Page 31 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“I never did that,” he denied hotly.

“You did. Not with words, but your warning looks promised retribution.”

Archer’s smirk irked, and Tripp longed to wipe it off the man’s face. But Elara’s sigh bubbled with happiness, improving his mood. Not one-hundred percent because they were inundated with townsfolk when he wanted to be alone, but enough that the violent urge to add Archer’s head to Mount Rushmore had lessened.

“Why are you here, Roche?” he asked. “Can I not have five minutes alone with Elara without someone up my ass?”

“Bohdan wanted me to tell you about the latest reading and the frequency of quakes.”

All the ancient curses he’d learned were on the tip of his tongue, but his mother would cut it out if he voiced them in front of the women. With Witchmere magically protected as she was, the town would only feel the worst of the earthquakes,which started with Elara happily parading about in those purple plagues on her feet.

“How long do we have?” he asked.

“Based on his calculations, four days. Five at the most.”

“So, enough time for us to dine before the meeting?” Tripp asked pointedly.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No problem, but tell Bohdan that Rowen is heating her wax pot.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tripp Nightshade.

Elara was sharing an honest-to-god meal with Tripp Nightshade. She’d like to say the memory would be etched in her mind forever, but other than shamelessly watching him consume focaccia, she couldn’t recall what they’d been served.

“You’re not listening, flitter-mouse,” he admonished.

“No,” she admitted. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Pushing aside his bowl, he shifted to face her, cocking up a leg and draping his arm along the booth seat. She nearly swooned at the sexy casual pose. Was he aware of the picture he made?

“I swear I’ll pay attention this time,” she lied, crossing her index finger over her heart.

His dimples flashed, and his eyes crinkled. “Doubtful. Where did your mind wander?”

Heat crept up her chest and into her face. “That’s best not said in polite company.”

“There’ll be time for that when we destroy the boots, Elara.” He tipped up her chin. “I need you to hear me.”

“Go on,” she urged, hoping he’d abandon his foolish plan.

“I was telling you about the French Revolution and, more importantly, about Élise.”

Right. Another ex-lover.

Elara tried to quell the building jealousy, but his every story began with some female he’d been hot for, who was gifted a pair of shoes or boots like her. This idea of shoes magically transforming was preposterous, but she let him drone on, hoping to get to the good part, when they would become lovers, like the other women.

She sipped her red wine and nodded in sympathy as he told the tale of Élise’s death. And when he spoke of Bonaparte, she showed the appropriate outrage. Glancing over his shoulder, she noted the time.

“Didn’t you tell Archer and Bohdan you would join them soon?”

His expression arrested. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Busted.

“No. But this conversation is going nowhere, and I have to return to the bookstore. It’s only five days until Christmas, and I can’t leave Flo in a lurch.”

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