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

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.