No, that just proves you’re an idiot with poor eyesight and a cracked mirror. Now hush and I’ll give you the lowdown. Nash is a warlock, but Calla’s a werewolf—

  A what? Stop. Stop right now, Fee. You’re just making things up.

  Might I remind you of the talking testicles?

  Point, pussycat.

  “And this,” Winnie said, pointing to a stout woman with a square haircut, plaid culottes and a whistle around her neck, “Is Greta. Or BIC, as I called her back in the day.”

  “BIC?” Bernie repeated the letters Winnie had spelled out before she could stop herself from initiating a conversation she was totally too uncomfortable to have.

  “Bitch In Charge!” Winnie and Daphne said simultaneously, followed by gales of laughter.

  “Greta was my parole officer when I first came to Paris and worked at Miss Marjorie’s Preschool for the Magically Inclined.”

  Greta stuck a square hand out to her and narrowed her gaze, but she had a smile in place when Bernie set her hand in the parole officer’s. “Sorry I missed you this afternoon at lunch, but duty called elsewhere. Good to meet you, Bernice. I’m who you’ll report to every day once your work at the farm is done.”

  Winnie barked and snarled then giggled some more. “BIC’s all bark, no bite. She’s our local pussycat wrapped in ferocious-parole-officer tiger. She’s also one of the reasons I’m where I’m at today.”

  Greta nudged Winnie in the ribs, placing her fingers securely around the whistle at her neck. “Quit undermining my authority and making me sound like some gooey pushover or I’ll use the whistle.”

  “Oh noooo,” Daphne squealed, waving her hands in the air, making her bracelets jangle. “Not the whistle!”

  Trying to keep her face passive but friendly, Bernie let Winnie introduce her to everyone, hoping to escape soon to the buffet laid out on the enormous dining room table.

  But yet another amazingly gorgeous woman, with fiery red curls spilling down her back and breasts the size of swimmies, stepped in front of her—latched onto none other than Ridge.

  Her shiny earrings sparkled beneath the glow of the recessed lighting, as did her incredible cleavage, housed in a skintight sheath dress in turquoise that looked completely out of place at a barbeque where jeans and T-shirts were the chosen attire.

  “Bernie, is it?”

  Her mouth went dry suddenly as this woman’s red-tipped fingers trailed along Ridge’s arm in an intimate fashion that screamed mine.

  “Um, yes. It is. Bernie, I mean. Nice to meet you.”

  “Violet Hammond, Ridge’s girlfriend.”

  Her chest tightened as if someone had put a vise grip on it and clamped down hard. Of course her gorgeous boss had a girlfriend. A man who looked as though he were chiseled from stone should have a girlfriend with almond-shaped blue eyes and legs up to her long, graceful neck.

  Ridge cleaned up exactly, maybe even predictably, as expected. He wore a white T-shirt beneath a black casual jacket, jeans that fit him like they’d been painted on his thick thighs, and his white Stetson propped on top of his yummy head.

  Jesus and ten Calvin Klein models, he was such a man.

  Bernie? I’m sensing something—a shift in your breathing. Slow your roll and breathe. Just breathe, Fee husked out in her head.

  “Cuuute top,” Violet drawled, plucking at her shirt with bird-like fingers.

  Bernie backed away and wiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her grandma jeans. “Thank you, Miss Hammond.”

  “Did you make it in a craft class while you were in prison or something?” Violet asked sweet as pie, swishing her finger to circle the general vicinity of Bernie’s shirt.

  Nice boobs. Did you pump them up at the gas station?

  Bernie! Leave this viper and her venom now. Slap on your resting bitch face, walk away, and let’s go have some fried chicken and potato salad. Please?

  Inhaling, she decided to take Fee’s advice, but with a smile. Bernie smiled as wide as her face would allow. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Donovan. Thank you for coming. I’m going to go grab some of those ribs. Hope you two have a great evening.”

  Ridge reached a broad hand out to her. “Bernie, wait—”

  But Bernie ignored him and made her way past the buffet and out the wide French doors leading to the garden as quickly as she could, leaving even Fee in her dust.

  The tension brewing in her stomach had become a sign she could sometimes feel just before mayhem erupted. It didn’t always give her this kind of warning, but in this instance, with Violet throwing her breasts around like beach balls at a pool party, that dread in her belly was clear as day and she was paying heed. If nothing else, she was determined to keep from trashing Winnie and Ben’s beautiful home.

  She found a small corner table near the shed, away from the soft music filtering into the yard, away from so many people, away from Violet, who had quite clearly staked her claim on Ridge for all the world to see.

  Bernie closed her eyes, leaning her head against the shed, fighting to control the urge to run back in and clock Violet in her smug crimson lips.

  Breathing inward, she tried to focus on other things.

  Like what Ridge looked like naked.

  Oh God.

  Chapter 5

  “What are you doing?” asked Violet. Or, as he’d come to refer to her in his mind because he was convinced she had eight hands, Octopussy.

  He glared down at her, infuriated by her shitty behavior. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

  She tried to yank her arm away from his grasp as he escorted her toward the front porch of Winnie and Ben’s, planning to deposit her right outside where she belonged—away from polite, nonjudgmental company.

  “I think you’d better let go of me. This can’t be appropriate!” she ordered, her face flushed.

  He paused after pulling her out onto the wide porch and frowned. This from the woman who’d literally lunged at him and stuck her tongue down
his throat after one blind date arranged by a friend?

  “Appropriate? You’re one to talk, Violet,” he rumbled. After she’d openly, purposely insulted Bernie, Violet had taken off to freshen up, which gave him a moment to gather his wits so he could remain a gentleman. But no way was he going to let her behavior go unaddressed.

  Yet, she was backing away from him as though he were Satan himself. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to be out here alone on the porch with you.”

  He’d wanted to strangle her when she’d openly mocked Winnie’s clothes while she was in a dress that cost more than most people made in a month. Violet was rich, spoiled and rude, and she’d set her sights on him a couple of months ago, and hadn’t let up since.

  He’d avoided her calls after the initial coffee date, where he’d told her as honestly as possible he wasn’t interested in a relationship or dating. But Violet didn’t take no for an answer—or she really liked a good game of cat and mouse.

  The moment she’d seen him arrive tonight was the moment she’d latched onto his arm. There was no getting around the fact that they would run into each other at community events, but this possessive nature of hers was for the birds.

  Either way, the next time he saw his good buddy Holt, he was gonna kick his ass from here to Sunday for ever setting him up with this nutcase with the roaming hands and haughty disdain for anyone who didn’t own a Mercedes.

  Seeing Bernie’s eyes flash but watching her actively clamp her mouth shut to keep from reacting to Violet’s obvious snub almost physically hurt to witness. She was already walking on eggshells. That much had been apparent after the barn fiasco today when she’d profusely apologized.

  Maybe her being on parole meant she thought she had no rights, and that was why she hadn’t reacted to Violet’s snub. But the hell he was going to allow anyone to humiliate her in public because she thought her hands were tied.

  “Let go of me!”

  Ridge rocked back on his heels and cocked his head. “Did you miss your meds today, Violet? And speaking of appropriate? It’s not appropriate for you to talk to people that way. Don’t ever do it in my company again. Understood?”