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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. What I didn’t expect was him.
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.
She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.
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.
