Brent’s Nissan pickup had roared into the driveway at five in the morning. After making sure he was the male at the wheel, she’d crawled into bed. Then she’d tossed about in her bed for an hour before finally drifting off into a fitful half slumber until nine. It was pointless to try to rest any longer. Her stomach growled and her mind wouldn’t quiet enough to snooze. She could fix one of those problems in the kitchen. Colin Turner sat at the base of the stairs blocking the path. Sara stopped behind him, waiting for the obstacle to move. When he didn’t stretch a muscle, she inhaled an irritated snuffle. “Colin, let me by.” The witch didn’t budge. “Where are you going?” Sara snorted. “The kitchen.” He glanced back, eyeing her hands as if checking for keys or a purse. Once satisfied she was telling the truth, he pulled himself upright to his height of five foot nine. His carrot-colored hair curled underneath the edges of his vinyl Yankees baseball cap giving him a boyish air that was at odds with the grim expression stretched across his face.
