A Wicked Halloween/FREEBIE Alert A Wicked Affair September 20
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5 things I like: (Reading and Writing are a
given!)
1. Watching college football - Roll Tide,
Alabama!
2. pizza and cheesecake - the ultimate
meal
3. jet skiing at the lake
4. lazing around in the pool
5. All-girl beach trips with my friends or my
sister
"At the Women’s College of Salem, Sarah hopes to
meet like-minded students of The Craft. But after joining a coven, the other
girls seem to have it in for her and she can’t figure out why . .
.
. . . until Tanner, the new, cute IT guy, helps
uncover her family’s dark secret. Sarah will have to learn to trust Tanner if
she’s to survive a killer freshman year. And Tanner must accept his paranormal
powers to save Sarah when the blood moon rises at Samhain, the witch’s
Halloween."
Go to Salem, they urged.
You’ll love it, they
promised.
It will be fun, they said.
They lied.
Tanner rubbed
his eyes and tried to focus on a string of computer code.
Some fun. He could
have stayed in Alabama if he’d wanted to be stuck in a
boring tech job.
Sighing, he shoved out of his chair and walked to the
window. In the darkness
of late afternoon, a light shone in the library next door on
the campus quad.
She was there
again. Sitting alone at a table, her long, brown hair swept
to one side, her
enchanting profile glowing like a halo of warmth against the
New England chill.
Damn, the unbearable cold had turned his brain to poetic
mush. She was just a
girl, and he’d had more than his fair share of dating last
year. Before
everything had turned to shit.
He’d prove she
was nothing special. Tanner abruptly closed down the
computer, grabbed his
coat, and walked down the semi-deserted hallway. “See you in
the morning,” he
called to his boss.
Mr. Higginboth
didn’t bother looking up from his hunched position over a
computer. “Night,” he
mumbled, pushing up wire-framed glasses from the bridge of
his nose.
Tanner
shuddered. Would that be him thirty years from now? Buried
in an academic
environment, wearing old-man woolen sweaters and deciphering
endless lines of
computer code with steadily declining eyesight? Not how he’d
envisioned his
future. He closed his eyes and remembered the thrill of
catching his one and
only touchdown pass—the cheering crowd, outrunning the opposing
team’s
defenders, the ball tucked safely in his arms, and crossing
the goal line.
Score!
How things had
changed in one year. And not for the good.
Bitter wind
slammed into his body as he exited the tech lab. He clutched
his leather jacket
tighter, glumly trying to imagine how much colder Salem
would be in winter.
Back home, he’d still be in short sleeves and enjoying
sunshine.
His right knee
throbbed, as it always did in cold weather. Damn nuisance.
You’d think he was
ninety instead of nineteen. He walked as quickly as he could
with the bum knee,
grateful for the warmth of the library as he pushed open its
heavy, wooden
doors. The cozy scent of old books and weathered oak lifted
his sour mood.
Quickly, he
scanned the towering rows of books and the whispering crowd
of students at the
center tables. In the far right corner, on the second level,
she was bent over a book, her long hair
a veil, covering her
face.
Tanner inwardly
groaned as he climbed the stairs, trying to avoid wincing at
the darting pain
needling through his knee. A gaggle of girls passed,
shooting him sly glances.
He winked at the boldest one, who had flaming red hair,
dressed all in black,
and sported a large pentacle pendant. Back home, she’d have
stuck out like a
black widow on a bed of white linen. But at the Women’s
College of Salem, she
was part of a notable minority that flaunted a belief in
witchcraft. She smiled,
but her eyes held no warmth. She turned her back and elbowed
the girl nearest
her orbit. “He’s cute but . . . all crippled up. Too bad.”
His face warmed.
The remark had been whispered, but it was loud enough to
carry—as the girl no
doubt intended. He was used to being called cute, but not to
people wondering
at his injury. At least, not that he’d overheard. Way to
build his confidence
as he approached the girl to whom he’d been drawn for the
past few weeks.
He squared his
shoulders, determined not to let the offhand comment ruin
his plans. If he’d
learned nothing else from his old football coach, it was to
persevere, no
matter the obstacles. Still, he was used to outmaneuvering
three-hundred-pound
linebackers, not pathetically limping like an old man as he
climbed a set of
stairs. All while a group of girls insulted his dignity.
The girls went
their way, chattering, never sparing a glance behind them.
Amazing—not in a
good way—that he’d gone from a rising football star to
nearly invisible.
Different. A tiny flash of red on the
floor
caught his attention. Tanner bent over, picking up a small,
black feather with
a skein of red floss clumsily woven into its spine. A few
inches of the red
thread formed a tiny circle, perhaps large enough for a
small wrist. Some kind
of Native American bracelet, perhaps? He looked around, but
nobody caught his
eye. It probably belonged to one of the girls who had
laughed at him. Too bad.
He wasn’t going to search them out and ask. He shrugged and
stuffed it into his
jacket pocket, intending to throw it in the nearest
trashcan.
At last, he
reached the top. Tanner gripped the railing, collecting his
breath and his
pride. Once both were again intact, he walked toward the
mystery girl, his
footsteps creaking on the old pine flooring, but she didn’t
look up from the
book held in her hands, a heavy, dusty tome—Salem
Witch Trials and Mass Hysteria: 1692—1693
.
Tanner flicked
his index finger against the book’s spine to get her
attention. “A little light
reading?” he joked.
Eyes as gray as
a November sky regarded him with a decided chill. He was definitely
striking
out with the ladies today.
Her voice was
smooth and cold as ice. “Nothing light
about the killing of innocent
women.”
“That’s what you
call irony.” Tanner pulled out a chair across from her and
sat, uninvited. “You
writing a history paper on the
trials?”
She cocked her
head to one side and regarded him with a raised brow. “Yes.
Do you need to use
this book?”
“Oh, no, I’m not
a student.”
Wariness
sharpened her delicate features, and her fingers gripped the
edge of the table.
Real smooth there, Tanner. Now
you’re scaring the women
away.
“Then
who—”
“It’s okay,” he
said quickly. “I work here. In the IT department. My
uncle—Ralph Landers—is the
college
dean.”
Her death grip
on the book relaxed a
fraction.
it.” He dug in his coat pocket and fished out his employee
ID. “See? I’m
totally legit.” He slapped the card on the table and slid it
toward her.
“Tanner Adams,”
she read aloud, comparing his face to the awkward employee
picture. “Computer
tech, WCS.”
