Free The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2 by Jodi Redford

beyond desire and obsession. The awful pain that’d ripped through his rib cage when she’d dashed from his house this morning and sped off like the hounds of hell were snapping at the Miata’s tailpipe had hammered the final nail in his coffin.
    He was bat-shit crazy in love with Clarissa Miles, the woman who lived by the motto of allowing no one past the closely guarded gate shielding her heart. Hell if that wasn’t a big-ass fucking complication that would likely make him drink himself into an early grave. He eyed the empty bottle of Bud that rested on the corner of the bar like a taunting premonition of his fate. Grimacing, he scooped up the offender and chucked it into the recycle bin beneath the counter. The frantic, staccato tap-tap of heels on the wooden floor planks drew his gaze upward just as Willa wobbled to a halt in front of the bar.
    She plunked a purse that could easily be mistaken for a piece of luggage onto one of the stools and blew her bangs out of her eyes before straightening her glasses. “Please tell me the kitchen didn’t forget Domino’s lunch again. Otherwise I might be forced to do something stupid that will earn me a spot on the six o’clock news.”
    He rubbed his goatee. “Depends. Would this something stupid involve public nudity?”
    “No, I’m thinking more along the lines of homicidal rage.”
    Feigning disappointment, he reached for the phone bolted to the support post located near the taps. “Let me check with Paolo.” After a thirty second conversation where the temperamental cook managed to curse a dozen times, disparage Emeril Lagasse and point out that they were out of the shrimp-gumbo special, Logan secured the phone back in its cradle and gave Willa a sympathetic smile. “That trigger finger isn’t too itchy, is it?”
    A menacing noise came from the back of Willa’s throat before she slumped against the stool. “Domino is going to have a fit. More than her typical one, too, since her damn one-meal-a-day diet is making my life hell.”
    Logan swept the bar rag into the sink with his palm. “Don’t you mean her life?”
    “No, definitely mine. And I don’t even get the benefit of losing a few inches around my waist.”
    He flicked an appraising look down the length of her tan, plain-Jane suit. “Sugar, the last thing you need to lose is weight. You’re already a dead ringer for that model who’s named after some kind of moss.”
    “ Kate Moss ? Are you telling me I look like a skinny chick with no ass?” Before he could answer, Willa’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously the rumor about you being a world-class charmer is a smoking pile of crap.”
    Despite her barb, or maybe because of it, his mouth stretched into a grin. “I don’t remember you being this feisty. Damn, maybe I shoulda hit on you when I had the chance.”
    Willa pressed the heel of her hand into the center of her forehead, smoothing her scowl lines. “Yeah, that ship’s long sailed out of the harbor, buster.” She dropped her palm and blinked at him, her mouth softening. “I have no idea where any of this is coming from.”
    “Where what’s coming from?”
    “ This .” She made an agitated gesture that seemed to encompass her entire body. “The feistiness. It’s so not my thing.” A dark worry cloud shadowing her expression, she tugged the stool away from the counter and plopped onto its seat. “There’s something very wrong with me.”
    “Why? Because you’re acting like a normal woman?”
    “Yes.” Willa yanked her purse from the other stool and hugged it to her lap. “All I know is that I feel like a damn alien has taken over my head lately. I’m edgy, I can’t sleep, and sometimes I…”
    “You what?” he prompted, leaning his elbows on the bar.
    She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s not important. All of this is probably just an early life crisis.” She pillowed her chin in her palm, her nose scrunching—presumably in response to his questioning look. “My birthday