Never Been Witched Read Online Free PDF Page A

chanting for peace.”
    “Boy, did that backfire.”
    “You have no idea. Is your head and, ah, everything else feeling any better?”
    “You bet your flying buttress,” he lied. His headache could put a teamster to bed for a week. His nuts would be black by morning.
    “Good,” she said, putting the first aid kit back together, raising both fear and elation in him every time she swiped something from his lap, though the frozen vegetables protected him better than an athletic cup.
    “Come and help me get my things up the stairs,” she said, turning and walking away.
    “What things? What stairs? Why?” He followed like a drunk duck, one hand on the icy vegetables between his legs and the other holding his butterbean crown. Sick bastard. Hurt, concussed, and turned on. “Hey, I’m wounded, here.”
    She faced him with a wrinkled brow, wrinkles he’d like to smooth with his lips.
    “You might really have a concussion,” she said.
    A concussion, an obsession, and a painfully throbbing dick, yet two words formed a rhythm in his head, pounding blood through his veins so fast, everything hurt: one bed .
    He knew she’d been mad at him since the night of Harmony and King’s wedding, when he walked out on their make-out session, presex, but if he’d stayed, she would have been appalled at his fumbling attempt.
    He’d stayed away from her since, while he worked toward a level of sexual expertise with one thought in mind: taking Destiny Cartwright to bed and pleasuring her until she passed out. But now, with her so close, he was losing faith in his practiced prowess by the minute, which could be due to his injuries or his humiliation or both.
    Fact: This was too soon.
    Fact: He needed to take a stand on this cohabitation thing and nip it in the bud. He was so hot for her, if she stayed, he’d be screwed, and not in a satisfying way.
    No denying the facts. She had to go.
    She gave him a worried look. “I’ll bring this stuff upstairs, myself, while you sit and rest.”
    He set his frozen vegetable bags on the stairs. “I think maybe you should grab that other cart and follow me.” He grabbed the cart that had accosted him and dragged it through the parlor, the kitchen, and out the back door, heading for her boat.
    She chased him, a turn-on in any other situation. “Morgan Jarvis, where the devil are you going with my things?”
    “I’m sending you home, you hot little witch pretender.”
    “You think I’m hot?”
    You bet your flying buttress! “No. It was a figure of speech. You’re hot like a potato that gets handled too soon. Dangerous hot.”
    She purred. Purred! “You don’t know the half of it.”
    “Boat. Now. Go.”

Chapter Five
    HE thought she was hot.
    So why was he getting rid of her?
    “Plucking patchouli, I’ll go. Over my dead body, I’ll go!”
    Normally Morgan smelled of fresh nutmeg and sandalwood, as if he’d been working on a spice plantation. Normally, his presence fine-tuned her senses and played her like a priceless violin. He could shiver her with a look, except when she wanted to beat him, like now.
    “Dead or alive,” he said, stiff-backed and stubborn, continuing down toward the dock. “Go any way you want. Just go.”
    “If you think I’m hot, then why send me home?”
    Still no answer.
    Panic claimed her. She had to get a grip. “You’re pissing the stinging nettles out of me, Jarvis!”
    In his bare feet, Morgan “ouched” his way down the crushed-shell path; his determination despite his pain would be impressive if this were any other situation.
    She caught up, grabbed the cart, and pulled it in the opposite direction.
    Morgan dug in with his bare feet. “Son of a witch!”
    “Listen, Blue Balls, you want the B word not the W word for your itch . Mix them up again, and I’ll show you the plucking difference in a way you’ll never forget.”
    As if the sea was on his side, its wind cut through her like a blade of ice, and she shivered.
    “I’m not the one