Something Witchy This Way Comes (Low Country Witches Book 2): Low Country Witches, #2

By Koko Brown

From the moment Senior Chief Petty Officer Cole Rodriguez lays eyes on celebrity-TV-chef-turned restaurateur Sinclair Fletcher, he prays his secret crush turns into something more. But convincing the elusive foodie, who keeps people at ladle's length, to get on the same page might prove more difficult than a six-hundred-meter dive for the naval master diver.

 

Out of the frying pan into the fire…

Sinclair Fletcher's a witch from a long line of witches. So capitalizing on a hundred-year old spell to launch a life-long dream isn't a big deal. Too bad the spell comes with a major flaw: anyone who eats her food falls in love with her. For that reason, she doesn't allow anyone to step foot in her kitchen let alone her heart.

 

Her goose is cooked…

On the busiest weekend of the calendar, Sinclair's spell goes haywire and everyone wants a piece of her. Will she be able to keep her secret or will it crumble in the strong arms of a certain petty officer?

 

Note: Every chapter of this book contains a personal recipe of the author who was raised in the deep south. Something Witchy This Way Comes is also a reboot of a previously published book released under the title, Cooking With Sin. Besides a significant name change and a new cover, the story has been extended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koko Brown
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393604471

Book preview

Prologue

Atlanta, Georgia

Your show’s been canceled.

Her insides twisting in knots, Sinclair glanced at each of her producers. The cowards. Each pair of eyes dropped in guilt—or more like embarrassment. Not even the bearer of bad news, her executive producer Jill Schumacher, could stand to look at her. As soon as she’d dropped the bomb, Jill had suddenly taken an undue interest in her iPhone.

So this was the big news that had kept them from doing this morning’s shoot. When she’d arrived at the crack of dawn, they’d shuttled her into a production trailer to discuss some pressing business.

Sinclair swallowed the cold, hard dose of reality they’d fed her before breakfast, but it didn’t upset her stomach. In all honesty, she’d known this day would come. She’d seen the writing on the wall as soon as they’d laid Aunt Bernie to rest over a year ago. The only reason she hadn’t walked away from Cooking with Sin was because her aunt wanted her to continue with the show.

And she’d done it as long as she could, while guarding the secret they’d kept for the show’s five-season run.

What no one knew, not even her producers, was that she, Sinclair Delilah Fletcher, was a fraud.

When it came to cooking, she knew the basics, but in actuality, Aunt Bernie was the culinary genius behind the show’s Low Country recipes that kept three million television viewers tuning in every week.

And shortly after Aunt Bernie’s death, the signs that would bring about the show’s eventual demise had begun. The stagnant sales of a cookbook Sinclair had released nine months ago. The less than stellar reviews since the season premiere. And now, a year after Aunt Bernie’s death, the show’s viewership had plummeted to less than half a million.

Dix Collins, one of the show’s executive producers, sat forward. The director’s chair groaned sickly under his bulky weight, drawing Sinclair’s attention.

Sin, look, even though your contract stipulates you can’t move on to another show for two years, the network will honor a percentage of the remainder of your contract. He paused to look down at the screen of his iPhone. According to my calculations, it should be thirty-five percent of the remaining years.

Sinclair did a quick calculation. Into the fifth year of a six-year contract, her six-figure income was about to dry up faster than an unlucky senior citizen’s pot at a bingo parlor. Even worse, Sin had been careless with her money.

Instead of having a nice nest egg, all she had to show for her stint on Cooking with Sin was a condo currently underwater and worth about twenty thousand less than what she’d paid for it. Thousands of frequent flyer miles, a wardrobe rivaling Carrie Bradshaw’s, a six series BMW she loved more than life itself, and a bank account with less than a quarter of her total earnings from the show.

You’re going to be okay, kiddo, Dix offered her a conciliatory smile. You’re walking away at the top of your game. You’re still under thirty-five, and you should have a nice nest egg set aside. Maybe now you can open that restaurant you’ve always talked about.

Finished with his obligatory cheer up speech, Dix snapped his fingers in the air, then rolled his forefinger. On cue, the Peachtree Studio’s production crew started to break their equipment down.

And you never know. Jill’s voice rose by degrees while the shredded remnants of Sinclair’s life were rolled up and packed away. You might get tapped again. You know, like Emeril Lagasse.

Sinclair’s stomach gurgled with the first sign of unease. Not from the possibility of headlining another show but at the not so subtle reminder of a lifelong dream. Well, not entirely hers, since she’d shared it with Aunt Bernie.

They’d planned to open a restaurant at the end of the show’s run. They’d already agreed on the name, Too Sinful to Burn, and the location, a mixed-use building Aunt Bernie had purchased more than forty years ago in downtown Savannah, Georgia. Currently, a mercantile store occupied the bottom floor, and renters resided in the top two.

If their dream had been realized, Aunt Bernie would have had free rein of the kitchen while Sinclair managed the business. They were going to be a well-oiled machine, much like their time together on Cooking with Sin. Unfortunately, death had smashed a sledgehammer through it all, disrupting both of their futures.

Sinclair groaned. Her family was going to get a kick out of this! Miss Perfect, as they called her, was finally getting knocked off her pedestal. As the self-proclaimed star of a family of four sisters, all in the hospitality and food business, she’d left her Southern roots behind and gone to college to study broadcast journalism.

After graduating, she’d received a dose of reality in the ultra-competitive field she’d chosen. Opportunities that had come to her so easily in the past remained out of reach. Despite her best efforts, she fell into one field reporter position after another in some Podunk news station in some God-only-knows-where small town, USA.

After ten years of trying to climb the ladder, Sinclair had changed her priorities. She gave up being the hard-nosed, serious reporter exposing voter fraud in Sawmill, Indiana and became the quirky personality uncovering who made the best apple pies in Pennsylvania Dutch country.

Hundreds of offbeat foodie-centered features later, Sinclair had been presented with an opportunity to host a cooking show for a regional network in Atlanta, Georgia. She’d agreed to sign on only if they hired Aunt Bernie as a creative advisor.

To Sinclair’s surprise, the show’s popularity had snowballed into national syndication in less than two years, and they’d won an Emmy within four. Their surprising success was due to Aunt Bernie’s culinary genius.

Now everyone was suggesting she go from one lie to another.

Too bad she had too much pride to reach out to her family. As if it that would have helped. Her mother was adamantly retired, and her siblings had their hands full with their businesses. Her sister Rosalind helmed a popular wedding cake business. Her other sister Tanya’s candy-making business was on the verge of going national, and her older sister Veronica made a nice living for herself and her two little girls operating a matchmaking service.

So, how could a person who’d simply gone through the motions for five years open a restaurant? With Aunt Bernie gone, the idea seemed ludicrous.

We’re going to head to breakfast want to come with? Jill asked.

Break bread with the people who’d just canned her? I think I should stay and clear out my trailer.

As if they couldn’t wait to get out of there, they all rose as one. Sinclair gave them each an air kiss before waving goodbye. Of course, she couldn’t resist a bit of magic as a parting gift. Before receiving her walking papers, she’d heard rumors that production was looking to bankroll a new cooking show helmed by a pair of YouTubers barely out of high school. Supposedly, the wet-behind-the-ears foodies were Dix’s flunky nephews. 

So you depen’ on de phones, she uttered in Gullah, the language of her ancestors. Phones brek. Depen’ on no mo’.

As she waved her hand, Sinclair felt a surge of energy in her fingertips. Wiggling them, freeing any excess magic, she sat back to enjoy the show.

Hello...hello...hellooo? Dix shouted into his android.  

To his left, Jill yelped as a tiny mushroom cloud of smoke billowed from her iPhone.

Chris and Paulette, also ex-executive producers, had similar problems with their cells. One shot colored flames rivaling a Fourth of July sparkler. The other made a piercing squeal before Paulette pitched it into a nearby wall. 

Sinclair smiled. She could’ve done more but what she’d done sure felt good.  

Chapter One

Two years later, Savannah, Georgia

Soldier boy’s still out there waiting on his date. Grimacing, Mickey slammed her serving tray down on a prep table.

He’s actually a sailor, Archie, Sinclair’s prep cook, corrected. He’s wearing his service dress khakis.

Sinclair glanced at the clock above the deep fryer. At a half past nine, the man at the center of their conversation had arrived at seven for a seven fifteen reservation.

Normally, to obtain a table at Too Sinful to Burn, you didn’t need a reservation. On par with Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, minus the waffles and chicken, but with shrimp and grits it was first come, first serve. But the hectic St. Patrick’s Day holiday and the reported quarter of a million visitors in town, made a reservation system a temporary necessity or the line to get in would’ve stretch all the way down to the Savannah River.

Have you taken his order? Sinclair asked.

I tried three times, Mickey drawled, drawing out time. The leggy waitress talked slower than molasses. "Appears he’s an officer and a gentleman. He doesn’t want to order until his date arrives."

Did you tell him the kitchen closes in a half hour?

Mickey sighed as she leaned up against the prep station. She was waiting on Sinclair to fill table ten’s order. He knows, boss. In light of the peculiar circumstances, he seems perfectly content to nurse the Jack Daniels a customer bought him.

A wave of pity knotted Sinclair’s stomach. Poor guy couldn’t face the fact he’d been stood up by some heartless hood rat or medal chaser. At least he wasn’t giving up in the face of adversity, no matter the cost to his pride or ego. Left up to her, she would’ve deserted her post two hours ago.

And get this...when I suggested he move to the bar since he wasn’t eating, soldier boy claimed he couldn’t sit in there while in uniform. Mickey’s frown deepened. Too bad Con’s gone home sick. He’d charm that guy right out of his seat and out the door.

Sinclair didn’t doubt it. Con had a special way with people. His gregarious personality was one of the reasons why the former bar owner and father of two had won the job as both her head bartender and assistant manager.

Doubt it, Archie replied while he spooned two bowls of shrimp gumbo. You know Con’s kind nature and his soft spot for the military.

Sinclair doubted Mickey could remember anything past her own self-centered nose. She, on the other hand, couldn’t forget how much of a trooper Con was, despite having no family left. His wife had died of breast cancer