Page 103 of The Witching Hours

She held up a hand for me to high five and I did. “You know it. “

“Facial hair?”

“Didn’t see, but you know that’s a deal breaker for me.”

I have an aversion to facial hair. The idea of food in zero proximity distance to hair makes me want to wretch.

We found street parking in a neighborhood just a couple of blocks south of the festival that looked surprisingly like the Garden District in New Orleans. It was striking in a postcard way because we were at the beginning of azalea season. It was clear that homeowners in that neighborhood were serious azalea enthusiasts.

“Wow. How come I didn’t know this was here?”

Cass shrugged. “Not your town.” She meant that, like most Houstonians, I’m a transplant. Although in my case it barely counts because I moved from Corpus Christi. “You’re not going to give me props on my astounding only-one-try parallel parking?”

“When you park my SUV in one try, you’ll get props. But Cass. Seriously. Anybody could parallel park a Mini Cooper in one try.”

She huffed. “I’m thinking about trading it in.”

“Really. For what?”

“This incredibly cool VW convertible bug. Navy blue with white seats.”

“Congratulations. You’re talking about trading down to the only car I can think of that’slesssafe than what you have.”

“What do you mean? Have you seen Smart Cars? You can parallel park by heading straight in!”

“Yeah. You’ve got me there,” I said drily. “Am I in your will?”

“Funny. I don’t have a will. But you should do that. You’re forty, you know.”

I got an image that involved both of my hands around her throat, but since she was driving I let that remain a fantasy.

Cass had been right about getting good parking by coming early. It really was her town. The artists were still setting up when we arrived. “Let’s grab real coffee while they’re finishing up,” I said.

I didn’t have to explain what I meant by real coffee. It’s coffee with a personalized list of stuff you don’t keep at home, made in machines you can’t afford by somebody who’s not you who gets your name wrong half the time.

Everybody was right about the festival. It was colorful and fun. The weather couldn’t have been better. There were food vendors with every manner of street tacos, lobster rolls, tapas, churros, kabobs, and street corn. It was hard to pass up, but I was holding out for Rainbow Lodge.

We passed a tent with large canvases displayed inside and out. One caught my eye. I knew would look marvelous in my living room. I didn’t dare ask the price because, if I could’ve managed to buy it, I might have.

“See anything you like?” she asked, just as we turned a corner and came face to face with McDreamy in the flesh. It was the guy from my dream. How did I know that since I hadn’t seen his face? Sounds crazy, but I don’t have an answer for that.

He had the same dark hair and blue eyes as the cleanshaven guy in my dream. Late thirties. Flat stomach. Of course, that begged the usual question. Was he gay?

He was wearing jeans and a faded sea-green tee. No designer label. Slight fraying of the hem around the neck. Two checks for the straight column. I was getting ready to look for a wedding ring when a ponytailed blonde handed him something while giving him a playful hip check.

Right. Not gay. Also not available.

Cass reacted like I’d said every thought out loud. “Ugh!” she said. “What’s the point of dreaming about a guy if it’s going to turn out that he’s taken? The Universe sucks!”

I looked at her. “It’s scary that you can read my mind like that. Is there anything about me you don’t know?”

She locked arms and pulled me away so that we were ambling again. “I’m betting there are some depth-charge secrets. Maybe even some that are dark!”

I laughed. “You’d be wrong.”

“Of course, that’s what you’d say if you were a parttime serial killer. I’m also betting there are some hopes and dreams I know nothing about.”

I shook my head. “I must be a boring person. I don’t think I have hopes and dreams. Maybe I should get some.”

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