Wicked Witchmas Excerpt
Here's a sneak peek at what you'll be buying...
Chapter One
Tripp Nightshade.
Elara’s heart beat painfully in her chest as she ducked into the alley beside the Never Too Many bookstore. Of course she’d run into him after clocking out for the day. That’s how her luck worked. But why was she bothering to hide when Tripp had no clue she existed? Yeah, it was a question for a therapist.
Speaking of...
She checked her smartwatch. If she didn’t gather the courage to leave this alley, she’d be late for her appointment with Dr. Cobb. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for the ability to teleport like other witches were reported to have! As it was, she had no choice but to step onto the main thoroughfare and go about her business. Hopefully minus the flushed face and stutter she seemed to develop around Tripp.
“You can do this, Elara,” she muttered. “He’s just a guy like any other.”
But he wasn’t.
He was Tripp Nightshade, the most beautiful man in existence. Long, wavy hair, dark as midnight, with eyes just a shade lighter. They glowed with purpose and a power rumored to have been handed down from the gods themselves. And oh, those rounded shoulders!
Pressing a hand to her chest, she sighed.
Yes, those beautiful, beautiful shoulders. So muscular. So manly. So—
“Elara?”
She screamed. The sound was worthy of a slasher film, bringing Tripp running.
Tripp gripped her upper arms. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
Unable to answer, she fluttered a hand between them. She was pretty sure if she tried to speak, she’d choke on her tongue—mainly from the desire to taste his in her mouth.
“Pass the salami,” she blurted.
“Excuse me?” His furrowed brows shot to his hairline, changing his look from concerned to comical. “What did you say?”
Think fast, Elara. Think fast.
But she couldn’t. Around him, her brain matter ran slower than sludge traveling uphill.
Over boulders.
During a torrential downpour.
With an awkward squawk, she shoved him and ran for the street. The sound of her sneakers pounding the pavement was drowned by the deafening thud of her pulse in her ears. That thrumming also happened to be why she missed hearing Tripp come up behind her.
His grip on her bicep halted her progress, but the high-speed momentum of her spectacularly spasmatic escape propelled her around and straight into his arms. Her eyes rolled back in delight at the contact of her breasts pressed to his muscled chest.
Or maybe it was from the contact of her nose hitting his rock-hard pec.
She had two entire seconds to register his clean, crisp, albeit woodsy, scent before the pain struck and her eyes teared up. Swearing like a boozy old lush suffering a five-day drought, Elara spat out every word in her repertoire and created a few more to boot. In the seconds before she tipped her head back and pinched her nose, she glanced at him. Poor Tripp appeared horrified—and somewhat traumatized—by the entire experience.
Well, he wasn’t the only one!
“Did you break it?”
She couldn’t be one hundred percent positive, but she thought she detected laughter in his voice. Narrowing her watery eyes, she wiggled the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think so, but you need to register that body as a lethal weapon. You can’t go around crashing into unsuspecting females, potentially rearranging their facial features, all because your… your…”
Her brain went as mushy as a toasted marshmallow as she stared at his sculpted chest beneath the buttery soft material of his t-shirt. This last part she knew because her left hand had a mind of its own and was brushing the heavenly texture.
He cleared his throat.
She slammed her lids closed. “I don’t suppose you have a spell in your family’s grimoire that can erase this entire incident from our memories, do you?”
“Maybe.” There was definitely laughter in his voice this time.
“Will you use it for me?”
“Nope.”
She sighed her disappointment. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Later.”
His wicked chuckle drifted to her as she turned to go.
“Oh, Elara.”
Did she dare turn around? The temptation to bask in the light of his splendor was great, but she remained with her back to him.
“You forgot the, uh, salami.”
“Kill me now,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
As Elara hurried away, ash-blonde hair flying behind her in the December breeze, Tripp bit his lip to hold back his laughter. But the moment she turned the corner, he sobered. The day turned exceedingly duller. Yes, he’d known about her crush on him for some time, and the wicked devil inside him took every opportunity to fluster her. One could say causing her acute discomfort had become his favorite pastime.
Tripp was a demigod, although few recognized it. He wasn’t arrogant to believe most of the women in Witchmere wanted him. Sex appeal came part and parcel with his brand of supreme magic. Hell, he practically had to fight people off with a stick, as annoying as it was.
But Elara was different.
She was quirky and cute. Her inability to look higher than his chin was charming, not irritating. And Tripp absolutely loved how she’d rather run away than attempt to seduce him. Call him twisted, but her shyness was an absolute turn-on. With one nervous glance from those large china-blue eyes, she slayed him.
“You should put that girl out of her misery. Just bend her over the barrel and show her the fifty states already. Maybe then she’d stop hiding in alleyways.”
He choked back another laugh as he shifted toward the employee entrance of the bookstore.
The gruff, smoke-two-packs-a-day voice hadn’t surprised him. He’d sensed the business owner’s presence the instant she stepped into the alley. He was, however, somewhat shocked she’d addressed him directly. Unless Beatrice Rose Shaw was calling to inform him his book order was ready, she refused to have anything to do with him.
Fear caused responses like hers.
Fear of the Ancient World power he possessed.
Not that he blamed her. If he wasn’t the one wielding it, he’d be wary, too.
“You surprise me, Miss Bea.” As he strolled toward her, he shoved his fists deep in his slacks pockets. Long ago, he’d discovered it made others more comfortable if his hands were sheathed. Effortless abilities, such as his, made people sweat. “I thought you liked the girl. Surely you wouldn’t want her in the hands of an uncaring immortal.”
“I do, but watching her avoid you is downright painful. The poor chit.”
Tripp grinned. “She does it well.”
A fond smile cracked Beatrice’s wrinkled face. “The gel’s crafty.”
“Yes.” He half turned, closing his eyes to get a location of where Elara had gone. Zeroing in, he frowned. “Why is she meeting Harrison Cobb?”
“Is she?” Light flared as Beatrice touched a fingertip to her unlit, home-rolled cigarette.
“You know she is. It’s the reason she’s not at work right now.”
After a long drag, she blew smoke into the air from the corner of her mouth, away from him, and shrugged.
Instead of becoming irritated by her evasiveness, he embraced the warmth of her caring for Elara, basking in the love the old woman felt for her supposed employee.
“Have you told her who you are yet?” he asked softly. “Does she know you’re her great-grandmother?”
“No.” Abruptly, she dashed the cigarette against the brick and stuffed the unused section into her cardigan. “She’ll despise me if I tell her.”
He frowned as he considered her problem. As someone who’d been around centuries, he was well aware of the standard issues mortals faced—even witchy ones. Familial relationships were the worst.
And didn’t he know it!
As the son of a goddess, he had it worse than most. Longer, too. Dearest Mommy expected him home whenever she deemed it necessary to summon him, but he was a moving target, never staying in one place long enough for her minions to find him. Eventually, she would, but Tripp enjoyed the freedom while he could.
“You’re wrong,” he told Beatrice. “She’s been looking for a connection since she and Payton arrived in Witchmere, and who better to connect with than the one person who owns the bookstore she adores so much?”
“She’ll inherit when I’m gone.”
His senses consumed her underlying insecurities, feasting on them to lessen her worry. “Tell her, Miss Bea. She’ll understand.”
“What did you just do, boy?”
“Boy? That’s like calling me a cuddly puppy.” The voice was raspy and deep, traveling to them from the shadows next to the dumpster.
Tripp chuckled. “Nicely done, Sanderson.”
“Thanks. I try.” Bodhan Sanderson stepped into the light and bowed.
“I know.”
For two and a half years, he’d used his wolf-shifter skills to best Tripp in an ongoing game of surprise attack, seldom gaining the advantage. Tripp’s unfailing ability to sense magic acted as his early warning system. On rare occasions, like this one where he was distracted, Bodhan had succeeded in getting within ten feet of him, but no closer.
“Don’t you have woods to wander, cuddly puppy?” Beatrice shot him an irritated scowl. “And whatever you overheard with those obnoxiously large ears of yours had better remain a secret, hear?”
Thoroughly offended and made self-conscious by her comment, Bodhan reached a hand up as if to test the size of his ear.
Tripp snorted. Beatrice had a way of putting the townsfolk in their place, and he loved it.
“You’re one to laugh, Tripp Nightshade. Hiding out from deities like a recalcitrant schoolboy.”
His blood froze. How did she know?
With a shake of her head and a warning glare for both, she hurried through her shop door.
Bodhan winced. “She didn’t have to slam the bolt so hard. It’s not like we were chasing her or anything.”
“Don’t feel insulted. That was for my benefit.” Tripp shrugged. “She likely sprinkled wolfsbane along the door openings and is burning sage by now.”
“She might sell more books if she were a bit friendlier,” Bodhan hollered in the direction of the door.
“Go to the devil, cuddly puppy!” Beatrice shouted back.
“Do you think she knows she’s horrid?” he asked Tripp.
“She’s not.” Although she really was, Tripp needed to get on her good side to find out what she knew about him, and the only way to do that was to convince her that he was a decent guy. He met Bodhan’s disbelieving gaze and shrugged. “You just have to get to know her.”
He was lucky lightning didn’t strike him dead.
Bodhan laughed, damn him.
“So Elara and Payton are her great-granddaughters. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“For a small town, this place has more drama than a television soap opera.” Tripp grimaced. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that under your hat, Sanderson. If you don’t, I’ll have to give into Avery Barker’s seduction, and we both know very well how you feel about her.”
“You’re evil,” Bodhan growled. And although there would be no contest in a fight like theirs, the wolf-like sound raised the hair on Tripp’s neck.
“All you had to do was ask,” his friend grumbled.
“Apologies. I was raised to trust no one, and old habits die hard.” Tripp felt like a Grade-A prick for his threat. The other man had given him no reason to believe he’d spread rumors. In fact, Bodhan was as closed-mouth as they came.
Yet Tripp wasn’t lying when he said he was raised to trust no one. Gods were notorious for their games and playing one person against another. If he could ever settle in a place long enough, perhaps he’d make better connections. Not likely, though, because his time was limited here, just as it was everywhere. But a demigod could dream of putting down roots, right?