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Wicked Witchmas Excerpt

Book 1: These Boots Are Made For Witching

Tripp Nightshade. 

Elara’s heart beat painfully in her chest as she ducked into the alley beside the NEVER TOO MANY bookstore where she worked. 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 grab her lady balls in hand and 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 Goddess herself. And oh, those rounded shoulders! 

Pressing a hand to her chest, she sighed.

Yes, those beautiful, beautiful shoulders. So muscular. So manly. So—


She screamed. 

Tripp ran to her and gripped her upper arms. “Are you okay? 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 stunned stupid. “What did you say?”

Think fast, Elara. Think fast.

Yet around him, her brain matter was slower than sludge traveling uphill.

Over boulders.

In 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 thudding of her pulse in her ears. That thrumming also happened to be why she didn’t hear Tripp come up behind her. 

His grip on her bicep halted her progress, but the high-speed momentum of her spazz-ma-tazz escape propelled her around and 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 the clean, crisp scent of his cologne before the pain struck and her eyes teared up. Swearing like a salty old sailor on a five-day bender, 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 looked 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 turned to marshmallow fluff 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?” 

“Nope.” There was definitely laughter in his voice this time. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Later!”

His wicked chuckle drifted to her as she turned to go. 

“Oh, Elara.” 

Did she dare look back? The temptation was great, but she remained with her back to him. 

“You forgot the, uh, salami.”

“Kill me now,” she muttered. 

“What was that?”


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