Page 2 of Bewicched

“Ecosystem?” He walked to the edge and leaned over, peering down. “Is that what you were looking at?”

“My starfish Charlie got a new friend.” I peered over the edge and saw the guy’s arm move, like he was ready to grab me if it looked like I was about to go in. “The friend kind of looks like a…Herbert.” I slid the phone back in my pocket, brushing the dirt from my gloves. I owned many pairs in a rainbow of colors, all washable.

“Herbert and Charlie, huh? Which one is which?” His balance was amazing. He’d been leaning out past the edge of the deck for a while and not a bobble or tremor in sight.

Wicches can tap a part of our brains that allows us to see a person’s aura, essentially to see what kind of person we’re dealing with. The brighter and shinier the aura, the more trustworthy the person. The smokier the aura, the more we needed to watch our backs. Yes, I was a strong wicche who could take care of myself, but six and a half feet of muscle on a psycho was probably something I should prepare for.

Letting my vision relax, I sized up this guy who wanted to work here while I was alone in my studio. Huh. No aura. Well, hell, that’s why I had the vision. Fingers twitching at my side, I readied a spell, just in case. “Werewolf?”

Poor guy looked like he’d been smacked in the face with a shovel. “What?”

“It’s okay.” I pointed at myself. “Wicche.”

“I know, but how did you?”

“You knew?” I’d never laid eyes on this guy before. How did he know?

He tapped his nose. “You have a scent.”

I felt my face flame. I’d showered this morning, hadn’t I?Shit.When I got involved in a project, I lost track of time and personal hygiene.

Chuckling, he clarified, “Wicches as a group, not you in particular.Yousmell like plaster and paint. And the ocean.”

“Oh.” Well, that was okay then. Not all werewolves were psycho killers. In fact, very few of them were. Still, I let the spell dance between my fingers in case I’d read the situation wrong.

He wrote something on the paper in his hand. “What kind of railing do you want?”

“None.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You’ll need some pretty good insurance to cover all the lawsuits from people falling off this thing.”

“The plaster and paint you’re smelling are from the tentacles I’m building. They’ll be thirty feet tall and come up from below the water, curving this way and that to keep people from falling in. It’ll look like a sea monster is pulling us into the ocean.”

His eyes flicked from the ocean to the edge of the deck. “Nice.” After pausing a moment, he asked, “What about kids? The curves will leave holes, the perfect size for little heads. Plus, you’re not going to want the tentacles crowding out the view, right? There’ll be gaps.”

I bit off the automatic denial and thought about the design I had in mind. I waved him in the back door of my studio. It took up about a third of the cannery building and was the first section remodeled. I needed a place to work. The gallery could wait. I sold my work in other galleries around the world.

I stopped him before he stepped over the threshold, though, my hand on his chest. “Wait. What’s your name?”

He stared down at my hand until I moved it. “Declan.”

“Declan what?” I’d be texting all the cousins first chance I got to see if anyone knew anything about this guy. Then again, my cousins were assholes. Maybe I’d chance it.

“What’s it to you?”

“Maybe you’re a serial killer.” I doubted it, but it was possible.

He stared at me, his intense brown eyes making my stomach flutter. “You’re the wicche,” he said, leaning in. “Am I a serial killer?”

Damn, he was potent. Instead of answering, I just waved him in. I was pretty sure he was safe. Being a werewolf, I couldn’t read him easily, but I had a spell at the ready if he gave me trouble.

“You know, I’d like to know your last name too?” A second man’s voice made me jump.

Who the hell was that? I ducked my head through the open door and found another muscular guy on my doorstep. Unfortunately, I’d met this one before. He was Logan, the Alpha of the local pack. Six-four, tawny hair, tanned skin, blue eyes, he was the golden child of Monterey. Women flocked to him, and he’d never met one he hadn’t liked.

“Arwyn.” His gaze traveled from my out-of-control curls down to my paint-spattered sneakers. “Good to see you again, although I can’t say much for your company.”

My cousin Serena had dated Logan in high school when he was the star athlete on every team. She was head over heels, but he was working his way through the female student body, so it didn’t last long. She said he wasn’t a jerk about it. He was just a guy who loved women and couldn’t rest until he’d bedded all of them. Everyone needed a hobby, I supposed.

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