She nods, face pale, and darts to the indicated drawer, returning with three silver forks. We each take one, and then they both watch me as I lower mine toward the tart. I almost hate to ruin the perfection of its shape. I restrain the urge to photograph it, and instead press the tines of the fork into the decadent meringue, its whisked peaks and raised surfaces richly browned like a cloud that floated too close to the sun. There's slight resistance, and then my fork presses down into the strawberry rhubarb mixture. It's the deepest, richest crimson I've ever seen. Down to the crust, which parts with a little crunch.
I lift a perfect segment into the air, scooping it up neatly. Anita is clenching her hands by my side, staring at me as if I were a fox and she a trapped hen. I examine the slice of tart in the clear morning sunlight. It looks amazing. Closing my eyes, I place it in my mouth and bite down.
Good lord. The flavors and texture are out of this world. I groan, cupping my hand to my mouth to catch any crumbs, bending over as the smooth, creamy richness of the meringue contrasts with the sharp tartness of the sweet rhubarb filling. And the crust! Perfection. It's like an orchestra of flavors, a symphony of deliciousness. My tongue luxuriates in the crumbly sensation of the crust, the heavenly meringue cream, the nubbins of fruit. I've sampled the best that NYC has to offer, from specialty cake shops to the richest desserts at the finest restaurants that Paul would take me to. None of them compare to this tart.
I hear a moan next to me and open my eyes to see Hui, her eyes wide with alarm, her jaw working, a fork held in one hand. Her moans seem to be coming despite her attempt at self-control, and her eyes dart from side to side as she's assaulted by the flavors. I want to laugh, I want to hug her. Poor Hui!
"And?" Anita can't wait any longer.
I compose my face. Swallow once, twice, then lick the fork clean. "Anita."
"Yes?" Her eyes are wide.
"This tart." I can barely form the words.
"Yes? What did you think?"
I take a deep breath and stare at it. "Having you as our cook is going to be a disaster."
"A - what?" Her face drains of color.
"I know I'm a curvy woman, but with tarts like these available in the fridge, I am going to lose all self-control. It's amazing. It's like -"
Hui speaks, voice distant, overwhelmed. "Like sex with food."
"Hui!" We both round on her, and she blinks, suddenly aware of what she just said, and blushes a deep red.
I laugh, but nod. "Yes! It is. This tart is indecent. It's amazing. Where did you learn to bake like this?"
"You like it?" Tears brim in Anita's eyes, and she suddenly sits, as if her legs have just given out. "Oh, thank you. Oh god." She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders hitching.
"Anita?" I set the fork aside and sit next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Anita? What is it?"
"I - I was so worried you wouldn't." She looks up at me, tears running down her face. "I made six of them last night. I almost didn't come."
"But - why?" I shake my head. "You're amazing. Why were you so worried?"
"I really need this job." Her voice shakes as she looks from me to Hui, who also sits. "I have to become independent. I have to make my own money, and - and I've never worked in a restaurant, or been to culinary school, and it's the only thing I know how to do. It's the only thing I love."
I nod, squeezing her shoulder. "And you're amazing at it, do you hear me? Amazing. You're hired." I turn to Hui. "Do I even need to say that out loud?"
Hui shakes her head. "No. It is a given."
"Yes. A given." I stare into Anita's eyes. "You're hired."
"Oh, thank god." Anita's shoulders sag and she smiles at me. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You'll see. I'll cook for you like nobody has ever cooked in the history of all - of all -"
"Cooking?" I say with a smile.
"Yes!" Anita grins.
Hui holds up her fork. "I am going to have more."
"Good idea," I say, grabbing my own.
I want to ask Anita what's wrong, what she's running from, but I hold back. She'll tell me in time, when she's ready. If she chooses to trust me. For now, the happiness that radiates from her face as Hui and I demolish her tart warms my soul. She doesn't join in, but simply rests her chin on her palm and beams as Hui and I groan and eat, licking the forks as we do. Thank god it's a small tart. I don't think I'd be able to stop myself from finishing it, no matter the size.
"Thank you, Anita," says Hui, rising to her feet. She presses her fingertips to her mouth, then nods to her. "That was delicious."
"You're welcome," says Anita, smiling broadly, eyes sparkling behind her librarian glasses.
"I'm going to go buy the cleaning supplies," Hui says. "I will return soon. Excuse me."
She leaves the kitchen, and I turn to Anita.
"Why don't you spend the morning putting together a menu for our guests? With a little luck we're going to be serving shifters, so you might want to talk to our gardener, Blake, about what they might like to eat."
"Shifters?" Anita's eyes go wide. "Like, werewolves? Werebears? Werelions?"
I nod. "Is that OK?"
Anita smiles dreamily. "Is it OK that I'll be feeding the hottest men on the planet every morning? I'll say."
I grin. "You're a girl after my own heart, Anita. Take some time familiarizing yourself with the kitchen, then feel free to hunt down Blake and start brainstorming a menu. Sound good?"
"Yes," Anita says, and then reaches out to take my hand. "Thank you."
I feel my heart squeeze. There is such sincere gratitude in her eyes. "No, Anita. Thank you. It's going to be very special to have you join the Honeycomb Hall family."
She smiles, tears brimming in her eyes, and I stand. "Now I need to get to work. There's lots to do!"
And there is. I spend an hour on the phone with Mr. Hanscomb, exploring the legal requirements of becoming a B&B, and he promises to bring over all the necessary application forms for certificates. I then get on my laptop and read through the sanitation and hygiene requirements for the kitchen and bathrooms, as well as all the other regulations I'll need to cover. I know the New York requirements like the back of my hand, but the Massachusetts ones are another story.
When I'm done, I realize two things. For one, it's lunch time. Two, I think Honeycomb Hall is in good shape to pass all the requirements without too much remodeling.
I leave the study and immediately see that Hui's returned and is already hard at work. All the windows are open, the heavy drapes drawn back, and all the rugs and carpets have been taken outside and beaten. She's mopping the entry hall floor, suds everywhere, when I wave and interrupt her. She stops, blinking and frowning.
"Lunch time!" I say, and point at the kitchen. She gives me a curt nod, and I leave her straining the mop into the bucket.
Anita's been at work in the kitchen already, not waiting for Hui to come back there and clean, and I see that she's fixed up a large bowl of salad filled with chopped cherry tomatoes and grilled asparagus. It smells divine, perfect on this late summer morning.
I lean my head out the window and see Blake hacking at the undergrowth with a scythe, cutting down large swathes of tall grass.
"Lunch!" I yell, and he looks over his shoulder at me with a hungry expression that I tell myself must be for the salad, but which still sends a shockwave of desire right down to my sore pussy.
Anita sets the breakfast table, and soon the four of us are seated. I can't help but feel a thrill as I look around at their faces. It's beginning. Honeycomb Hall has new life, new energy. I can feel it. We chatter and laugh as Anita serves our plates, and though Blake stares at his salad without much enthusiasm, he still picks up his fork. Something about the delicious honey lemon dressing causes his face to light up, and he begins chewing enthusiastically.
We're halfway through the meal when the doorbell rings. I set my fork down, and motioning for the others to continue, smile and walk toward the door. For some reason Blak
e joins me. Perhaps to accost me in the hall on the way back, I hope, but when I open the front door I realize that's not the reason why.
There's a large, dangerous-looking man with a narrow face and scraggly facial hair standing outside. He's wearing a biker's jacket and oil-stained jeans, and something about the way he looks me up and down immediately makes me glad Blake's standing right beside me.
"Maric," says Blake, voice cold.
Maric. The wolf who stole Blake's pack from under him after Mama B trapped him here at Honeycomb Hall.
"Blake." The man grins a yellow-toothed smile. It's not pleasant. "And who's this delicious little thing?"
"My name's Rachel Wilder," I say, stepping forward. "And you're on my property. What can I do for you?" Nobody gets to make me feel like that. Nobody.
"Wilder, eh? Mama B's granddaughter." He looks sideways at Blake. "I've felt pity for you these past few years, Blake, but I never thought I'd feel jealous. You've already claimed her?"
He goes to lean in and sniff at me, but suddenly Blake's hand is wrapped around his throat, and he's forcing Maric back, right to the edge of the steps so that the other wolf finds himself precariously balanced on the tips of his toes, arms flailing for balance.
"Go on, Maric." Blake's voice is lethal. "Give me reason to break your neck."
Maric growls, swipes his arm across Blake's, breaking his hold, then staggers and trips down the steps, almost falling onto his ass as he does so. He growls low, a junkyard dog sound, and then spits. "I came to bring the Cairn Elder's answer to your request. When I heard it, I demanded to be the one to bring the news."
My heart sinks. Oh no.
Maric grins. "You've been denied. The Cairn won't sanction Honeycomb Hall to acts as its Lodge. Which is too bad, given the Convocation that's taking place this weekend. Sorry, Blake. Too bad."
"But why?" I take a step forward. "Why not?"
"Why not?" Maric sneers. "You're no witch. You've got no power. How would you control the packs and shifters under your own roof? How would you keep the peace?" His sneer turns into a malicious smile. "You can't."
"I'll help her," says Blake. "I'll keep the peace here."
"You? Nobody even remembers who you are, Blake. You're a wannabe alpha who got turned into a kennel dog by Mama B. No. If you want this plan to work, sweetheart, ask me and my pack to move in and help. We'll keep the peace. If you'll agree to suck my -"
Blake roars and leaps forward, shifting into his werewolf warform in the blink of an eye. Suddenly nine feet tall and covered in iron gray fur, he backhands Maric across the face with punishing strength, sending the man tumbling down onto the gravel, where he rolls and comes up in his own warform. As tall as Blake but not nearly as muscled and broad, he crouches, lips snarling back from his yellowed fangs.
The two wolves stare at each other, eyes locked, both snarling in the ugliest, most terrifying manner. I back away slowly, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and hide behind one of the porch columns. Are they going to kill each other? They continue to stare and snarl, and then I realize it's a match of wills. A fight for dominance. The tension in the air is so thick it's hard to breathe.
Finally Maric looks away and shifts down into his human form, wiping his hand across his bloodied lip. "You're not worth fighting, Blake." His voice is mean and curdled with anger. "You're just a jumped-up gardener. Not worth my time."
Blake also shifts back into his human form. "You step foot on these grounds again, I'll tear your spine out. You hear me, Maric?"
"Whatever. Why would I come here? Why would any shifter come here? This place will never be the Lodge. You'll never convince the Cairn." He looks at me in contempt. "You'd have better luck turning this place into a brothel. If you'll spread your legs for Blake, why not make an extra dollar -"
But Blake's warning growl cuts him off, and Maric backpedals, hustling for the front gate. He manages to catch himself and slow down, fighting for dignity, though he keeps shooting worried looks over his shoulder even as he steps out onto the street and disappears.
I sink onto the porch steps. Blake stands still, watching the gate, stiff and furious, and then slowly turns to me. I see concern in his handsome face, mingled with sadness. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm so sorry."
Anita steps out onto the porch, followed by Hui, their faces pale. "What does this mean?"
"It means it's over," I say, voice leaden, heart breaking. I can't look anybody in the face. Did I think this was going to work? Did I experience a moment of true happiness just moments ago around the breakfast table? "If I can't convince the Cairn Elder, then my dream for Honeycomb Hall is dead before it even gets started."
Chapter Eight
They all look at me with different expressions on their faces. Anita looks horrified. Blake looks furious and frustrated both. Hui appears inscrutable, but I can see a tightness in her eyes that speaks of a world of disappointment.
"There may be a way," I say. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to go there. But what choice do I have?
"What way?" Blake's voice is tight, suspicious.
"I'll be back." I stand up, suddenly resolute. I owe it to them to explore every option. I owe it to Mama B and her hopes for me. I owe it to myself.
Turning, ignoring the questions on their faces, I march into the hall, stepping over Hui's mop, and climb the stairs to the broad landing. Walk down the hall to Mama B's room, and close her bedroom door behind me. Press my back against it, heart hammering against my ribs like a rubber mallet. Do I want to open that chest? Hell no. Do I have a choice? Not that I can tell.
I take a deep breath. Open and close my hands, bite my lower lip, then step forward and throw the chest open before I can change my mind.
There it is. Mama B's staff. Dark wood and blood red crystal. I bite my lower lip again, frozen. What will happen when I touch it? Will I change? Is there any going back? I gulp. I've never done anything more magical than have a tarot reading done for me. Now here, lying in front of me, is something of real power.
I reach down. Hesitate, my fingertips an inch from the wood, and then grab it. I close my eyes, holding it as far from me as I can - and nothing happens. I crack open one eye, then the other. What the hell? I hold it closer. I don't feel anything. No zing of magic. No zap of power. I give it an experimental shake. Nothing.
"What the hell? Are you kidding me?"
I assure you, I rarely jest.
I let out a yelp and drop the staff, darting across the room to hide behind the wardrobe. The staff bounces and rattles on the floorboards. Silence. I try to stuff myself out of sight. My eyes dart back and forth.
What. Or - who? Who said that?
"Hello?"
Nothing. I gulp. Peer around the wardrobe. Nothing. Nobody there. Just the staff lying on the floor. I take a deep breath. OK. I can do this. I'm a tough chica from NYC. I've got attitude, a hell of a booty, and I'm tougher than cheap diner steak.
I tiptoe closer and prod the staff with my shoe. Nothing. So I crouch down and pick it up again.
"Hello?"
To be honest, this is proving to be an awkward introduction. Please don't drop me again.
The old gentleman's voice sounds inside my head, complete with a posh British accent. "Who are you?"
Not who, but what. I am a staff of power, once the possession of Simon Trimagister, who made a copy of his mind and implanted it in the wood that you hold.
"You were once a person?" I'm doing my best not to sway, my knees weak.
A copy of one, yes.
"And - wow." Not the most eloquent thing I've ever said. I sit down on the bed. "Can you help me?"
With what, exactly?
"I need to convince the Cairn Elder to let me turn Honeycomb Hall into the Cairn Lodge. He doesn't think I can control my shifter guests."
Control? Control them how? Like puppets?
"No! I mean, stop them from fighting, or, I don't know, clawing up the bedposts." I'm not exactly sure what kind of t
rouble shifters can get into. "You know, like keep the peace."
Ah. Authority. I can indeed help you with that. There are many ways of impressing others into behaving.
"You can?" I almost bounce on the bed. "How would you do that?"
It depends on the style you wish to adopt. You could call lightning down upon a tree, blasting it apart and making them fear you. You could charm their senses, making them worship you as a queen. Intimidation or love. Which would you prefer?
I shiver. Power. I look at the staff, holding it in both hands. Real power. "I don't want people to be afraid of me. But I don't want them worshiping me either. Can I just punish people if they step out of line? But, like, fairly?"
It is up to you to determine what is fair, but absolutely. As long as you wield me, you wield the means toward whichever end you desire.
I gulp. I'm almost afraid. As if I'm standing on the edge of a building and looking down at the street far below. Power.
"Erm, thank you. Thank you very much." I stand and put the staff back in the chest and close the lid. Holding it gives me ideas. Dangerous ideas. Ideas that aren't quite in line with who I am. Like hunting down Paul and turning him into a frog. Or asking the staff to conjure up a pile of cash. Or -
No. I leave the room and skip down the stairs. The others have returned to the breakfast table and are eating in silence, looking downcast. I step into the room and beam at them. They look puzzled, completely surprised by my sudden change in mood.
"We're back in business! Blake, I need you to find out which is the most dangerous pack that's coming for this weekend's Convocation. And invite them to stay here, free of charge."
"What?" His eyes go wide and he pushes back from the table. "The most dangerous pack? Staying here?"
I nod and sit down, picking up my fork. "I think we can be ready for them. Hui? Anita? Do you think you could be ready for guests by this Saturday?"
Den and Breakfast: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance (Honeycomb Falls Book 1) Page 6