Look Before You Bake: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 2)

by Cassie Wright

  But I can't help but feel as if a part of my heart is being torn away and taken by Soren as he goes, leaving me incomplete. He rounds the curve in the trail, and like that, he's gone. I'm looking at a beautiful forest, an empty forest, at a kaleidoscope of fall colors, but nothing else. I heave a bitter sigh, hug myself, and then reach down to shoulder my pack. Its weight is down almost three quarters from what I started out with, all the food gone, and I slip it on my back with ease. Turning, I walk the last five minutes and step out of the trail onto the road which leads back into town. I sigh as I dig out my cell phone and turn it on. Just shy of five o'clock. I can't wait to call my dad, to call Rachel and Hui, but first I make my most important call.

  The phone rings twice before it's answered. "Ms. Hall."

  "Mr. Whitman." I take a deep breath. "I have more honey."

  "Excellent." He practically purrs. "Coincidentally, I am in town today. I'm dining at the Wise Salmon. Would you care to join me?"

  "I – sure!" I need to shower. To change. Luckily the Salmon is only a block north of my apartment. Thank goodness for small towns.

  "Marvelous. Does five thirty work for you?"

  Half an hour. I can run home, shower, and just make it. "Sure! I'll see you there."

  "I'm looking forward to it." Then he hangs up.

  A thrill runs through me. I'm going to do it. I'm going to save my father. I immediately dial his number as I hustle into town, and leave an excited message on his voicemail. Then I call Rachel as I run down Conway Road, and leave a voicemail for her too. I run up to my second floor apartment, dump my backpack against the side of the couch, and fight the knot of sadness that my pile of romance novels sends shooting through me. I won't think of my own romantic adventure that's come to an end. I won't. I'm all business now. Hard, tough, cold as steel. Or at least, I have to be. I have to be tough, I have to make this deal work. Later I'll grieve for Soren, and what could have been.

  I arrive at the Wise Salmon only three minutes late. I can tell a week of hiking has done me well, as I'm barely out of breath as I hustle up to the door. Has it been only a week since I dined here with Rachel and Hui? That feels like months ago. It's a small establishment, and I quickly see Mr. Whitman seated by the back windows with the best view over the river. I've never met him before, but I know his face from the magazines. Patrician, silver haired, with an aquiline nose and gray chin, he's handsome for an older man. That expensive suit certainly doesn't hurt, either. He catches sight of me as I approach, and stands, extending his hand.

  "Ms. Hall. So glad you could join me."

  "Of course, Mr. Whitman. Thank you." We shake hands almost formally, and then I sit across from him. I can't believe I'm here. With him. He's famous. I've seen his TV shows. Dreamed of visiting Boston and eating at his restaurant. Read his biography where he detailed his travels around the world as a teen, savoring the cuisines of different cultures. And now here he is. With me. Having dinner.

  The waitress steps up and Mr. Whitman orders a white wine. I ask for a water. The last thing I need is to have a spinning head while I'm trying to do business. He asks me about myself, and I discover that he's a wonderful conversationalist, interested, polite, amusing. Soon I'm asking him about his career, whether he really did eat insects in China, and he's regaling me with anecdotes and amusing stories. The food of course is delicious, and when the plates are finally taken away, I feel at ease, sophisticated, and very, very impressed that this world traveling and super famous chef would spend a whole dinner with me.

  "Now," says Mr. Whitman, leaning forward after ordering two crème brulees. "Shall we discuss business?"

  I nod, trying to compose my face in what I hope is a professional expression. "Yes. Absolutely."

  "You mentioned on the phone that you have acquired more Elysian honey. Is that correct?"

  I nod again. "I have. Yes."

  His eyes light up, and I notice him slowly relax his hands, as if he's fighting the urge to clench at his knife and fork or the tablecloth itself. "Wonderful. Is this to be a monthly delivery, or...?"

  "Seasonal." Soren said he would bring however much Iminyë gifted me every three months.

  "Seasonal. So a large delivery each time?"

  I nod again. "Yes, I believe so."

  "Mm-hmm." He nods and flicks away some breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. His tone becomes overly casual. "And... who's delivering the honey to you?"

  I hesitate. "A friend."

  "A friend. Of course. Does he – is it a he? Does he live here in Honeycomb Falls?" Mr. Whitman glances up with a smile that's brittle and fake. I suddenly feel very uncomfortable.

  "I'd rather not discuss my friend, if you don't mind." It feels awful to say that, and my stomach scrunches up tight. I hate being confrontational.

  "Oh, of course, of course." He shrugs and makes a face. "I just like to know everybody that I'm doing business with. The partners of my partners, if you will. To make sure that I'm not taking on the wrong sort of people. It's a lot of money we're talking about here."

  I feel incredibly awkward. "I understand, but I'm really sorry. I'd rather not talk about him."

  "Sure. How about this. And forgive me for being bold. I'd be willing to double the amount of my investment if you put me in touch with your supplier. My own restaurants would greatly benefit from a little of this honey. If I could speak to him, perhaps he would be willing –" He stops speaking as I shake my head.

  "I don't think it works that way," I say very quietly.

  His smile becomes feral. "Ms. Hall. We're talking about one hundred thousand dollars."

  "It's not the money." I feel like I can't tear my eyes away from his, as if I'm being hypnotized by a cobra.

  "No? Then explain it to me. What is it?"

  "I can't explain it. It's not mine to explain." Why do I feel like running? This is just business. We're talking options. I'm politely saying no. I can't fault him for asking, can I?

  "You are being most unreasonable, Ms. Hall." His voice is tight, as if he's speaking through clenched teeth. He's still smiling, though. "I thought we were getting along splendidly."

  "We are," I say. Why do I feel like I'm standing on quicksand? "I did what you asked. I found more honey for my bakery. Please, don't be upset."

  "You don't trust me." His face goes cold, and his smile finally disappears. "I find that insulting after all the trust I've placed in you."

  "What?" I feel bewildered. "Wait, no –"

  "Very disappointing. Well, I don't have to sit here and be insulted. I'll let you think the matter over. I leave tomorrow morning. If you change your mind, you have my number. Good evening, Ms. Hall."

  And then, to my complete astonishment, he sets his napkin down on the table, rises, and stalks away. I gape after him. I might as well have had the wine, because my head's spinning. What just happened? I fight the urge to run after him. I got the honey! Wasn't that our deal? I watch as he pays and then heads out the door. I can't tell him about Soren. About Iminyë. That's not my secret to tell. I just can't. Which means I won't get the money. Which means I won't be able to pay Harold. Which means I'll have to marry Gerry.

  Panic and tears threaten to swamp me. It's not fair! I rise to my feet and leave the Wise Salmon before I start openly crying. I march down the dark street to my apartment. What can I do? What can I do?

  Part of me wants to run to Rachel for advice, for help, but for some reason I don't make the call. This is my problem. This is my life. I can't run to Rachel every time I run into a roadblock. I have to figure this out myself. Just as I reach my front door my father calls me back, but I don't answer. I can't speak to him feeling the way I do, my voice choked up with tears, overwhelmed and panicked. I'll call him when I have a solution. A plan.

  I head upstairs and let myself into my apartment. Turn on the lights and stand in the middle of my tiny living room, exhausted and burned out and wanting to just lie down and cry. But I can't. I have to think. I have to figure this out. My phone
rings. I glance down, and my heart skips a beat: Soren. Why is he calling? We agreed to go our separate ways. I almost answer. I'd love to hear his voice. But I'm so on edge I know I'd just break down into tears. No. I can't handle that. Not yet. Not now.

  So I do what I always do when I'm confronted with a big problem I need to solve: I bake. Baking sets me at ease, helps me relax, acts almost as a form of meditation. There's something about measuring out the flour, sifting it, getting tablespoons of brown sugar, about gently melting butter that acts like a balm on my soul. Knowing that I'm taking raw ingredients and mixing them and making something delicious. It's a tangible sign that I have control over the world, that I can make something greater than its parts. Tonight I don't want to make anything fancy. I just want a rich Victoria sponge cake. I'll make it double-layered, with that amazing blackberry jam as filling, and baker's sugar sprinkled on top.

  I put on my little radio and get to work. Humming and singing, mixing and measuring, I feel the weight slowly lighten from my shoulders. I'll bake a cake, have a slice with a mug of tea, and I'm sure I'll draw the solution to me.

  Instead, I draw Iminyë in through my kitchen window. She flits in like a little golden star, her wings blurring, her eyes wide with greed and hunger, and alights on the top of my blender.

  My mouth drops open. I've got the bowl under my arm, a wooden spoon in the other hand, and my mixing slows, slows, and then stops altogether. We just stare at each other.

  "What are you making?" Her voice is casual, but I can hear the burning curiosity beneath it.

  "Iminyë?" I can't believe my eyes. She glows softly, like a candle flame. "What are you doing here?"

  "Me?" She places a little hand against her chest in mock surprise. I can almost imagine her asking, Moi? "Oh, nothing. I was in the area."

  "In the area?" I want to pinch myself.

  "In the area. That is how you say it, no?" She sounds faintly annoyed, and scowls at me. "Didn't I say it right?"

  "Oh, yes, absolutely. In the area. That's perfectly right." She nods, placated. "But – I thought you lived in the little glade up in the mountains? Do you – do you come down here often?"

  "No. Never." She begins peering around my kitchen. "Hmm. This room looks tasty. It has delicious memories. Oh!" She picks up my favorite spatula. "I can smell a thousand cakes on this." She holds it to her nose and inhales deeply, as if it's a bouquet of flowers.

  "I – thank you." I don't know what to say.

  "What are you making?" Her eyes snap open as she lowers my spatula and stares sharply at me.

  "Victoria sponge cake!" Her tone is so imperious that I blurt the answer out immediately.

  "And that is?" She peers into my bowl.

  "It's going to be a double-layered cake with blackberry filling. It has – well – a soft, spongy consistency, slightly vanilla, and if it's made right it's moist and fresh and goes well with tea." And I had thought Mrs. Strongmeyer from the Bake Off was intimidating. She's nothing compared to Iminyë's demanding glare.

  "Then make it! Hurry!" She rises up into the air. "I'm hungry!"

  "I – yes!" I finish stirring the batter, then pour it into two glass dishes I've already buttered. Before I can slide them into the oven, Iminyë flits over and sprinkles something on them from her open hand. I blink and look closely, but whatever she's sprinkled sinks right into the cake and disappears. I look up at her curiously. "What was that?"

  "Magical yummy goodness." She says this firmly. "It makes everything better."

  "Oh," I say. "Right. Well, into the oven they go." I slide them both in, close the door, and set the timer. Then straighten, not knowing quite what to say. "Does Soren know you're here?"

  She looks a little guilty, and flies into my little living room. Lands on the arm of my couch, and picks up one of my romance novels. "In the Arms of My Alpha?" She looks over at me inquisitively.

  I blush bright red and hurry over, but I don't have the temerity to pull it out of her little hands. "It's very good! It's – well."

  Iminyë isn't listening. She sets it aside and pulls out a DVD case. "Sleepless in Seattle?"

  "A movie?'" She blinks up at me, not understanding at all. "To watch? On TV?"

  Iminyë blinks again.

  "Here," I say, pulling the DVD out. "Watch." I turn on the TV, insert the DVD, and press play.

  Iminyë leaps into the air as the movie starts, completely bewildered, circles the room twice, and then lands again on the couch arm. Her eyes are huge. "Little people are inside that box!" She looks to me and points at the TV.

  How to explain? Luckily, Iminyë doesn't seem to want an explanation. She stares fixedly at the screen, blinking, mouth open. I sit next to her, and together we learn about Tom Hanks' problems. I watch Iminyë as much as I do the TV. She's fascinated.

  When the timer dings, I pull out the cakes and set them on wire racks to cool, then return to the movie. Iminyë has crafted herself a little nest out of cushions and a throw blanket, and is absolutely absorbed. I get up twenty minutes later to spread the blackberry jam, set the second cake on top of the first, and sprinkle the sugar. Than I fix myself a mug of tea, cut two slices, and come back to the couch. I set Iminyë's plate before her and sit down on the other end. Take a bite of the cake, and almost double up with ecstasy.

  Oh.

  My.

  Freaking.

  God.

  The cake is amazing. Whatever that magical yummy goodness was, it turned my Victoria sponge cake into something sinful, delectable, insanely rich and moist and devilishly good. I moan, staring at the slice in my hand like I don't know what it is. I see colors, I feel dizzy. It's all I can do to keep chewing, and when I finally swallow, I feel like I've just finished an amazing session of lovemaking with Soren.

  "What." It's all I can manage.

  Iminyë's cheeks are pouched out hugely again, chipmunk style. She glances over at me and puts her finger over her lips, then turns back to the movie.

  "What," I say again to myself. I'm breathing quickly. I set the plate down as if it's dangerous. It is dangerous. I'm going to eat the whole cake tonight. I have no choice. It's that good.

  I hear a knock on the door. Both Iminyë and I frown up at it. Who the hell? I set my plate and mug aside and rise to my feet. Iminyë burrows down deeper into her nest of cushions, but doesn't think of pausing the movie. I wipe at my mouth. Rachel, maybe? It's a small town. A safe town. Which is why I don't put the safety chain on. Which is why I just open the door wide, and see Gerry and an older man standing in my doorway, both of them smiling nastily.

  "Hello, Anita," Gerry says, and shoves me back.

  Chapter 12

  "Get out!" I almost trip and fall. "Get the hell out of my apartment!"

  Gerry steps inside, smirking, and the older man follows. He looks like some kind of nasty druid, with a dirty beard down to his chest and purple lips, a hook of a nose and ratty gray hair. He's wearing jeans and a jean jacket, and he smells of sour sweat and wet earth.

  "Thought we'd forget about you, hey?" Gerry picks up one of my romance books, then sniggers and tosses it aside. Looks around my place derisively, then turns back to me. "Thought we'd just let you go?"

  "I said, get out." I try to make my voice as hard and firm as possible.

  Gerry glances at his dad, who shakes his head. "We ain't going anywhere without our fifty thousand. You got it?"

  Oh, crap. "Not yet. But almost. Tomorrow."

  Harold – it has to be Harold – stares shrewdly at me. Examines me with a piercing eye, and then shakes his head. "You're lying."

  "Lying?" My voice comes out a little too high. "I'm not. I just had dinner with Mr. Whitman. We're finalizing our financial arrangement."

  Harold shakes his head. "I can tell. You're lying. You don't have the money, and you're not going to get it."

  "Well, ain't that too bad." Gerry steps over to me and curls my hair around his finger. "Looks like we're going to get to know each other real well after all.
"

  "Gerry." Harold's voice snaps out. "Show Anita some respect. She's gonna be your wife, not your whore."

  Gerry goes pale and steps back. "Sorry, Dad."

  "Don't apologize to me, you idiot. Apologize to her."

  Gerry stares murderously at me. "I'm sorry, Anita."

  I don't know what to say. Harold's seeing right through my lies. This is it. The moment of truth. The moment I've been dreading. I don't have the money. I'd rather marry Gerry than hand Iminyë over to Mr. Whitman. Some things are too sacred to ruin. I take a deep breath. But before I can answer, I hear footsteps on the stairs coming up to my apartment.

  Heavy footsteps.

  My throat tightens. I know that tread. I know that stride. I know who's coming up the stairs.

  Harold and Gerry turn to face my door. Gerry sneers at me. "Late night callers, eh?"

  "Shut up, Gerry," snaps his dad. "This could be trouble."

  "Trouble?" Gerry goes pale all over again and steps back. "What do you mean, trouble?"

  I clench my hands together and watch as Soren rises into view, climbing the last few steps to turn and face my open door. He's so massive that he fills the entire hallway. Blocks out the light, almost. My knees go weak with relief. Soren. Here. Oh, thank you. Whoever is watching out for me, thank you thank you thank you.

  "Anita?" His familiar rumble brings tears to my eyes. He stops in the doorway and frowns at the two men. "Is everything all right?"

  "It's him!" Gerry's voice goes up an octave. "The guy who threatened me in the street!"

  "Shut it, Gerry." His dad's voice is a hiss. Harold rolls up one sleeve and tongues his teeth. "This ain't got nothing to do with you, stranger. Just turn around now, and nobody gets hurt."

  "Anita?" Soren ignores them both.

  I want to cry. I want to run into his arms. I want to close the door and hide my dirty past from him. "Soren." It's all I can manage.

  And it's all I need to say. He frowns, ducks his head, and enters my apartment. Harold steps back and raises both hands. I can see flickers of black electricity dance over his fingers. My mouth suddenly feels sour, as if I've licked a battery.