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

Her beautiful face relaxed for a moment as she recollected the memory. “I can’t tell you the kind of grip Flora has. For a woman of her age, she had Clive’s shirt in a hold that would rival The Rock’s strength.”


Ridge found himself smiling, too. “Hah! Flora’s a livewire, huh? Either way, you’ve done a really good job helping Calla, doing your chores and such. You deserve the extra money.”

Now she licked her lips in a nervous flick of her tongue, making his stomach shift and his chest tighten. “Please don’t pay me any special favors. I just want to do—”

“Your time and hightail it on outta here. I know. I think you’ve said that once or twice. Look, this isn’t a special favor. This is me thanking you for keeping me sane all week long while I try to get this place back in order. That’s all.”

“I don’t want the other girls at the house to think you’re playing favorites,” she added, her lips thin and almost angry.

He took a step closer to her, just to get a long-distance scent of her sun-kissed hair. “You mean like Vanessa, who spends more time staring at her reflection in the watering trough than she does actually feeding the chickens? Or Katrina, who claims she’s allergic to the sun and sits under the pecan tree napping?”

“I don’t mean that at all, and you know it.”

“Then what do you mean, Bernie?”

Her chest heaved upward when she breathed in, as though she were fighting to keep something from spilling out. “You know what.”

“Nope. I sure don’t. So why don’t you tell me what?”

“I can’t afford to have people talking. I told you that at the party.”

He dipped his head in a nod, growing irritated by her suggestion he was playing favorites. Did he find her attractive? Yep. But he’d pay Vanessa just as much without the attraction if she lifted a single finger.

“Riiight. I’m a fine, upstanding farmer; you’re an ex-con. I remember. But I feel differently about it than you. I’d pay the other women more, too, if they took half the initiative you have. So take your check, say thank you, and let’s move on.”

“I bet you always get what you want.”

“Obviously not. You’re standing here not giving me what I want.”

She shook a finger at him, moving in closer. “You know why you always get what you want?”

Ridge crossed his arms over his chest and lifted one eyebrow. “I’m all on pins and needles.”

“You get what you want because you’re good-looking. Winnie and Calla gush over you and they’re married. What is it about you and that charm that makes you think you’re irresistible to all women? Even the senior ladies are always talking about how amazing you are. Oh, that Ridge Donovan, he’s soooo handsome. Swoon, swoon, swoon,” she mocked with a southern drawl, fanning herself with the check.

Did they really say that about him? It was kinda cute. Maybe not so cute to Bernie, but he was getting a kick out of it. “And this bothers you why, Bernie Sutton?”

She held up the check, her eyes fiery when she stood on tiptoe. “I’ll tell you why,” she hissed—just before she reached upward with both hands, bracketed his face and planted one right on him.

Her full, soft lips covered his until he thought his eyeballs would roll back in his head, tasting like sin and cherries, consuming, discovering, until his arms wound around her waist and he hauled her upward, molding her against him.

They fell back against the barn wall, their breathing harsh, their tongues meeting, meshing, dueling, raspy silk against silk.

Her breasts crushed against his chest, her hips molded to his as he tucked her close, and his jeans tightened.

And then she was pulling away on a gasp, struggling out of his arms and dropping to the ground, the check still in her hand. Her wide green eyes round with surprise.

“Oh hell! Oh God. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I’m sorry! I—I—I don’t know what…why…I’m sorry. That won’t ever happen again. I promise,” she said on an almost strangled sob.

He was still trying to recuperate enough from the instantaneous desire she stirred in him to reassure her, when there was a loud crash of screeching metal, followed by screams.

They both turned and ran out of the barn together just in time to see his truck take out the gardening shed behind the pecan tree, swerving into the pleated side of it with a howl of metal against metal.

Both the shed and Betty Boop ended up teetering on the brink of the creek. But the squeal of her tires, the chasse wobbling back and forth on the edge, gave Ridge small hope she might hold.

“She’s gonna blow!” George yelled, waving his arms as the seniors gathered in a huddle, their magic wands appearing in their grizzled hands as they began to chant a prevention spell.

But likely, that wouldn’t help old Betty Boop. Nothing would, with the lockdown his father had on magic at the farm. Because Betty was a farm truck—used for farm labor.

Shit.