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

is next Friday. The big three oh no.”
    “Yep, you’re ancient. I can see why you’re wiggin’ out.”
    “Bite me.” She jerked her head up and stared at him. “Did you hear that? I just said bite me.”
    It took every ounce of control he possessed not to bust out laughing at her shocked whisper.
    “I’m not even completely certain why people use that phrase.” The worry lines etched into her brow deepened. “I, uh, don’t actually want you to bite me, either.”
    Struggling to keep his expression deadpan, he nodded. “Glad you cleared that up.” Behind Willa, he noticed a grizzled dude wearing a leather vest and a green-and-white ball cap mosey from the short hall that led from the restrooms. He frowned, trying to figure out where the guy had come from. Sure, it wasn’t like he’d been keeping close intel on everyone in the restaurant, but there was no way anyone could have gone into the johns the past half hour without crossing directly in his line of vision. Course, maybe the guy had holed up in there with a newspaper and a mission. In which case, no force on earth would get him near the men’s room any time soon.
    The guy passed the far end of the bar, and Logan returned his focus to Willa just as she shuddered violently. Her purse tumbled to the floor, but she didn’t seem to register it as a strange look washed over her face. Worried she was about to keel over dead or something, he hiked his boot on the floor rack beneath the bar and prepared to leap over the counter. She snapped to before he even ducked to his knees. Her stare shifted to her purse lying on the ground and the assorted contents that’d spilled as a result of the fall. “How did that happen?”
    He gaped at her. “You don’t remember?”
    Her cheeks still featuring an unhealthy white pallor, she scrambled from the stool and scooped up her belongings, stuffing them methodically into her bag. She stood just as one of the busboys scurried up to the bar with a carryout bag. Tucking her purse strap over her arm, she eyed the packages of food like they were gifts directly bestowed from the gods, rather than scrawny Tommy Finkle.
    “Is that for me?” Fumbling for her wallet, she dug out a twenty and passed it to Logan.
    Folding the bill between his thumb and forefinger, he strode to the register. Willa clutched the carryout bag to her chest and dashed toward the exit. He skidded to a halt. “Hey, I’ve still gotta make your change.”
    “Keep it. I owe you for listening to my lunatic rantings.”
    Bemused, he watched her rush out the door. Shaking his head, he continued to the register and rang in her order, putting the change aside to later stuff in the tip jar. Almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, he glanced in the direction of the ball-cap guy, who was sitting in a booth with Harper Coogan. Given the fact that Harper was a lowlife who saved up his precious time spent away from the bars to use at the racetrack, he couldn’t help wondering if Harper’s new friend might be a bookie.
    Even while Logan pondered that question, the stranger shifted his attention from Harper and looked Logan dead square in the eyes. A strange sensation slithered along the nape of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end like iron filings attracted to a magnet. The wolf in him growled low in its throat, intuitively not liking the weird vibe coming off the guy.
    Just as he was contemplating the risk of getting fired if he gave in to the urge to kick creepy dude out of the restaurant, the stranger broke his stare and smiled at Harper.
    The heebie-jeebies holding Logan hostage slowly evaporated. It wasn’t until the tightness in his chest eased that he realized he’d been holding his breath. His natural animal instinct telling him to stay on high alert, he kept his wary focus trained on Harper’s companion in between stocking the bar for the evening crowd. It wasn’t until the two men left Champions together that he finally figured out