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Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.
If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s when someone underestimates my intelligence. Especially when that someone is male and inconveniently hot.
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. Not that I was falling for him, mind you. I barely knew the guy. I was just . . . mildly obsessed with figuring him out.
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.
