What Not To Were (Paris, Texas Romance #2)
Dakota Cassidy
Author Message
Dear Readers,
Please note, I’ve taken license with the lovely town of Paris, Texas, because it worked so perfectly for my werewolf Calla’s journey and was originally featured in Calla’s friend Winnie’s book, titled Witched At Birth (though, What Not To Were is totally a stand-alone read). First, I turned the town into a paranormal-palooza—dripping with witches, werewolves, and magic.
Second, I’ve fictionalized it to a degree, creating street names to suit me and places I’m certain don’t exist, but I kept the amazing Eiffel Tower with the red cowboy hat on top—because it’s just too awesome a structure to ignore.
That said, to anyone who reads this and lives in Paris, no disrespect intended. I lived in Plano, Texas, for nine years and I love Texans. Y’all are some of the best folks on the planet!
Dakota Cassidy xxoo Acknowledgements Editor: Kelli Collins Cover Art: Renee George
Chapter 1
“So, I hear someone went to see Miss Dottie about a Brazilian wax. Could that someone be you, Calla Allen?” Winnie Yagamawitz asked, taking a big bite of her cupcake, her white teeth sinking deeply into the pink-and-purple swirled frosting.
Calla batted her eyelashes at her friend and fanned herself flirtatiously with her free hand while she used the other to brush Flora Watkins’ hair. “Why, whatever are you implyin,’ Miss Winnifred?” she asked in her best southern accent, knowing full well to what her friend was insinuating.
The intimate consummation of her relationship with Nash Ryder.
The final frontier.
Or as her Grandpa Ezra, all her favorite seniors at Hallow Moon Senior Center, and her iguana Twyla Faye called it, The Jamboree of Genitals.
Flora swatted in the air, her weathered hand reaching for Calla’s fingers. “You know exactly what she means, young lady. She wants to know what every last one of us in this infernal babysitters’ club for Poise Pad wearers wants to know: Are you and that hot young bronco Nash Ryder gonna do it or ain’t ya?”
Winnie chuckled, tucking her infant son, Ben Junior, in the crook of her arm before licking icing from her fingers. “Winner-winner-chicken-dinner! That’s exactly what I’m implyin’, Miss Watkins. No one gets a wax just because—especially if it’s from Miss Dottie, who can’t see two inches in front of her. It’s an ungodly pain we only suffer for men. Men we plan to do the do with.”
Calla’s cheeks went bright red when Flora referred to Nash Ryder. “Shhh, my grandfather’s in the kitchen today!”
As though that made a difference. He’d been campaigning hard for this thing between she and Nash like he was running for office.
On cue, Ezra Allen poked his head out of the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen of her small daycare for the elderly, carrying Twyla Faye, her accidentally adopted iguana slash abandoned familiar, under his arm.
He cackled, his wrinkled face and fluffy white beard making her smile. Well, until he said, “My girl’s gettin’ lucky tonight! Right, Twyla Faye?”
“Gramps!” Calla chastised, leaning over to give her very reluctant pet a scratch on the head.
Twyla Faye slow-blinked and stretched in her grandfather’s arms. “Y’all,” she drawled, slow and easy, her words hissing in a sensuous stream, “are plum batty in this town. Bettin’ on the sexin’ is unseemly. Shame on all you dirty birds.”
Winnie giggle-snorted, wiggling her fingers at Ezra. “Mornin’, Paw-Paw! And Twyla Faye, you hush, Oh Scaly One. As I recall, you were the first one lining up to put ten dollars in the pool.”
Twyla Faye hissed, swishing her tail and lifting her chin. “How can y’all expect me to resist temptation in a town full of heathens? It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah in these parts.”
Hold up. The entire town was betting on whether she and Nash were going to have sex tonight? “The pool?” Calla asked, cocking her head.
Winnie’s eyes twinkled, ignoring Calla’s question. “So I see you’re as excited as the rest of us, Ezra?”
He winked, setting Twyla Faye on the floor, where she scurried off to sit between Calla’s feet. “Just like Christmas and my birthday, Winnie The Pooh. So you make sure you put my name in it like ya promised, you hear? And don’t forget the raffle. Don’t wanna miss a chance to win free beer for a year at Skeeter’s.”
“Me, too!” Clive Stillwater, one of the oldest warlocks in the town of Paris, Texas, chimed from across the room, where he was eyeball-deep in an intense game of chess with Roscoe Brown.
Calla shook a finger at him, planting her hands on her hips with a grin. “No booze. You can’t have beer, Clive, and you know it. What happened the last time you had alcohol?”