But still…
“Okay, I would,” Winnie confessed with an impish grin, her beautiful face wreathed in that special glow she always had. “So tell me or I’m going to have to use my magic wand. You don’t want me to break out,” she lowered her voice so the two other customers wouldn’t hear her, “The. Wand. Do you?”
Calla mock shivered, running her hands over her arms. Winnie’s magic wand was legendary here in Paris. To Calla, it looked like a purple sparkle stick, but to hear the people of Paris tout its abilities was to compare it to the Holy Grail.
“No fair. I’m nothing but a lowly werewolf with no magic. But I defy you to out-shed me.”
Winnie giggled, placing Ben in his carrier and securing the seatbelts. “Okay, so you’re not going to tell me. Fine. But I’m here to tell you, I won’t be there for the festivities because Ben’s aunt Yaga needs us in Salem. So we’ll be gone for the entire weekend and I won’t be able to dish. But I’ll make sure Daphne looks out for you.”
Daphne, another witch, who was married to the actual Fate, was fashionable and fabulous and had welcomed her with warmth and friendship. She loved Daphne, but she wasn’t Winnie.
Panic seized her. Winnie wasn’t going to be at the dance. Shit. What if she needed some girl support? What if everything with Nash went horribly wrong and she needed a shoulder to cry on?
What could go wrong, Calla?
You know what could go wrong.
Would it hurt to talk about her deep-seated fears and insecurities with Winnie? Would it hurt to tell her why she’d waited as long as she had to sleep with Nash instead of always avoiding the question?
Mostly it was because she couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Still. After an entire year.
So rather than share the one last intimate detail of her life, the one that had made her leave Boston forever, Calla made something up. “I’m worried about what I’m going to wear. I hear the Harvest Dance is a reason to gussie up. Most of my stuff is still in boxes in Boston.”
At the Dark Overlord’s, in the guesthouse where she’d lived for six solid years while she’d catered to his every outrageous, only-sparkling-water-in-a-bottle, wafer-thin-cucumber-slices-for-the-eyes, one-quarter-cup-of-no-pulp-orange-juice-and-not-a-drop-more whim. Reed still had it all because she couldn’t face him long enough to reclaim it.
The dicknuckle.
Fuck, she hated what a coward she’d turned into that last night as Reed’s assistant. But she was working toward healing her shame one day at a time. And she was almost there.
Except for tonight. If she could just get past tonight. If Nash turned out to be the man she thought he was…
Why does everything hinge on Nash being anything, Calla? You are who you are, and if he or any other man doesn’t like it, they can shove it up their unworthy, shallow asses! the feminist in her screamed.
But the feminist in her wanted Nash to be a decent guy. Wanted it desperately—because she was falling; falling hard for him and it would never do if he ended up being a bag of dicks.
As Winnie rose, interrupting her troubled thoughts, she smiled at Calla and waved a dismissive hand. “Is that all? A dress? Don’t be silly. I have a million things you can wear. Just borrow something of mine.”
She shook her head. Winnie was pretty tall, but at five-ten, still shorter than Calla was by at least two inches. “I’m too tall to wear anything of yours. My leg alone is as long as your torso.”
She wiggled her perfectly plucked raven eyebrows. “Then whatever you choose will be a little short, and if tonight’s the night, not that I’m pressuring you, short so works. Now, not another word. Kirby should be home by the time you need to get ready and if not, BIC won’t be far behind. She’s our parolee babysitter for the weekend.”
Calla laughed at the nickname Winnie had given Greta. “Why don’t you just call BIC Greta? It’s been a year since she was your parole officer.”
“Because she’ll always be Bitch In Charge to me, and I secretly think she likes it. Anyway, if BIC’s not there, Kirby will let you in, right?” she asked one of Calla’s favorite employees who handled pickups and drop offs for the seniors.
As part of the rehabilitation program for magic abusers that Winnie and her warlock husband Ben ran in a big, rambling Victorian, the women on parole had to work and contribute to society without the use of their magic.
When Kirby had first come to the program, Winnie had encouraged her to apply at Hallow Moon despite her doubts about Kirby’s potential for rehabilitation. But Kirby had proven them all wrong. She’d never once, to Calla’s knowledge anyway, used her magic for ill-gotten means, she was dependable, always on time, and the seniors really liked her, and so did Calla. She’d come to depend on her more than any other employee she had.
Kirby wiped her hands on the towel she was using to dry tables and nodded with a slight smile—but still, a smile. One that had grown brighter in the six months since she’d begun to work for Calla. “You bet, Boss.”
“Perfect. Then it’s settled. Just head over to the house and dig through my closet. Borrow whatever you’d like. And now I have to go, because Baba Yaga waits for no one.”
Calla smiled when she remembered what Winnie had told her about the troubled relationship she’d once shared with Ben’s aunt Yaga—and the time she served in jail with Baba Yaga as her jailor.
“You two have really turned your relationship around, huh? Seems like you’re spending more and more time with her.”
Winnie paused before tucking a light blanket under Ben Junior’s chin, her eyes teary the way they always became when they talked about what she’d gone through just a year or so ago.
“You know, if not for Baba, I wouldn’t have an incredible husband or Benny Junior and my little Lola, and I sure as hell wouldn’t live here in Paris—because let’s face it, it’s hotter than Satan’s balls here. But last year around this time, I wanted to kill her for sending me to this town. This year? I could kiss her for the amazing life I have because she knew better. That’s why the halfway house is so important to me—to Ben. Why it means so much that you’re willing to hire people like Kirby. Happy endings do exist, Calla. Sometimes you just have to let them.”
She knew Winnie suspected something troubled her. It wasn’t the first time she’d hinted at it.
Calla just wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet. She’d replayed it enough in her head for a lifetime.
So she was going to deflect again. “Well, you make sure you say hello to Miracle Worker Baba for me. Also, don’t forget to remind her I want to borrow those neon-pink leg warmers and her Breakfast Club soundtrack. She promised last time she was in.”
Winnie rolled her eyes at Baba’s penchant for everything ’80s. “Do not encourage, Calla. She has a warehouse stacked to the brim with eighties paraphernalia. And I really, really have to run now. Do you have any idea how many suitcases it takes to pack up two children and a husband for one weekend?”
“Can’t you just wiggle your nose or wave The Wand?”
Winnie gasped as though Calla had suggested she give Mount Rushmore boobs—which, if Calla remembered right, she had at one point in her sordid past before she’d come to Paris and reformed. “That you would even suggest such a thing, Calla Allen. We only use our magic when necessary.”
“So that wasn’t you making the carousel horses in the park come to life then?”
“You hush,” she hissed on a laugh. “Ben likes them. They soothe him when he’s cranky, nothing else works. And if you don’t stop teasing me, I’ll sic Icabod on you.”
“You mean your creepy Cabbage Patch doll slash familiar?”
“He is not creepy. Okay, he’s a little creepy. But he’s an amazing familiar, and we’ve been through a lot together. Now, c’mere,” Winnie ordered, pulling her in for a hug, the scent of her jasmine perfume wafting to Calla’s nose. “Have an amazing, unforgettable time tonight and text me all about it tomorrow. You hear me? Don’t leave a juicy se
cond of it out.”
“No juicy tidbits shall go un-texted.” Calla raised her right hand in oath, even though her stomach plummeted with another round of nerves. “Swear it on my next porterhouse.”
Putting her hands on Calla’s shoulders, Winnie gripped them and forced her friend to look at her. “Seriously, Calla. I hope tonight is everything you want it to be, but more importantly, I hope whatever it is that troubles you about this final step, and I know something does, someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me about it. Until then, Denny Parks, incoming—with our frontrunner Cowboy Nash hot on his heels.”
She blew Calla a kiss before gathering up Ben and Lola and threading her way through the tables toward the door, waving and smiling at Nash.
Crap. Calla cringed, but not before she smoothed her apron and fluffed her hair.
Denny and Nash were like Donald Trump and Clint Eastwood in the same room together, duking it out for her affections. Two polar opposites.
One had a deeply rooted sense of manly-man and all the perks that went with that, like integrity and honesty, and the other thought he could purchase whatever manliness he lacked.
Which usually meant she had to be their referee.
She mentally put her whistle to her lips and was preparing her next move in order to avoid conflict when Ezra stuck his head back out of the kitchen doors.
“Man the decks, Gus, my friend!” he bellowed, his white hair sticking up along the sides of his head, his face covered in flour. “Fancy city slicker on the loose!”
Chapter Two
Denny entered first, his smile almost too glossy, his clothes too clean. He was a bit of a douchebag, and a werewolf who didn’t approve of her relationship with Nash, who technically was outside their species. Most weres bristled at the idea of mating with anyone other than their own kind, and Denny was no exception.
Rich and entitled, he’d set his sights on her ten seconds after she’d hit Paris, and no amount of discouragement made it through his thick skull to the spongy matter one called a brain.
The bell on the door of the center jingled as it closed, jarring Calla. Yet, everything melted away when she saw Nash saunter in not far behind Denny.
Dark, roughly hewn, full of thick-corded muscle, Nash winked a fringed green eye and tipped the brim of his Stetson at her as he slid inside, making her heart race and her knees wobble.
Denny strode toward her, his steps confident, his expensive soft-leather shoes a hushed whisper on the floor. “Mornin’, Calla-Lilly,” he drawled.
She hated that he knew her middle name and used it as if it was some sort of intimacy between them.
“Morning, Denny! Kirby’s got your aunt all ready for pickup. Gotta run!” she called out, scooting around him and heading directly toward Nash.
She grabbed his wide hand and pulled him back out the glass front door into the never-ending heat of the day, dragging him down the sidewalk until they were at the corner of the row of buildings, before her feisty seniors could get their hands on him.
Ducking under the awning of the drugstore, she wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed against him. “Thank you for saving me,” she said on a happy sigh.
He smiled that warm, delicious smile that made the grooves in his cheeks deepen. “Was that old coot Lenny chasing you around the shuffleboard court again? He’s a crafty one.”
“Hah! No. Lenny’s the least of my problems. Though he did ask for conjugal visits with Hester-Lynne.”
Pulling her tight against him, he said, “You don’t have conjugal visits. It’s a recreational center, not a prison.”
She shook her head on a chuckle. “Exactly what I told Lenny. But I think sometimes he feels like coming to Hallow Moon is like a prison sentence—which breaks my heart. Oh, sure, he hides behind all that sexual innuendo and Casanova charm, but no longer having powers as sharp as he once did is really hard on him.”
“You want me to beat him up after school?”
She poked his chest playfully. “Who are you kidding here? Lenny could totally take you. And I meant thank you for saving me from Denny.”
Nash chuckled, his voice low when he pulled her in even tighter. “You know, wouldn’t it just be easier to tell Denny you’re my woman and he’d better keep his hands off of you or I’ll rip them off?”
Calla shivered at his possessive words, despite the oppressive heat. “No limb-ripping. And your woman, huh?”
“Yep. Mine,” he murmured against her ear, nipping at it. “You took the girlfriend oath when I gave you my class ring. There’s no backing out now.”
“That wasn’t your class ring, it was the tab on a can of Pepsi.” One of the sweetest, most romantic gestures she’d ever shared with a man over some grilled hotdogs and beans he’d made for her all by himself on an open fire, bar none.
Her heart still skipped a beat when she remembered how he’d looked across that campfire, his eyes glowing, his skin bronzed from working his ranch.
“Is that disdain I hear in your voice for my heartfelt symbol of commitment? You crush me to my very soul, Calla Allen.”
“I would never.” She held up the gold chain where she’d attached the can’s tab and grinned. “See? Always right next to my heart.” Calla patted her hand over her left breast then snatched it away just as quickly.
But Nash trailed a finger along her collarbone and down the line of her pink tank top. “Then no limb-ripping. Today’s Denny’s lucky day.”
She melted against Nash, reveling in the way her body absorbed his muscles, the way she felt every line of his abs, and delighted in his thighs pressed to hers. She let her lips graze his before asking, “So what time tonight?”
“What’s tonight again?” he teased, skimming her mouth with his tongue, creating ripples of hot need deep in her belly.
She tweaked his shoulder and giggled despite her nerves. “The chance for you to finally get laid.” The chance for you to prove you’re everything you claim you are.
Nash was being tested and he didn’t even know it. And it was totally unfair, but she’d been too insecure for full disclosure up to this point.
It had taken a little while for her to trust him, and now that she was almost there—so close she could almost taste it—Calla hoped she was able to go all the way.
Tonight was the night when she’d share her ugly secret with him. Something deeply personal—something she had to be sure he’d be okay with.
His head dipped low, hiding their faces with his black Stetson. He rubbed her nose with his, the length of his dark hair rustling over the collar of his black shirt. “Oh, yeah. Totally forgot about that. How remiss of me,” he teased, jutting his hips at her to reveal the rigid line of his shaft.
Calla snickered then sobered. “But we have to talk first.”
He mocked a sigh. “Lord, woman, are we going to have the ‘I’m a werewolf, you’re a warlock, some people won’t be happy about us dating’ talk again? Because I told you, I damn well don’t care what anyone wants but us.”
“I don’t either.” Her pack usually had strict rules about mating. But not for her. In fact, if she brought home an elephant and told them she was going to make little werephalants, they wouldn’t care.
Because she was deemed inferior.
His smoldering green eyes held concern. “Then what else is there, honey? I thought we’d talked everything out when we decided to wait on the whoopee and chose to really get to know each other first?”
They’d both agreed after meeting up again, they were at the stages in their lives where they wanted commitment, a future with someone, families, and they were willing to really get to the core of one another before they took the final leap to a deeper, physical connection.
But that wasn’t the only reason she’d wanted to wait.
Letting her hands fall, Calla grabbed his from their place on her waist, her eyes serious when she gazed into his. “Can you just trust me and wait until tonight?”
Nash smiled down at her,
the grooves on either side of his mouth deepening. “Of course I trust you, and you do know, I’ve waited eleven years for this. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me change my mind about tonight. Not even if you’re a serial killer.”
Nothing…
She hoped that was the truth, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer. Instead she said with a smile, “So tonight? Eight o’clock?”
Nash pulled her back in tight again, whispering his mouth over the side of her neck. “You’d better put your two-steppin’ shoes on.”
“You can two-step? Shut the front door.”
“Oh, the things I can do, Miss Calla. Just you wait and see, Beautiful.” He dropped a gentle kiss on her lips, a kiss that never failed to make her knees buttery soft, before giving her bottom a playful swat. “Eight o’clock sharp. I’m off to grab what I hope will be my last cold shower. See you tonight, pretty lady,” he rumbled deep and sexy before he strode off toward his truck, his low-slung jeans doing maddening things to her insides.
Tonight.
Three months of dating, and talking into the wee hours of the morning, and making out without passing first base, and laughing, and getting to know one another all over again had been so many things. Exhilarating, frustrating…but mostly they’d been blissful, and the slow simmer of their romance was all coming to fruition, and one thing was very clear to her.
She wanted Nash Ryder—forever.
Calla just hoped he’d want the same thing once tonight was all said and done.
* * *
Nash removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, using it to shield his eyes from the glaringly hot sun when he heard a car pull up along the dirt road leading to the stables.
Denny Parks threw his long legs from his expensive Mercedes, slamming the ice-blue door shut and striding toward Nash, kicking up dust clouds with his pricey shoes.
Fuck.
Denny was slick and reeked of city dwelling. He was better off in Dallas or Houston, where there was plenty of concrete and glass to hide behind while he bought and sold failing companies.
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