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

Flora scooted up beside her and rubbed her shoulder against Bernie’s. “Judgin’ from the way Ridge’s lookin’ at you like you’re a plate of fried chicken topped with his mama’s gravy, I’d say he says you’re not.”


Bernie blushed, fighting the impulse to run. She shook an admonishing finger at them. “All right, matchmakers. Enough, or I’ll make sure you don’t win a single game. You do know who’s in charge of the spinny thing with the numbered balls, don’t you?” she joked as she left them to make her way toward Calla.

The center was enormous, cheerful, bright, scattered with folding chairs and sturdy wood tables. Messages of encouragement like “Older Is Bolder” were stitched and framed and hung on the walls.

One wall in particular caught Bernie’s eye and made her smile. Hundreds of pictures of the seniors and their families and the staff at the center were tacked onto a wall made entirely of cork.

Gus with his daughter and her two boys, smiling. Flora with her handsome sons, her arms wrapped around their waists. Happy memories from the field trips the seniors had taken were all proudly displayed. She loved that the people she was coming to enjoy spending time with had such full lives.

And a small part of her, maybe the one that had been neglected for so long, wanted pictures like that to hang on a wall someday—wanted a place to belong.

Calla’s husband Nash—tall, dark, and a perfect match for the werewolf physically—waved her over to a set of stairs leading to a podium. “Hey, Bernie! Thanks for doing this.”

Dropping her purse on the podium, she smiled at him. “No big deal.”

He gave a sidelong glance at his wife before he said, “Oh no. You have no idea what a big deal it is. Believe me.”

Calla rushed up beside him, pinching his waist. “Don’t scare off the volunteer, honey,” she said with clenched teeth.

“You didn’t tell her, did you, honey?” Nash asked, his eyes narrowing playfully.

“Tell me what?”

Calla’s shoulders sagged beneath her flowered maxi dress. “Okay, so sometimes things get a little heated. I might have under-exaggerated the behavior of my seniors when I told you about bingo today in the barn. They like to win, and when they don’t, they…”

“Throw things,” Nash provided with a resonant chuckle. “Call each other creative names. Sore sports, the lot of them. They behave as though the numbers called have nothing to do with a randomly generating machine. They blame you personally. Swear, last bingo night I thought Effie Adams was going to take the top of Lenny Ford’s head right off with her fiery wand of nuclear destruction just to get at me.”

Calla huffed, rolling her eyes up at Nash before she gave a resigned sigh. “I won’t hate you if you want to leave, Bernie. Nash has a sick calf he needs to tend to. I usually man the floor, you know, in case they start lobbing food at each other, and Nash always calls the numbers, but the calf is more important. So if you want to go, I’d totally understand.”

Bernie couldn’t help but grin. She’d heard all about bingo night from Winnie and Lola over dinner. Lola was no longer allowed to attend because her mommy said Mr. Boudreaux had toilet lips.

“Nope. I made a commitment. I’m in. I’m not afraid of a little swearing and a food fight.”

Calla breathed a sigh of relief and blew her a kiss. “Bless your heart. Bless it so hard.”

Nash gave Calla a quick kiss on her cheek then held his hand out, fist forward at Bernie, bumping hers. “May the force be with you. And if you hear someone yell duck, do it. I mean, get under a table and stay there until the dust settles,” he said with a chuckle, tipping his Stetson before he made his way across the wide floor and out of the center.

Calla eyed Bernie, entwining her fingers behind her back, her smile facetious. “Soooooo…”

“More instructions? Should I watch out for the floods and locusts?”

“No, but you could tell me what that was all about outside. You know—you and Hot Bod Donovan smooching.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, damning Ridge for interfering. “I’m sorry. Ridge…he…caught me off guard. It was nothing. Do you want to write me up and give it to Greta? I’ll sign off on it.”

Calla looked surprised before she scoffed. “Write you up? Because you kissed a delectable man who defended you from that viper on heels?”

“How do you know he defended me?”

She tugged her ear, where a small hoop earring was lodged. “Werewolf. We might not be able to conjure up things or cast spells, but by God, our hearing is magical.”

Good to know. “Did Greta leave you one of those pads with the pink slips? We had them all over the prison. The guards carried them everywhere in case of infractions.”