Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. “A happy coincidence. I was working on something, but didn’t need to use it.”
“So you’re a real witch.”
He grinned. “I am. And you’re a Bradbury girl.”
Sarah’s strange words echoed in my head. A brown-haired Bradbury girl.
“I am.” I gave him a quizzical look.
“Mary Bradbury survived the Salem witch trials, but Sarah Wildes didn’t. There’s a long history between our families. And…” he paused and exhaled, “My mother saw you coming into my life two years ago.”
“Freshman year.”
He nodded, pulling me into his arms.
“You must have been relieved she didn’t say Dorcus Hoar was to be your true love.”
Andrew threw his head back and laughed. “So relieved.”
“Poor Dorcus. Persecuted when alive, and mocked in death.”
“I can call you Dorcus, if you feel so bad.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Please don’t.” I laughed and kissed him between chuckles. Laugh-kissing was better than snort-laughing.
He stopped laughing and his eyes focused on mine. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”
I would have said more, but his lips crashed against mine, and I knew he’d waited long enough.
Whoops and screams coming down the lawn broke us apart, but Andrew held fast to my hand, not letting me move away from his side. Various partygoers tumbled toward the fire, among them Tate and Sarah walking close together, arms entwined.
I met Andrew’s eye and he kissed my forehead. “Don’t tell Sam her spell didn’t work either.”
My eyes widened, but I laughed.
If she needed to believe in spells, so be it.
I believed in real magic.
Thanks for reading Bewitched! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I loved writing it. I had fun branching out into New Adult and paranormal. If you enjoyed the humor and the falling in love parts, please check out my other books, which have both of those elements without the paranormal twist.
Special thanks to Allison Smith, Nadine Silber, Suzanne, and SO for reading early drafts of this story. It's better because of your input. Thank you to my editor Melissa Ringsted and proofreader Marla Esposito for fixing my crimes against grammar and giving my writing a final polish.
Look for more shorts and novels from me coming soon. Be sure to sign up for my mailing list for the latest news, exclusives, and giveaways.
Happy Reading!
Before writing bestselling contemporary adult romances, Daisy dreamed of being an author while doing a lot of other things. Antiques dealer, baker, blue ribbon pie-maker, fangirl, freelance writer, gardener, pet mom and wife are a few of the titles she's acquired over the years.
Born and raised in San Diego, Daisy currently lives in a real life Stars Hollow in the Boston suburbs with her husband, their dog Hubbell, and a still nameless imaginary house goat.
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Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Story #1)
Ready to Fall (Modern Love Story #2)
Missionary Position (Modern Love Story #3)
Take Two (Modern Love Story Short)
Red Rum
by Ashley Pullo
Trick o’ treat, a girl to meet. Blood Sangria wicked sweet.
Copyright © Ashley Pullo 2014, All rights reserved.
eBook edition
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Ashley Pullo
Proofed by Proofing Style, Inc./Marla Esposito
First Digital Edition October 2014
The tiny black bowler hat, mustache, and unlit cigarette are the perfect editions to my crime scene photo. After disguising my hostage, I shove the remaining Potato Head parts back in my desk drawer, and then scribble a ransom note on a Post-it. Positioning the succulent in a compromising pose with my stapler, I snap a photo. Adam will be pissed — he’s been looking for his potted cactus for days.
ME: image
Adam: you fucking asshole.
Laughing hysterically, I text back.
ME: Mr. Prickly will return to you in exchange for a case of Shiner.
“Mr. Brooks?”
I throw back a handful of candy corn before pressing the intercom button. “Yes, Roberta?”
“There have been some complaints about loud music coming from your office,” Roberta drones.
“Complaints? Who would object to The Old '97s?”
She doesn’t respond.
I check the volume on my iPod dock — if Adam is trying to get back at me by whining about my music, then it’s a pathetic attempt. “Roberta, I’ll lower it if you snag me some Rice Krispie treats from the pantry.” I smile to myself, knowing that bargaining is against her secretarial creed.
Being an associate at a prestigious Manhattan law firm comes with a shitload of rules and agendas. It also serves as a breeding ground for arrogant assholes to strut around like peacocks only to have frumpy secretaries put them in their place. Except for my buddy Adam Ford — he hit the jackpot when he made partner. His secretary is all boobs and mostly brains, but my secretary could frighten a gargoyle.
Since I can’t sneak out until the afternoon partners’ meeting, I decide to tend to some urgent matters in the world of Chris Brooks: I play a game of solitaire on the computer. I read an article about how different countries celebrate Halloween. I reply to my older brother’s email about the Red River Shootout in Dallas. A little homesick, I then look up the fried treats previously featured at the Texas State Fair. Holy shit, fried beer!
With a few minutes left to spare, I open my closing argument file for the Perkins case. A competitor sued the Perkins family for two millions dollars claiming they stole their secret pickle recipe. I mean really, three years of law school, three years of legal practice, partner tracked, and I’m the asshole stuck defending pickle thieves. The highlight of the case was when I traveled Upstate to the pickle factory to observe the ingredient taste test performed by pickle experts — food scientists equipped with the knowledge of extracting the exact ratios of vinegar, salt and garlic. That was awesome.
At exactly 4:30, I switch off my iPod, grab my suit jacket, pocket some Snickers from my desk, hide Adam’s cactus, and then lock my office door. I still need to buy candy to hand out to the kids in my building. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be that creepy bachelor dude that gives the kids matches and condoms.
Passing her desk, I say, “Good night, Roberta.” As usual, Roberta ignores me. I clear my throat — she pretends to look through case files.