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As a proud lifelong cynic, I was looking forward to writing about the true horror of it all: overpriced cocktails and tourists who thought wearing Mardi Gras beads in October was acceptable behavior.
Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.
What’s your cat’s name?” “Luce.” “As in Lucy?” “No, as in Lucifer. Don’t pet her, she’s allergic to people.
A new line of ink, bold, fresh, and burning white-hot like a brand, had appeared on the inside of my wrist. It was her name. And I knew without a doubt that this woman who walked out of my dreams and into my shop on a rainy October night was always meant to show up. Because, somehow, she was part of the curse too.
It’s a time-tested truth that the best-looking men are always the absolute worst.
Oh, except for the fun fact that any woman who fell in love with a Rousseau man was doomed to a tragic death. So that was perfect. Nothing says “great idea” like falling for a man who might be my own personal grim reaper.
She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.
“Cut me some slack! This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Which is saying something, considering I once accidentally joined a cult because they had really good tacos.”
The only thing worse than a smart-ass woman was a smart-ass woman who was right.
It figured I’d fall for a witch. My taste in women always ran toward the feral ones.
