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

Fee stood on his hind legs and pressed his front paws to her knees, stretching his spine. “Well, ain’t that just too damn bad for you, Bernie girl? Because you are a witch. So suck that rotten egg. And rest assured, the parental-unit conversation isn’t over—just tabled for the momentito. Now, buck up, buttercup. There’s tuna casserole and lemonade right up those stairs. Let’s get you fed and then we’ll clean up that barn—together.”


Driving her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit, she had to smile. No matter how unwilling or difficult she’d been these last ten months, when Fee had decided she was his, he’d curled up at the end of her cot every night and he hadn’t left her since.

Reaching down, she scratched the spot under his chin. “You’re a peach, Fee.”

“I’m a moron for putting up with the likes of ungrateful you, B-Bop. Now move along, little doggie. I smell tuna-tuna-tuna!” he sang, dancing the conga up the steps.

The clean white door to the house popped open then and a woman, dark-haired with laughing eyes, stuck her head out. “Bernice?” she asked with a wide smile and a honeyed voice.

She shrugged her shoulders, unsure about such a warm welcome. She was an ex-con, after all, but this woman was behaving as if she was welcoming her into The Secret Witches Club fold.

Peering up, she assessed this beautiful, friendly creature in a cute floral-patterned sundress, her lightly tanned shoulders exposed, long raven hair hanging down her back in a riot of curls, and muttered again, “Just Bernie is fine.”

“Well, c’mon in, Just Bernie! You look whipped. I’m Winnie Yagamowitz, and I have a plate of tuna casserole and some fresh lemonade with your name on them.”

Fee squealed as he raced up the steps and slipped through the old screen door and Bernie followed him, her Kotex pads so shredded, she might as well have been barefoot.

Winnie looked down at Bernie’s feet with a grin and asked, “Chi-Chi Gonzalez ring any bells?”

“You really did sell her sanitary-napkin slippers?”

“Like a snake oil salesman in a dusty western town.”

Bernie genuinely smiled this time, in spite of the heat, in spite of her sticky jumpsuit and the fact that she’d just set a barn on fire promptly two minutes after she’d arrived at her destination.

Maybe a little tuna casserole and some lemonade with someone who didn’t fashion shivs out of a pork chop bone wouldn’t kill her.





Chapter 4



“So this is your room. The rules, your household chores, and wakeup times are posted on the inside of the door and also in the bathroom, in case you forget anything.” Winnie held her son Ben Junior on her slender hip, his chubby arms flailing as she tapped the list on the back of the bedroom door with her pink-tipped nail.

Bernie sucked in a deep breath of air—blissfully cool air. It seemed the rehabilitation house had air conditioning, and that was just fine by her.

Her bedroom—yellow and blue with white trim—faced a backyard filled with beautiful gardens. Enormous hydrangeas bloomed everywhere, blue, white and purple, their round heads defying the odds by surviving the heat.

Thick patches of purple salvia stood tall behind rows and rows of lavender and blush heather. Pink and white begonias bordered the rock walls scattered with small hanging lanterns, and lights twinkled from strands draped over the fence and around the spiral trees.

“Your gardens are amazing,” Bernie said on a wistful breath. In fact, everything here at the rehabilitation house was amazing. She’d anticipated a rundown shack, brimming with a mile-long list of repairs needed and a bunch of recovering magic addicts.

But these witches had proven she watched too much TV. A sprawling Victorian greeted her when Winnie had dropped her at the door, with hanging plants adorning a wide front porch, geraniums the size of fists bracketing the door in big white urns and an interior full of nooks and crannies and well-loved pieces of furniture.

Something delicious had scented the entryway when Winnie’s husband Ben had popped open the wide stained-glass door, making Bernie feel like she was sullying up the place with her sweat-stained jumpsuit and the lingering odor of cow patties.

Winnie grinned as she came to stand beside her at the window. “They’re a labor of love. Mine and Lola’s—we made it for her mother.”

“I thought she was your daughter?” She’d seen the small dark-haired girl sitting at the table coloring when she’d first entered the house, and just assumed she belonged to Winnie.

“Biologically? No. In my heart? Always. Technically, Lola is Ben’s niece. He was left as her guardian after her parents were killed. Then I came along and made them mine.”

Winnie said the words with an expression of such love; love so real, Bernie wanted to reach out and touch it, wrap herself up in it and savor the warmth. It had been a long time since she’d seen the emotion up close and personal, and it tugged her sore heart.

“That’s nice,” she murmured, fighting a stab of jealousy.

Ben Junior grabbed her hair and giggled, his gummy smile making her smile back. She didn’t have a lot of experience with babies, but he was adorable, all dark hair and big blue eyes like his father.