their entire relationship, if not actively being a suspect in a murder investigation, was no reason the Sage Island sheriff would realize she was insane and move beyond her.
She pushed her head back against the back of the seat to stretch and tried again to get comfortable. But she couldn’t.
Now she was afflicted with the image of her Gabe with some other woman. Some curvy little blonde with freckles and a button nose.
Damn the woman.
Whoever she was.
If she was.
Ingrid would have to learn to hex if this woman ever existed. That way the man-stealing dove would learn her lesson. And then, of course, Ingrid would have to hex Gabe too. Which would be painful.
But necessary.
Her head started to pound and she tried again to get comfortable. How did people live like this?
It was horrible.
There had been a time when Ingrid hadn’t been stupidly wealthy. But she’d been younger then. And more flexible.
“Holy crap, Ingrid,” Emily said. “I didn’t screw up our flight to St. Maarten’s. This is ridiculous. How hard is it to book a flight?”
“Shut up, evil, mean, nasty dove,” Ingrid replied without opening her eyes. “I will set you on fire. So hard.”
She felt Emily plop into the next seat and Ingrid squeezed her eyes tighter. Maybe if she could see nothing that wouldn’t be the smell of puke on the air. Nope. Emily definitely smelled like puke.
“You stink, dove,” Ingrid said, breathing through her mouth.
“Shut up, wench,” Emily replied, sounding as disgusted as Ingrid. “I got some in my hair. It’s impossible to get it out in that closet.
* * * * * * * *
“Why do we have plans?”
Ingrid was whining and she recognized it. They’d arrived, gotten to their hotel, slept—but not nearly long enough, and now she was following Emily down some ancient road on foot.
Why? Weren’t they supposed to be sipping something delicious on a boat that moved them around while they lolled about? She was sure that was all she had signed on for, and yet here she was tromping after Emily who had an actual mission. And goals.
“I don’t know. Hazel said we’d like it. She said it was our heritage. She made me swear to check into the witch stuff or she’d…hex the shiz out of us? Me? Mostly me, I think.”
Ingrid sighed and then said, “Well that sounds like your problem to me, my best dove. I said I wanted tacos.”
They looked around the ancient city with its cobblestone streets, red roofs, and statues. Their hotel was near a pretty gorgeous bridge with statues all over it. The problem was…nowhere seemed to be serving tacos. She wasn’t quite sure what goulash was, but it seemed to be a specialty of the natives.
Hadn’t they heard of tacos?
Didn’t they know she needed some? Didn’t they care ?
“Where are we going again?”
“I don’t know,” Emily growled. She looked drunk, but she was just a jet-lag zombie. She rubbed her eyes and shoved her fingers into her hair.
“You’re full-on afro my friend,” Ingrid said, examining her friend’s wild curls.
“Shut up, jezebel hooker,” Emily said. She found her way to an outdoor cafe and plopped down into a chair.
“I want tacos,” Ingrid said again, but Emily didn’t even seem to notice that Ingrid was speaking. Em plopped her head onto the table as hard as she’d plopped her butt into the chair.
Ingrid ordered them both macchiatos and said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be crappy. She might have been a coffee snob. And by might of been, she was. Hugely. One of her few magic abilities was the insane skill she had at making coffee and espresso drinks exactly perfectly for each individual.
Hers came in a cup so large it was almost a bowl with pretty designs made in the foamed milk in the espresso and smelling, almost, of magic. She smiled into the cup and took a long slow sip. It was not magic. But it was close. Her eyes fluttered closed and she sipped slowly until she felt almost human again. By the time she was
She pushed her head back against the back of the seat to stretch and tried again to get comfortable. But she couldn’t.
Now she was afflicted with the image of her Gabe with some other woman. Some curvy little blonde with freckles and a button nose.
Damn the woman.
Whoever she was.
If she was.
Ingrid would have to learn to hex if this woman ever existed. That way the man-stealing dove would learn her lesson. And then, of course, Ingrid would have to hex Gabe too. Which would be painful.
But necessary.
Her head started to pound and she tried again to get comfortable. How did people live like this?
It was horrible.
There had been a time when Ingrid hadn’t been stupidly wealthy. But she’d been younger then. And more flexible.
“Holy crap, Ingrid,” Emily said. “I didn’t screw up our flight to St. Maarten’s. This is ridiculous. How hard is it to book a flight?”
“Shut up, evil, mean, nasty dove,” Ingrid replied without opening her eyes. “I will set you on fire. So hard.”
She felt Emily plop into the next seat and Ingrid squeezed her eyes tighter. Maybe if she could see nothing that wouldn’t be the smell of puke on the air. Nope. Emily definitely smelled like puke.
“You stink, dove,” Ingrid said, breathing through her mouth.
“Shut up, wench,” Emily replied, sounding as disgusted as Ingrid. “I got some in my hair. It’s impossible to get it out in that closet.
* * * * * * * *
“Why do we have plans?”
Ingrid was whining and she recognized it. They’d arrived, gotten to their hotel, slept—but not nearly long enough, and now she was following Emily down some ancient road on foot.
Why? Weren’t they supposed to be sipping something delicious on a boat that moved them around while they lolled about? She was sure that was all she had signed on for, and yet here she was tromping after Emily who had an actual mission. And goals.
“I don’t know. Hazel said we’d like it. She said it was our heritage. She made me swear to check into the witch stuff or she’d…hex the shiz out of us? Me? Mostly me, I think.”
Ingrid sighed and then said, “Well that sounds like your problem to me, my best dove. I said I wanted tacos.”
They looked around the ancient city with its cobblestone streets, red roofs, and statues. Their hotel was near a pretty gorgeous bridge with statues all over it. The problem was…nowhere seemed to be serving tacos. She wasn’t quite sure what goulash was, but it seemed to be a specialty of the natives.
Hadn’t they heard of tacos?
Didn’t they know she needed some? Didn’t they care ?
“Where are we going again?”
“I don’t know,” Emily growled. She looked drunk, but she was just a jet-lag zombie. She rubbed her eyes and shoved her fingers into her hair.
“You’re full-on afro my friend,” Ingrid said, examining her friend’s wild curls.
“Shut up, jezebel hooker,” Emily said. She found her way to an outdoor cafe and plopped down into a chair.
“I want tacos,” Ingrid said again, but Emily didn’t even seem to notice that Ingrid was speaking. Em plopped her head onto the table as hard as she’d plopped her butt into the chair.
Ingrid ordered them both macchiatos and said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be crappy. She might have been a coffee snob. And by might of been, she was. Hugely. One of her few magic abilities was the insane skill she had at making coffee and espresso drinks exactly perfectly for each individual.
Hers came in a cup so large it was almost a bowl with pretty designs made in the foamed milk in the espresso and smelling, almost, of magic. She smiled into the cup and took a long slow sip. It was not magic. But it was close. Her eyes fluttered closed and she sipped slowly until she felt almost human again. By the time she was
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