Page 8 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“It would’ve happened anyway, Brel. The people were hungry, and their living conditions were abysmal.” Rand approached and hugged her from behind. “Their monarch could’ve used your counsel in running their country.” With a nod toward the balcony, he pointed out the group laughing in the courtyard. “Everyone is happy here because you’ve provided what they need. You’re an excellent ruler of Messia. Tripp realizes that, too. He simply went about helping the underprivileged the wrong way.”

She twisted to see Rand’s face. “He’s a hothead who refuses to learn. Tell me, exactly how many years have you wasted trying to teach him about crops and what’s needed to maintain the balance for optimal growth?”

He grimaced.

“I rest my case! His burning desire is to be human. I should remove his magic and let him live like the rest of the mortals.”

“I recognize that look. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Brelenia,” he warned. “He’s not the only one who’s made a muck of things in the past. Those damned sandals of yours—” He groaned when he saw her guilty flush. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“What are youplanningto do?”

She shrugged a shoulder.

“Woman, if you interfere in his life again, he’ll never forgive you.”

“Oh, posh! Of course, he will. Besides, didn’t you feel the quake?”

He nodded with a dark frown, reminding her of their wayward son when confronted with something he didn’t particularly care for.

“That was Enguerrand kissing his mate.”

Rand hung his head. “Wonderful. We’re about to have another major catastrophe on our hands.”

“Perhaps not,” she said slyly, glancing at the box with the magical shoes.

“Brelenia of Messia, don’t you dare send those things?—”

They disappeared in a puff of smoke, and she grinned her satisfaction. “Too late.”

“I need to warn him.”

She snapped her fingers, and her clothing fell away.

His surprised blink turned into a hot stare, and his mouth curled into a wide, wicked grin. “What sandals?”

Brelenia laughed and opened her arms.

Tripp Nightshade.

Since their kiss last Wednesday, he’d taken up residence in Elara’s mind and refused to leave. The week had led to avoidance on both their parts. By unspoken mutual agreement, they headed in opposite directions whenever they saw each other.

“The least you could do is pay rent, you kissing pirate,” she muttered as she cut through the tape of yet another box. When she saw the contents, she groaned. “Flo is going to freaking kill me.”

“Why?”

A surprised scream escaped Elara, and she pressed her hand to her throat. “Oh, Pixy Stix, Payton! You know better than to sneak up on me in the storeroom. It’s creepier than a graveyard at midnight in here.”

Her sister grinned. “You’re just a ‘fraidy cat, El. Admit it.”

“Suck a lemon.”

Payton wandered around, picking up random things, blowing the dust off, and half-heartedly examining them before returning them. “So, why is old Florence going to kill you?”

“I screwed up the order again,” Elara admitted. Heat crept up her neck, and she ducked her head to hide her embarrassed flush.

“Again?” Payton frowned and knelt by the box.

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