Page 3 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed

“But it’s a reality TV show. . .”

He gives me a droll look.

“There’s nothing ‘real’ about reality TV—you know that, right?”

“I do now,” I mumble.

“Don’t worry, the network doesn’t want to change you a lot,” he reassures. “Just some highlights to your hair, a few personality tweaks, your name—”

“Not a lot, huh?” I scoff. “What’s wrong with my hair and name?”

I don’t bother asking about my personality—there’s a reason I’m single. I put the bitch in witch, and I like it that way.

“The network thinks you need a more. . . traditional witch name and look,” Preston begins, and I scowl.

There is nothing more traditional or witchy than my name. Evanora Porter was the name of Mother Shipton’s oldest daughter—the one that she gave her grimoire to. . . which is kind of eerie considering that I’m trying to get it back now. But, you know—magic and all that.

“And this new name would be. . .”

“Crystal Moon,” Preston supplies.

Ugh.

That’s not traditional, it’s Neo-pagan, at best. But, then again, that’s how humans view witchcraft.

“And the hair?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“The network was thinking some colored streaks to complement your, er, hippie look.”

“Hippie?! They want me to be a hippy witch? Why can’t I be the bitchy witch?” I pout.

Preston’s melodic laughter sends a wave of tingles through me.

“That role is already taken by another contestant.”

“Lucky ho,” I gripe.

“More like ‘lucky bastard,’” he corrects.

The show’s witch bitch is a dude?

“I still don’t see what’s wrong with me how I am.” I go back to my original complaint.

“I agree, you’re absolutely gorgeous the way you are,” my ‘on-screen coach’ says with a wink, and my ovaries perk up.

It’s been a while since they’ve heard flirting and take it as an invitation to jump Preston’s boner—I mean bones.

“So, is all this a deal-breaker?” I wonder.

Preston shifts uncomfortably. “I’m afraid so, but the network will pay for everything.”

I hang my head in defeat.

I have to get that grimoire back—at any cost.

And, apparently, that cost is my dignity.

I fucking hate the Putnams.