Page 1 of Bewitched By the Siren (The Bewitching Hour #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Brendan

Who knew barely seventy-degree weather could feel like a steam shower? Fuck.

I strip out of my jacket the minute I step out of the airport into the thick, unbreathable air, a sheen of sweat already forming on my brow. It’s November, and in other parts of the country, this would be a mild autumn day. But in Savannah?

It feels like the seventh level of hell.

I hope this is worth it. My boss seems to think it is, and honestly, he’s rarely wrong. And when Julius Bray demands you hop on a six-and-a-half hour flight to the deep south to check out a possible new client, there’s nothing to do but get on that plane.

Hali Weston––the undiscovered singer I’m supposed to assess––is a bit of an enigma. She’s like a ghost. No social media presence. Zero videos of her online. No demos. No discernable interest in being discovered and rocketed to new levels of fame.

At all.

The only reason Julius even knows she exists is because an acquaintance of his vacationed in Circe Key and happened to catch one of her performances at a small dive bar in town.

Apparently, Julius trusts the guy’s opinions and instincts, because here I am, a week later, renting a car and driving to the modest beach house I booked on the small island off the Georgia coast. If Miss Weston really is as good as Julius’ contact said she is, and I can convince her to hire our agency to represent her, it’ll help my career and take me one step closer to achieving my goals.

Collecting my rental car takes longer than I expected, and I fight to hide my impatience as the slow-talking representative with the deep southern drawl processes my reservation. By the time I get into the mid-sized sedan, I’m a hot, sweaty mess.

I turn the air conditioner on full-blast, then enter my destination in the car’s GPS system before pulling out of the parking garage.

It’s an hour-and-a-half’s drive to Circe Key from here, but as long as the air conditioner continues working, I don’t mind.

I’ve never seen this part of the country. I’m excited to explore it.

The forest on either side of the road gives way to wet marshlands.

Giant trees with long strands of moss hanging from their branches grow on one side of the highway while long stretches of sandy beach unfold on the other.

It’s got a magical feel about it, something earthy and ancient that’s completely unfamiliar to me.

We have beaches in southern California, of course, but they’re surrounded by concrete, asphalt, and rows of buildings that block the sea from view unless you’re on the Pacific Coast Highway… or walking on the sand, itself.

Something about this place makes me feel relaxed in a way I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe forever. Despite the sweltering humidity, it’s beautiful.

When I reach the bridge that will take me over to Circe Key, I’m almost disappointed the trip is over.

But as I drive into town, I realize this place is a hidden gem with its clapboard shops, souvenir stands, and outdoor eating areas.

I roll down my window and am delighted to feel the air is cooler here than it was in Savannah.

Turning off the air conditioner, I roll down the other windows and breathe in the warm, salty air.

Looking to my left, I see Memaw’s , the small dive bar where Julius’s friend saw Hali Weston perform last weekend. Checking out the screen mounted in the dashboard, I see my rental house is only three blocks away, which means I can easily walk to the bar tonight and take a closer look at the town.

I park on the curb in front of the rental, a cute little one-story with sun-bleached white wooden siding.

Walking up the steps to the front porch, I punch the code the rental agency gave me into the keypad on the door.

Hearing the lock disengage, I open the door and walk inside.

The curtains are all open, letting in the afternoon sun, and I’m completely charmed by the interior.

The place is decorated in hues of beige and blue, giving it a real beachy feel. It boasts one bedroom, a small yet fully-equipped kitchen, a small living room with a plush couch, and even has a laundry room.

Sliding open the glass door in the kitchen, I step out onto a deck that faces the ocean. Wow . I’m so glad this place is on the eastern side of the island. The view is spectacular. A wooden ramp leads from the deck down to the sandy beach.

I definitely won’t mind staying here for as long as it take to convince Hali Weston to sign with us.

Julius told me not to come back without a contract––if she’s as good as he’s heard, that is.

I have an open-ended rental agreement with the owner of this bungalow and no return ticket to L.A. I am here for the long haul.

And the first step is to see Hali perform and get some video footage for Julius.

I head back inside to unpack, shower, and change for tonight. By the time I finish, the evening air has cooled even further and the humidity has eased. I have a couple of hours before showtime, so I decide to take a walk around town, explore, and find someplace to eat, first.

The sidewalks are teeming with people, and nearly every one of them greets me in some manner as I pass by. Smiles, nods, and muttered “good evenings” in lilting southern accents leave me feeling warm and welcomed. It’s just like something out of one of those cheesy cable channel romance movies.

I don’t hate it.

I come across a small Italian restaurant with a large sandwich-board sign out front that advertises lasagna as tonight’s special, so I step inside.

The place is dimly lit with red-shaded light fixtures, and the hostess greets me with a wide, warm smile before I tell her I only need a table for one.

Nodding, she plucks a large menu from the stack on her podium and waves at me to follow her.

My shock at being seated immediately, rather than having to wait the requisite hour I’d have to endure back home, is only outweighed by the surprise of my waitress appearing the second I sit, introducing herself as Taylor and asking what I’d like to drink.

“What would you suggest?” I ask, unable to resist returning her bright smile.

Is everyone on this island nice ?

“Alcoholic or not?” she asks.

“Not,” I say, deciding I should keep a clear head since I’m technically working tonight.

“The sweet tea is cold and delicious,” she says. “Or we have a variety of sodas, lemonade, or plain old water.”

“I’ll take a sweet tea. And the lasagna dinner,” I say, offering her my menu without even opening it.

Her smile widens as she takes it and shoots me a wink. “Great choice. The lasagna is amazing. I’ll be right back with that sweet tea.”

“Thank you,” I say and watch as she bounces away, her dark ponytail swinging behind her.

I check out the other customers and staff as I wait, and nearly every one of them is smiling. And not polite, fake smiles that come out when you think you have to. Real, happy smiles that broadcast contentment.

“Here you go,” Taylor says as she materializes beside me once more.

I thank her, and she watches me expectantly until I realize she’s waiting for me to try the tea.

Nodding, I lift the glass to my lips and take a long swig.

I don’t dare flinch when the sugary liquid pours over my tongue.

It’s not bad, just unexpected. I hum with pleasure as I swallow, and Taylor grins at me before telling me she’ll be out in the two shakes of a dog’s tail with my food.

I’ve never heard the euphemism before, but if I have to guess, I’d say it means “soon.”

And she wasn’t lying.

A few minutes later, I have a hot, steaming plate of some of the best looking and smelling lasagna I’ve seen. Taylor sets a jar of grated parmesan like the kind you see in pizza parlors in front of me before taking a small step back and asking if there’s anything else I need.

“Actually, yes,” I say, cocking my head. “I’m headed over to Memaw’s tonight. Are you familiar with the place?”

She shakes her head and chuckles. “Everyone knows Memaw. And all the locals hang out there.”

“Wait,” I say, “Memaw is a real person?”

“Of course, she is,” she says with another laugh. “And don’t get on her bad side, or you’ll end up black-balled.”

“What about the entertainment? I heard there’s an amazing singer who performs on the weekends…Hali Weston. You know her?”

“What about her?” she asks, her smile dropping for the first time since I sat down.

I pull out my wallet while she eyes me suspiciously. Plucking out one of my business cards, I hand it over. Her eyes narrow as she reads it. Handing it back to me, she lifts her chin.

“Yeah, I know her. She’s performing tonight, but don’t get your hopes up. She has no interest in getting a record deal or being famous.”

I shake my head. “Every singer wants to be famous and adored by the masses.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she says, then spins around and heads back to the server station in the corner.

The smell of melted cheese and spices overwhelms my curiosity over Taylor’s sudden change in attitude, so I pick up my fork and take a big bite. Oh, my God. She was right. This is the best lasagna I’ve ever had.

Looking around, I spot Taylor in the same spot in the corner, her phone to her ear, and her eyes locked on me as she speaks urgently into the device.

Her gaze turns devilish, and she nods to herself before she taps at the screen and drops the phone into the pocket of her apron. What was that all about?

Taylor still smiles when she comes by to refill my tea and bring me the check, but it’s different.

More like she has a juicy secret rather than the bright hospitality she showed before.

I pay the bill and leave her a nice tip before heading out.

It’s almost time for the show, and I want to get a good table at Memaw’s .

And…I should’ve come earlier.

The place is packed with people milling around the bar, waiting for one of the two bartenders to fill their orders.

There a small stage on the back wall, and I spot a small, empty table near it that will give me the perfect view.

I bypass the crowd at the bar and stride toward it, sliding into the seat just before another patron pulls up short with a frown a few feet away.

His pinched expression smooths out when he spots another empty table nearby, and he rushes to grab it before he loses that one, too.

A roar explodes in the bar as a drummer, a guitarist, and a keyboard player climb onto the stage and start warming up.

A beat later, a woman joins them, and I’m stunned into stupidity.

She’s beautiful, with long, curly strawberry-blonde hair and a pair of bright eyes of which I can’t make out the color in the dim lighting.

She’s wearing a slinky, sequined dress and her feet are bare.

There’s something wild and ethereal about her, something that has me slack-jawed as I stare at her in wonder.

She greets the crowd, and as they shout back, I snap out of the stupor I’d fallen into and jerk my phone out of my pocket. Tapping at the screen, I put the camera in video-mode and point it in her direction.

“Alright y’all,” she says, her voice smooth and lyrical, “put those phones away. Y’all know Memaw’s has a strict no photo or video policy.”

She grins impishly, and I find myself closing my camera app and tucking my phone back into my pocket as a shiver rolls down my spine.

Something in the back of my mind argues that this is what I’m here for, and Julius will kill me if he doesn’t get a video, but I can’t seem to pull my phone back out.

I don’t want to break the rules. I don’t want to disappoint Hali.

I want her to be happy, not angry with me.

Then she starts to sing, and my thoughts scatter. Completely.

Holy shit .