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

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bernie! I’m not your jailor, and I don’t have any pink pads, and even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t write you up. Violet’s a witch, and I don’t mean a welcome addition to your kind. If Ridge stuck up for you, good on him.”


“I shouldn’t have let him kiss me.” But God, it had been so outstanding. It hadn’t lasted long, and it was only out of pity, but Ridge’s lips on hers, his arms around her, playing at being a couple, made her heart throb in her chest and her knees melt like butter.

“Why the hell not? He’s hot, Bernie, and you’re gorgeous. Gorgeous women should be kissed—thoroughly. Now, listen to me. When tonight’s over, you and me are going to sit down and have a talk—”

“Why are y’all talking when tonight’s over?” Greta asked, strolling up to the podium, making Bernie stiffen.

Calla rested her elbow on Bernie’s shoulders and rolled her eyes upward. “Because Bernie seems to think she’s in trouble for kissing Ridge Donovan.”

Greta frowned, twisting her whistle around her neck. “Why? Did you kiss him wrong or something?”

First a car, now permission to kiss her boss from her parole officer.

Bernie shook her head with a smile. “Forget it. That’s just me trying to keep my nose clean.”

Greta waved a chubby finger at her. “While you’re keeping your nose clean, how about you start calling numbers? Natives are gettin’ restless. When Glenda-Jo starts shifting her troll dolls around, trouble’s a-comin’ soon thereafter.”

Bernie got behind the podium and saluted Greta. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

“That’s Bitch In Charge to you, kiddo,” Greta said with a grin, pivoting on her sensible shoes and heading toward a table in the back.

Bernie grabbed the mic and began to turn the cage housing the balls as she looked out on all the seniors, their faces expectant.

But there was one face way in the back, beyond the table set up with coffee and cookies, beyond the bookcases and game tables.

A face she thought she’d never see again in her life, chatting amicably with Violet Hammond.

The face of the woman Eddie had cheated on her with.

Doris Dobbs.





Chapter 8



Ridge watched Bernie call numbers, her beautiful face hiding something he didn’t understand. Her soft voice floating into the microphone and swirling around the room had a slight, almost undetectable shakiness to it, making him wonder what was going on in that head of hers.

What kept her so skittish? What made her put up roadblocks over things like calling him Ridge? Why was she always apologizing?

If Baba would just return his damn call, he might be able to get some answers.

He’d come tonight specifically because Bernie was going to be here. He was hoping to talk her into a beer later. As he sipped his coffee, he reflected on how easy it was to joke with her when she wasn’t censoring her every word and move.

Something else that was easy? Kissing her. He damn well liked it. They hadn’t even discussed their first kiss, knowing full well they should. Yet, they were on to number two and he was rarin’ to add number three to a notch on his belt.

He couldn’t explain why he liked her. What it was that attracted him to her besides the obvious—she was gorgeous—but attracted to her, he was. When he’d caught Violet pulling her superiority act, looking down her nose at Bernie, he’d wanted to choke the life right out of her with a suffocation spell.

So he’d reacted—protectively, no less.

That meant something. He just didn’t know what, but the onslaught of thoughts about Bernie needed exploring. He’d hoped to talk her into that drink after bingo in an effort to try to get to know her a little better. But she’d shut right back down again once she felt as if she’d overstepped her invisible boundaries.

Bernie’s eyes kept floating to Violet and the woman at the table behind him, but he couldn’t figure why, other than the fact the woman was a virtual stranger in Paris. But how would Bernie know that anyway? She’d only been here a week or so herself.

Newcomers were few and far between for a reason. The witch community in Paris kept out as many humans as possible with heavy magic and spells, but every now and again one slipped by their radar, and they were welcomed, but pleasantly discouraged right over the town line.

And this woman with Octopussy was definitely a human.

“N-thirty-six!” Bernie called out, her eyes shifting about the room, searching for a winner.

“Aw, c’mon, Bernie! Could an old man get just one daggone number?” George shouted, slamming down his blue dauber and running his hands over his lucky tarot card. “Give a warlock a break!”

“George Wiffle? Are you holding me responsible for your losing streak, mister?” Bernie called him out with an impish grin.

George flapped a hand at her, but he was smiling again as he shifted in his folding chair. “Just call the next dagnab number and quit flirtin’ at me with those big green eyes a yours.”

Ridge chuckled to himself. Nice save.

Whatever it was about Bernie, she had a way. With the seniors, with the animals on the farm, with him.