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

Had she had any idea sanctuary existed, she might have called it—or uncle—or whatever. But of all the people she didn’t want to protest her witchiness to, it was Ridge. It rang false the more she said it, and she recognized that well enough to continue to play this game.

Lifting her shoulders, she pretended nonchalance. “While I was pretty good at English in high school, I stunk at history. I didn’t think about calling anything at the time, I guess. Besides, they caught me red-handed. What else was there to do but let ’em slap the cuffs on me?”

Now his stare was intense and off-putting. “Okay, fair enough. But you do know you can always ask for a retrial, don’t you? I can’t fathom why Baba would railroad you the way she did without allowing you time to summon someone from the realm to represent you, but she broke the law. And despite what she tells you about being the baddest leader in the land, she still has to adhere to our laws—even if some of them are ancient.”

She was still stuck on the words “realm” and “summon”. But if she asked what they meant, she was stewed.

Flapping her hands, Bernie rolled her eyes. “Summoning someone from the helm wasn’t worth it. I told you, they had a police testimony of my crime. I was an easy conviction.”

“Realm.”

“What?”

His eyes grew suspicious and dark. “It’s called the realm. You summon representation from the realm.”

Bernie nodded as if she knew what the hell he was talking about. “Right. Sorry. I’m crappy at remembering definitions and terms. Besides, the testimony is all the proof even a human court would need. I’ve done the ten months, it’s not like I can get them back, right? Anyway, none of that matters now. What matters now is getting out of here before I get into trouble.”

“You won’t get into trouble, Bernie,” he rumbled, his voice deep and mesmerizing.

Now she was growing uncomfortable. Not in a bad way. No, in fact, Ridge made her want to spill her stupid guts. But it would ruin everything. He’d mock her the same way everyone else had when they’d discovered she didn’t know anything about being a witch.

If she was going to try to figure this out, she was going to have to bluff her way through. And Ridge’s sudden easy conversation, his interest, was something she had to fight against for all she was worth before she opened her big mouth and let too much information slip from between her lips.

Still, she was curious. “So I won’t get in trouble? Says who?”

“Says me. I told you about the rules.”

Bernie’s eyes narrowed and her cheeks flushed hot. “How would you know what the specifics of my parole are?”

“I told you, I asked Winnie. I didn’t want you to have to keep calling me Mr. Donovan if at all possible,” he said on another chuckle.

He’d asked about fraternization between them? Even on a level as simple as a first-name basis, the thought warmed her. “So I will get a snack after dinner? There is a God…ess. Goddess.”

“Looks like it. And you can call me Ridge. Also, you can have a social life. You know—date, make friends, and do all sorts of things within reason. You’re here to be rehabilitated and that has its requirements, but you’re not on lockdown. So if you’re worried people will talk, don’t be.”

“I can date?” she squeaked, regretting the moment the words spewed from her mouth. “Not that I would. I mean, my life’s a mess. I don’t need any more complications. Who’d want to date a bank robber anyway? Never mind. I just find it so strange—so lax. Parole means structure and rigidity and urine tests once a week. I robbed a bank, for heaven’s sake. There should be harder-core rules for bank robbers, don’t you think?”

Bracing his hands on the shelf above her head, he winced as he stretched in their cramped quarters, making her shrink as far back into the shelving as she could to avoid more touching.

“You want things to be tougher than having to wear those shoes?” he teased, but it was nothing like the catty words Violet had used.

“Are you hurt?”

“Nah. Old injury from high school.”

“I should have known you were a football player.”

“Cheerleader,” he said on a groan of discomfort.

She ducked under his arms and managed to get behind him, affording her the opportunity to hide her grin. ”Did they make you wear the skirt?”

“Duh. It matched the pom-poms.” Ridge moaned when she pressed a flat palm against the middle of his back and pushed.

“I’ll just die if you had the matching little ones to put on your shoelaces,” she joked as she wrapped her arm around his waist.

“You want me to call the funeral home, or can you handle it?”

Now she really did laugh, just as she pushed down with one hand and jerked his enormous frame upward by leveraging her arm firmly around his lean waist.

Ridge bolted upward so fast, he knocked her backward…into the pantry door…which broke…splintering and exploding into many, many pieces.

Leaving Ridge on top of her in the middle of Winnie’s kitchen floor while a bunch of eyes stared down at them, wide open and astonished.