by Ani Gonzalez
What was it they were talking about again? Oh, yeah, the antics of the PRoVE team.
"I'm not going to," he replied. "When I was chained up in their specimen room, I kept looking around for cameras. I was afraid they'd get some pictures and use them to blackmail me into letting them into the basement."
He instantly regretted bringing up his sex magick escapade. The whole episode had been painfully non-erotic and he'd only done it to please Brenda. Overall, he'd expected the experience to be a whole lot more titillating. And he didn't like mentioning it to Patricia.
And Patricia didn't seem to like hearing about it. Her smile faded away and she...blushed?
That was not the response he'd expected. He thought she'd be annoyed or critical. Instead, she seemed to be...intrigued.
Very interesting.
"Be serious, Zach," she said, giggling uneasily. "You're not blackmailable."
"What does that mean?" he asked, leaning toward her.
She looked away from him, as if his nearness made her nervous. The slight evasion woke a primal male instinct inside him. The predator had scented its prey.
"Oh, you know..." She blushed again. "You have quite the reputation."
"Do I?" he whispered.
She looked back at him, eyes wide and dark.
"Well, yes..." She paused and licked her lips anxiously.
Zach let the pause lengthen, letting her recall every single disreputable Zach Franco story she'd ever heard. Letting them linger in her mind. He wasn't sure why she was so fascinated by his past. Truth to tell, he wasn't very proud of it. He'd been wild and lost ,and he'd paid the price.
"I mean," Patricia continued, looking straight into his eyes, "if the town were to vote for 'Most Likely to End Up Chained Up in the PRoVE Specimen Room...'"
Zach smiled. The teasing tone was encouraging, to say the least. As was the fact that her lips were mere inches away from his.
"I'd be the winner?" he asked, thinking hard, trying to talk himself out of kissing her.
Kissing Patricia would be a big complication. Unfortunately, he didn't think he could restrain himself.
"Yes," Patricia whispered.
Then she raised her head and touched his mouth with her warm breath. He felt every single muscle in his body tense in reaction. The kiss was light and soft, almost chaste, but his reactions were anything but innocent. Patricia's gentle kiss did everything Banshee Creek Botánica's best sex magick kit had been unable to do. Desire raced through him as his arms tightened around her and he deepened the kiss. He could smell gardenias and honeysuckle and Patricia.
And it was everything he'd ever wished for.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOULFUL, ROMANTIC flute music oozed out of the computer speakers. Patricia wrapped her robe tightly around her waist and frowned at the machine as the sultry, sexy voice invaded her living room. Was her WPRV radio app malfunctioning? The local radio station was known for transmitting vintage horror shows from the 1940s, eerie classical music from the eighteenth century, and contentious talk shows where callers enthusiastically discussed the latest monster sightings.
They weren't known for romance.
She leaned forward to check the website then leaned back against her plush armchair. There was an article about a Devil Monkey sighting by the lake and a Hagen House sale poster featured next to a heated discussion as to whether the spirit that haunted the creek was an Irish bean sìghe or a Scottish bean nighe. Her Banshee Creek Bakery ad was featured on the left corner, and her trademark cartoon ghost winked at her periodically. Yes, this was indeed WPRV.
It was just weirder than usual.
She watched as a comment thread sprang to life, with various listeners asking about the song selection. Some of the comments politely inquired as to the deejay's mental state and recommended psychiatric care, others resorted to profanity. The love song, she gathered, was not popular. But it was still a good distraction, and, right now, she needed exactly that. She'd just spent a good half hour compulsively researching memory disorders and she was already sick of it. Some of the symptoms matched her dad's behavior, but others didn't. The condition could be getting worse, or it could just be her imagination. It was all very vague and unsatisfying. Further deterioration could take weeks, or months, or years. She was going to have to take her dad to get more tests done, and good luck convincing him to do so.
She glanced at the clock and winced. She had to open the bakery bright and early in the morning, and should be in bed, fast asleep. Instead, she was wide awake, staring at a computer screen. She'd gotten her car back, driven her dad to his house, returned home, taken a shower and gone to bed. But a screeching owl woke her at two in the morning and she'd been unable to go back to sleep.
Stupid, endangered, iconic birds.
She picked up her mug and took a sip of cold chamomile tea. It didn't help. Insomnia was a bitch.
At least the music was calm and soothing. Something about the tune was eerily familiar and she found herself humming along. The melody was soft and romantic, but with a slight undercurrent of danger, a wicked thrill, so to speak.
It reminded her of last night's kiss. But, to be honest, pretty much everything now reminded her of last night's kiss. Even the list of symptoms she'd been researching. Disorientation, confusion, emotional turbulence, yep, that about covered it.
She'd actually kissed Zach Franco.
That was the amazing part. She'd done it. She'd gathered up her courage, stretched up on her tip toes and...
It wasn't her first kiss, not by a long shot. She'd had boyfriends, some more exciting than others. The guy in the Banshee Creek home econ class who'd kissed her after she'd beaten him in the bake-off. That writer fellow who came to Banshee Creek to finish his horror book. Well, he'd been more interested in the bakery's brownie than in her, but, hey, he'd been a good kisser.
Just not as good as Zach.
And, of course, there was what's-his-name -- she refused to remember his proper name -- the guy she'd dated while working in that posh bakery in Manhattan.
The one who broke her heart.
Trevor. That was his name.
She sighed. She'd always been attracted to the bad boys. Always. It was a bizarre affliction. After all, she was calm, collected and practical. She was the one people could always count on, the one who measured twice and poured once. She was strictly a by-the-book-double-check-the-footnotes type of person.
With a weakness for men who were mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
She thought she'd conquered her weakness. Her Manhattan experience with He Who Shall Not Be Named should have ensured that. She'd fled New York and returned to Banshee Creek with her tail firmly tucked between her legs.
She thought her bad boy fixation was OVER.
Then she kissed Zach Franco.
The romantic music died away with a menacing flute trill.
"Well, guys," the WPRV deejay said, "that was 'The Piper Dreams' by Jerry Goldsmith. Also known as 'The New Ambassador,' it was the love theme from The Omen. I bet you didn't know that someone stuck a love song into a movie about the Antichrist. Guess what? I didn't either."
Patricia chuckled as the comment section of the website exploded into frenzied activity. The WPRV audience was not impressed.
"But," the deejay continued, "this is the kind of stuff you come across when you scour your record library, desperately looking for Valentine's Day content for your paranormal-themed radio station. It's February, guys, it's either this or the Twilight soundtrack."
Another comment section burst. A couple of people posted videos depicting gory ballroom scenes and bloody prom dresses. Apparently, the Valentine's Day Ball rumors had spread.
"It's not my fault," the deejay snorted. "Once you run out of star-crossed lovers and haunted honeymoons, there's not much left out there. The radio version of Bride of Frankenstein only gets you so far. By the way, that's tomorrow night at ten, so make sure to tune in. We will be taking calls now. Hello, calle
r one, you're on the air."
Patricia stood up, grabbed her empty cup, and walked to the kitchen as caller one, a woman with a strong Southern accent, complained about how the station was turning into a swarmy teenage werewolf drama mess and she was canceling her subscription this very instant. Patricia smiled. She wished she were dealing with a horny werewolf or even a blood-thirsty vampire.
That would be easy.
But the kiss had been fantastic. She'd been unsure and tentative, afraid that Zach would reject her. She'd been sure she'd imagined that spark of chemistry between them, so she'd been expecting the rejection. She'd braced herself for it.
But it hadn't come.
Instead, Zach wrapped his arms around her as if he'd never let her go. She'd been surprised, no, shocked. Zach kissed her like he wanted her, like he'd wanted her for a long time.
What would have happened if Caine's drone hadn't interrupted them? If the stupid machine hadn't crashed into the giant oak tree? If their parents hadn't come out of the house to see what the racket was?
Who knew? The whole thing was crazy, wonderful and unexpected.
The deejay cut off an aggressive caller and announced his new music selection, a techno-punk version of Lucia di Lammermoor's Mad Scene. The music was strangely appropriate, which made her smile.
Maybe there was something to WPRV's lovesick teenage werewolf makeover.
Her house was small enough that she could clearly hear the broadcast from the kitchen and she hummed along with the doomed maiden. She lived in The Quarters, a neighborhood of small townhouses near the edge of town that were known for their quaint charm and minuscule dimensions. Her house had a sturdy stone fireplace, vintage wood floors, and plaster walls. Unfortunately, it also had rickety kitchen cabinets, porcelain tile countertops that were a pain to clean, and a pressed tin backsplash that had, to put it kindly, seen better days.
She filled the teakettle and put it on the gas stove to boil. The counter was empty except for a Belgian pastry cookbook and her recipe journal. She opened the journal to a blank page and wrote down "Owl Cookie" in big block letters to remind herself that she needed to come up with a recipe. A regular sugar cookie shaped like an owl head would simply not do. Banshee Creek Bakery had a reputation to maintain. She wanted something more like a Mexican wedding cookie with a nutty dough and powdered sugar on top. Maybe she'd try that anise liqueur Elizabeth's mom had brought her from Europe, not too much, of course, but just enough to give the cookie some pizzazz.
She picked up the cookbook and returned it to the bookshelf next to her computer. She looked through the shelves and pulled out an old, battered book in Spanish. The title was Repostería Tradicional and it had been a gift from Zach's mom. Mrs. Franco had a huge cookbook collection that encompassed various countries and languages. She leafed through pretty pictures depicting towering wedding cakes and savory pastries until she found what she was looking for. She didn't understand some of the ingredients, but, hey, that's what Internet search engines were for, right? And, sure enough, the recipe called for a sugar glaze, perfect for a touch of anise liqueur.
She wondered what Zach would think about the cookie. She taste-tested most of her recipes at the pizzeria, and knew that Zach was a strict traditionalist. He liked donuts and sugar cookies.
He'd probably hate the anise glaze. The thought made her smile.
She took the book to the kitchen and put it under the recipe journal. There, she now had a new project.
Not that she needed one, she thought, eyeing the pile of papers on her dining room table. The large rolls of paper that threatened to fall onto the pastel-colored rag rug were the Rosemoor plans, full of annotated alterations. The spreadsheet printouts were cost estimates. The fabric samples and magazine cut-outs?
Those were just dreams.
Dreams that made the whole "kissing Zach" thing very complicated.
The last strains of Lucia di Lammermoor swept through her house, filling the room with their tragic pathos.
Maybe the irate WPRV listeners were right. The radio station was taking the brooding teenage werewolf thing a bit too far.
"Look, guys," the deejay started. "I hear you, we all hear you. We can also see all of the offensive gifs you're posting on our page. But here's one thing you need to understand." He paused for dramatic effect. "It's Valentine season."
Patricia snorted.
"Sure, we hate it. Sure we'd much rather have a second Halloween. We're not the swoony, romantic types...I understand. But, you know what? There's nothing we can do about it. It's cupid season. Cherubic babies with bows and arrows, hearts and chocolates, and all that crap. Deal. With. It."
Patricia peeked at her computer screen. Sure enough, Banshee Creek did not want to deal with it.
"But for those of you that have a hard time dealing with reality, and, boy, we have a lot of you, you will have an opportunity to air your grievances. There will be a town meeting this week to discuss the Valentine's Day dance rumors."
The comment section erupted.
"If you guys want to derail that idea, I suggest you attend the meeting and come up with some alternatives. I like the Valentine's Day horror movie marathon and Kiss a Zombie Day ideas, but you guys are going to have to sell them to the town. That's not going to be easy."
Patricia snorted. That was definitely an understatement.
"But there's a silver lining," the deejay continued. "The Historical Preservation Committee -- now, there's no need to be like that, we're kind of stuck with them -- will announce the winning bid for the Rosemoor at the meeting."
Patricia's heart leaped. Already? They had a decision already? Why didn't Elizabeth call her? PRoVE, and by extension its radio station, had an inside track, but so did she.
"So show up, guys. Don't tell me you're upset. I'm just a badly-paid shmuck with a radio gig and a vintage radio horror show collection. Tell them."
She looked down at the carefully drawn plans on the dining room table, the sweeping front porch with gingerbread trim, the spacious kitchen, and the veranda in the back.
She'd spent years daydreaming about the Rosemoor. She'd spent weeks planning her bid.
She'd spent a couple of minutes kissing Zach Franco.
Did that change anything?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"FIVE CHEESE, two extra cheese without sauce, two pepperoni, and one crispy crust with sliced sausage, jalapeño peppers and pineapple slices." Zach barely had time to finish reading the order before a crowd of black-clad paranormies snatched the boxes from his hands. They spread the boxes on the conference table and dug in.
"If anyone touches my jalapeño pizza," Caine's voice rose over the din. He was wearing a garish purple and green plaid shirt over his "Ghost Hunters do it in the Dark" t-shirt. "He -- or she, I'm watching you, Cass -- will have a starring role in our upcoming Chessie documentary." He paused and glared at the group. "As bait."
The PRoVE minions scurried off carrying boxes full of hot pizza. Caine adroitly intercepted the jalapeño pizza box.
"Today's youth has no respect for private property," he said, shaking his head mournfully as he held on to his treasure. "I fear for our future, man."
"Yeah," Zach agreed. "Speaking of fear, ten thirty a.m. is a little early for lunch. We try to be flexible with our clients but..."
His voice trailed off as he realized that he wasn't the only delivery. He could spy Patricia's pink and orange donut boxes in the corner as well as two cardboard boxes full of, judging by the exotic scent in the air, Banshee Creek Bakery's signature spiced coffee. With his blue-striped pizza boxes added to the mix, the PRoVE conference table looked like the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, if the Mad Hatter's guests had a taste for black leather, that is.
Caine grinned. "Lunch?" His laugh boomed, echoing in the cavernous foyer of the PRoVE headquarters. "More like breakfast."
"C'mon." Caine walked around the conference table, grabbing a paper plate and placing it on top of his pizza box. "We've been up all ni
ght working through the vampire deer footage, and we found some really cool stuff."
Zach shuddered. PRoVE's definition of "really cool" was not to be trusted.
"So did we," he said, taking the sample vial, carefully sealed inside a plastic bag. "And I need to give this back to you before the Department of Sanitation slaps me with a fine."
"You found it?" Caine's eyes lit up and he reached eagerly for the disgusting cargo. "Good job, Franco." He grabbed the bag with a gleeful smile. "I guess I should tell the intern that he's officially out of the doghouse."
"Wait until he's done with the deer poop catalog," a bleary-eyed Cassie cautioned as she reached for a donut. "Cause I'm not taking over that crap."
The group groaned at the impromptu pun.
"Good idea," Caine agreed, after the noise died down. "We'll tell him after the town meeting."
"You're going?" Zach asked, surprised. The PRoVE guys seldom attended the town meetings. Oh, they had at the beginning -- arguing for billboard placement, ghost tour advertising and access to historical properties -- but the paranormal controversies eventually died down. The ghost hunters weren't interested in mundane zoning and tax discussions, so their town meeting attendance dwindled down to nothing.
Cassie nodded. "We're the grinches of Valentine's Day."
"No, we're not," Caine corrected. "We just don't think that hearts and flowers fit the particular character of the town."
"It contradicts our branding," Cassie explained. "So we're going to crush it."
"Crush is such a negative word," Caine interrupted. "We're going to reason with the town."
Cassie eyes sparkled. "The phrase 'extreme prejudice' has been bandied about."
Zach smiled. The anti-Valentine movement was gathering steam which meant that the town meeting would be very interesting.
"We'll be model citizens," Caine warned, casting a threatening glance at his team. Cassie snorted, but the rest of the team nodded dutifully.
Satisfied, Caine nodded toward the back rooms.
"C'mon, Franco," he called. "You want to see what's wandering around your parents' house?"