"Abby, where are you seeing this?"

Despite Charlotte's lifelong protests, Bree knew that all three of them were witches. It was a trait of Murphy women, going back as far as Bree could trace.

And she knew that she was empathic, meaning she could see and feel people's emotions almost as clearly as if they were her own. She also knew that Charlotte could move objects when she really focused, and that Abby could insert herself into her sisters' dreams.

She'd been doing it since she was a toddler. But until now, Bree had never thought Abby could be psychic.

"I don't know." Abby shrugged. "It's just like there.

In my brain. I thought that's what happens with tarot."

"No, not really. The tarot is an interpretation based on the spread of the cards." Bree lifted her cat Akasha off the floor as she walked by and settled the feline's warm bulk in her lap. "What else do you see?" She was curious to know if Abby was in truth seeing anything, or if she was just projecting her own thoughts and imagination out onto the cards.

If Abby were psychic after all, she clearly had Bree mixed up with someone else because she was not, repeat not, going to be falling for a man who thought money was the ultimate goddess and treated his overpriced car like a high-class hooker to stroke.

"Um. I see him walking up to the house and ringing the doorbell."

Because the love of her life was actually just going to stroll up to her very own house and ring the bell.

Like that ever happened to anyone, let alone Bree. No one came to her front door but the mailman, and he was fifty and happily married.

Then Abby cocked her head to the side, staring off into space. "He wants to have sex with you."

"Okay, that's enough. This is ridiculous." Abby was either making fun of her for not dating in twenty—count them—twenty months or she was fishing to know about her sister's sex life. Either way, Bree wasn't biting.

Charlotte didn't look thrilled with the conversation either. "You know, we should probably get started if you want your Christmas tree up by the end of the day."

Bree wasn't really dying for a Christmas tree at all since she usually burned a Yule log, but it made Charlotte happy to provide her with one, and Bree could always put a witch's spin on it. "Sounds good."

She moved to put Akasha down and paused. "What's in her mouth?" She tried to reach for the cat, but Akasha twisted her head in protest.

"Oh, my God," Charlotte said, reaching out and snatching something from the cat's mouth. "It's the mistletoe. From last Christmas. The one we put the spell on."

As her sister waved it in the air, staring at the greenery like it was possessed, Bree winced. "Whoops.

I meant to destroy that." It was nothing more than a sprig of mistletoe, but she and Charlotte had loaded it with symbols of lust so Charlotte could lure her friend Will to make a move on her.

It had worked, forcing the longtime friends to confront their intense feelings for each other, resulting in Charlotte with a wedding ring and a new house to live in, but Bree knew she never should have left that mistletoe just lying around. Last she remembered, she had tossed it on her dresser a solid twelve months earlier, which meant Akasha had probably dragged it off and under the bed or something. No wonder Bree had been plagued with sex dreams for months. She had a powerfully charged-hexensymbol hanging out under her bed.

And no man to satisfy her.

Ugh. She hated feeling discontent. And in a constant state of arousal.

"It's probably not a big deal," Charlotte said, carefully laying the loaded mistletoe on the kitchen table. "Will said it didn't work. He already was lusting for me way before we made this thing."

Bree had known that, which was why she had encouraged Charlotte to go for it with Will. "Yeah, but you can't just leave magick lying around."

Especially anywhere around her bed.

"The doorbell's ringing," Charlotte said. "Want me to get it?"

"No, I can get it." Bree stood up, noting that Akasha had already leaped up onto the fourth empty chair and snagged the mistletoe again. Bree was going to have to grab that thing and stuff it into a drawer until she could destroy it bit by bit.

Abby was two steps behind her.

"Why are you following me?" Bree asked her sister, darting a glance at her over her shoulder. "I can answer the door by myself."

"It's him," Abby said in an awed whisper. "The guy I saw."

"Sure. Or it's my mailman letting me know I have a package." Bree went down the hallway of the big Victorian house she had inherited from her grandmother. It was a lot of house for her now that Charlotte had moved out, but maybe Abby would want to move in after high school. Living with their parents was sometimes nausea-inducing since they were engaged in a perpetual lovefest. It was sweet and warming to see from a distance, but on a daily basis all the groping got old. Abby would probably appreciate some space.

Bree pulled open the front door and almost had a heart attack.

Have mercy, it was a man, about thirty years old, and very clearly wearing a pink dress shirt under his winter coat, the collar peeking out above the zipper.

He was just standing there. On her front step. With snow on his shiny black shoes.

She knew this man. He was Amanda Delmar Tucker's lawyer, from Chicago.

Bree had only met him once, for a brief minute in the coffeeshop with Abby, the previous December, and he had clearly thought she had been sniffing her black nail polish given the look of disdain on his face at the time.

Now he was standing on her doorstep, with nary a smile in sight.

Abby was whispering loudly in her ear, "It's him.

Told you so. Right on up the sidewalk to the front door. Ringing the bell. I'm so right."

Caught between wanting to muzzle her sister and slam the front door shut, Bree just stared at him. He stared back, his compelling chocolate brown eyes boring into her.

And suddenly she knew that her sister was right, as her empathic ability picked up on the feelings he was projecting, unaware that she could sense them.

This man, this lawyer, wanted to have sex with her.

Yikes.

Ian Carrington was seriously annoyed with himself.

He had told himself that seeing Bree Murphy again was the perfect opportunity to eradicate her from all of his thoughts. That the woman in the flesh, who he had only met once for such a short span of time, couldn't possibly live up to the sensual fantasies his sick mind had conjured over the past year. He had been wrong.

The minute she opened the door and stared out at him, her dark hair falling past her shoulders, her pale, smooth skin a sharp contrast to the crimson of her bright lipstick, he had felt a gigantic kick of lust. He had an instant erection and wanted nothing more on earth than to have her naked in his bed, eyes glazed with passion, lips swollen from his kisses, voice begging him for more.

It was illogical. She was completely not his type in any way, shape, or form. He went for corporate women, not the kooky kind like Bree, who wore a witch pendant around her neck and did tarot readings for a living. He had never bought in to any of that sixth-sense crap, and he lived his life logically, with a plan. It was what he attributed his success to, despite his unusual and impoverished childhood. Living by logic and hard work had brought him to where he was.

But there was no denying that he was attracted to Bree in the most basic way, whether it made sense or not, and had been dreaming about her virtually nonstop from the second they had met. Both while awake and asleep.

Now she was staring at him like he was a bug she'd like to squish.

So even though this trip technically hadn't been necessary for the business he had to conduct, he had taken it with the intention of getting over his little lust crush on Bree Murphy and restoring his life to its former equilibrium. Only now that he had seen her again, in all her delicious flesh, he knew he wasn't over his crush, not by a mile. And he was going to stay in Cuttersville, Ohio, until he either had sex with Bree or regained his sanity, because he could not return to Chicago and face another twelve months of X-rated dreams that featured him and Bree Murphy rocking the house. He would spontaneously combust if he had to endure any more of the graphic dreams that were soaking him in sweat every other night.

"Hi, I'm Ian Carrington," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it for about a microsecond before she dropped it. "I've met you before. You're Amanda's lawyer."

Bree said "lawyer" with the disgust generally reserved for con artists who bilked seniors of their life savings. But he ignored that. At least she remembered meeting him. A blank look from her would have been a serious blow to his ego. "Exactly. It's great to see you again, Bree. Do you have a minute? I have a business proposition I'd like to discuss with you."

"Uh . . . sure. Okay." Bree looked confused, but she did step back to let him in, bumping into a girl in the process who Ian recognized as her younger sister.

"Abby, give me some breathing room," she said in annoyance. Then to him, "Come on in."

As Ian stepped into the entryway of the house, Abby was grinning from ear to ear, which was a little distracting. Ian offered her his hand as well. "Ian Carrington."

"Abigail Murphy," she said, still smiling. "I'm psychic."

One of Ian's eyebrows shot up before he could stop it. "That's nice," he said, for lack of anything better to say. Kookiness obviously ran in the family.

"Abby," Bree said, her voice laced with warning.

"I just told Bree not fifteen minutes ago that a guy with a pink shirt was going to ring her doorbell and that you—"

Bree's hand clapped over her sister's mouth, cutting off Abby's words. Bree gave him a sheepish look, her cheeks tinting with embarrassment. "Sorry. She's sweet but delusional."

Ian glanced down involuntarily at his pink shirt.

Why did he get the feeling he'd just been insulted?

What the hell was wrong with pink anyway? It wasn't like it was hot pink, it was a very faint, light, barely there pink. It was a very now color in corporate circles.