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

She’d followed the outline of Ridge’s back for what felt like miles, struggling to keep up as they crossed the field, her Kotex slippers tripping over hard patches of thick grass, dying from the heat while the sun ate her face off, only to be told to wait here.

At a big dilapidated barn that looked as if it just might be on its last legs, positioned next to what might have been a storm cellar with two rusty doors. The red paint was peeling everywhere on the face of the structure, the stench coming from inside was enough to gag ten men, and the fence posts surrounding the property were falling down.

Overall, her new gig, though bar-free, was pretty rough.

Though, she had to give it up for the landscape. There were enormous trees everywhere, dirt paths that led to places she’d, under other circumstance, like to explore. Chickens roamed free in a large pen with a small red wooden house, and pigs rolled in a pen full of mud, and cows dotted the outlying pasture, contentedly chewing on grass.

Yep. Bernie Sutton from the city was on a real live farm. Boy howdee.

The shade of the wide entry to the barn did little to cool her off. If anything, the shadows served only to keep her from catching fire.

Bales of hay lined the entryway to the horse stalls, the stink heightened and cloying from the muggy heat. Fee hopped up on a block of compact straw and settled back on his haunches. “So yammer at me, Bernie.”

“About?”

“About how ssssinfully hot Ridge Donovan is.”

“You’re drooling.”

“Hell yeah, I’m drooling. He’s hotter n’ habaneras and Chris Hemsworth.”

She wrinkled her nose and wiped the sweat from her brow. No drooling over men. A man was part of the reason why she was in this predicament in the first place. If she’d just gone with her gut, she wouldn’t have ended up in a bank vault with fistfuls of cash and no recollection of getting there.

“That’s not why I’m here, Fee. I’m here to do my time. I have zero interest in anything else.” And from the looks of Ridge Donovan and that stone set to his jaw, he had nothing else in mind either.

“Doesn’t hurt to look.”

She rubbed her temples with her thumbs and squeezed the beginnings of a rousing headache. “Are you advising, as my thrust-upon-me familiar, that I should ogle my boss while I’m on parole? I’m pretty sure that breaks some enormous parolee rule.”

“Excuse me, I wasn’t thrust upon you. I was chosen, thank you very much. You know, like by a panel of celebrity judges for the Miss Familiar Pageant?”

Bernie almost grinned, but couldn’t manage it because it was too hot to move her facial muscles. “Is ‘chosen’ the new word for ‘begging and scraping until Baba Yaga gives in’?”

Fee’s straight back slumped a little as he sank into the hay. “I only scraped a little, you dreadful beast. I needed a new gig after…”

“Yeah. You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Fee. Why did you need a new gig anyway? I thought witches were immortal and they kept their familiars forever?”

She’d always wondered what had drawn Fee to her—what had made him stick around even when she’d ended up sedated after he’d first “spoken” to her at morning exercise.

He lifted his chin haughtily. “Why didn’t you know you were a witch?”

“Touché, pussycat.”

“Still not ready to share your secrets with me, are you?”

She rolled up her sleeves and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not ready for anything else but doing what needs to be done for my surprise parole so I can get the hell out of this place and go back to Boston. It’s scorching and it smells like a hot brew of sewer and toxic waste in here.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ridge said, strolling toward the opening to the barn, all big and muscle-y. “If you’re in the mood to make good on your parole conditions, it’ll make your time go that much faster. Idle hands, as they say.” He held out a rusty shovel.

Fee collapsed on the hay and let out a soft and, if Bernie wasn’t mistaken, flirty meow.

Bernie fought a roll of her eyes. Okay, so Ridge looked good, even sweaty and dirty. In fact, he smelled good, too. Like hard work and fabric softener. There was no denying his enormous frame was easy on the eye.

But freedom was easy on the eye, too, and that was the prize she was focused on.

She pointed to the shovel. “For the horse puckey?”

He gave her a curt nod, his gaze eating a hole right through her bruised soul. “For the horse puckey. Lunch is at twelve sharp. You’ll meet Greta, your parole office then. Be on the front porch to the big house or miss your meal entirely. Fresh water is in the cooler by the pigpen. Follow your nose and you’ll know where to find it. If you need to use the facilities, there’s an outhouse over there.” He thumbed over his left shoulder. “Any questions?”

Because he made the asking so approachable…