The pony cuts me off just as I’m about to reach the door. She transforms into a woman who has wide, slightly panicked eyes. Her bright red hair clashes with her burgundy sweater, and her smile seems a little forced.
“We’re not open yet,” she says.
I stop in my tracks, and my shoulders slump.
I’m not good with people, and I’m especially not good with confrontations. I’m not about to tell the pony shifter that the cafe looks open. Just like I’m not going to storm up to a certain bakery and give those squishy shifters a piece of my mind.
Brooks
I pull on my apron as soon as York leaves for his nightly run. Then, I start baking.
My biceps bulge as I knead the dough. I love how soft and squishy it feels beneath the heels of my palms. How it gives as I fold it over itself. How it transforms as I work.
When I was little, I’d do my homework at the kitchen table. Sometimes, Mom would let me help mix the ingredients. Other times, I’d get to knead the dough. As I got older, she had me take the trays out of the oven. I’d helped her package our delicious treats, and it was the best part of my day.
Bread. Cookies. Muffins. Donuts. I never cared what we baked as long as I got to spend my days in the kitchen, working with the dough.
As I bake, I forget the rest of the world exists. I get lost in the sweet memories and feel completely at peace. It’s like meditation, except I create hundreds of delicious donuts that others get to enjoy.
I’m so lucky that I do what I love and make people happy every day. Andres, York and I spent years saving up, and now we finally have the Squishy Shifters Donut Emporium. It’s what we’ve always dreamed of.
Jetta
“The squishy shifters ruined my life,” I mutter as I start to turn away from the cafe.
“Wait, what?” the pony shifter calls after me. A second ago, she was trying to get rid of me. Now, she almost sounds like she cares. “Who are the squishy shifters? And what did they do?”
“They own a bakery.” My stomach heaves at the thought. “I hate bakeries. And bakers. And donuts. I really, really hate donuts.”
“I like donuts,” she says. “Especially apple fritters.”
“Donuts have gluten. And sugar and refined flour.” I tick off their shortcomings on my fingers. “Not to mention added fats, carbs and empty calories.”
“You could say the exact same thing about pizza.”
“Right?” I nod emphatically.
“Wait, you hate pizza, too?”
I nod. “But not as much as bakeries. Not that I would want my house to smell like pizza, either.”
“I wouldn’t mind mine smelling like pizza. It’s better than potpourri.” She wrinkles her nose. “My ex always smelled like potpourri.”
We lapse into a silence of mutual understanding. Men stink. Some reek of potpourri, and other reek of donuts. Their only redeeming quality is that they’re hot, but I doubt the squishy shifters have that going for them.
Andres
People often have the wrong idea about bakers. They think men like us sit around and eat donuts for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I guess York and Brooks sometimes do, but there’s a good reason for that.
People expect the three of us to be squishy, but we’re not. At least not in human form.
We’re large men, all three of us towering over six feet. We put our bodies through hard, grueling workouts every day; we just don’t do it at the gym. We work out right here while we bake. And we’re made of muscle.
Brooks sculpts his arms and shoulders as he kneads the dough while I unpack the deliveries. I heft bags of flour over my shoulder and carry them to the back room. I stack them. I bring in the sugar. I put away boxes of ingredients. By the time I’m done, every muscle in my body aches. I’m covered in sweat, but I’m grinning from ear to ear.
Some men lift, other men bake. And whenever my friends and I stop by the local gym, we put everyone else to shame. We get a lot of attention from women, too, but we still haven’t found the one. We’re waiting for our fated mates.
Jetta
“Jewels Cafe doesn’t open for a few more days, but I could make you a coffee on the house.” The pony shifter ushers me toward the door. “I’m Nephrite, by the way.”
“Jet,” I reply. “Jetta to my friends.” Not that I’ve made any friends since I moved out here. I’ve been focused on my job. “And I actually don’t really drink coffee.”
“Don’t worry, neither do I.” Nephrite shrugs. “And I know what you’re thinking. A cafe owner who doesn’t drink coffee… it’s kind of weird, but the stuff makes me too hyper. And I’m already hyper. That’s why I was running circles outside. Helps me calm down. But I don’t need to drink coffee to love coffee. Or cafes. Opening this place is like a dream come true.”
I start to congratulate her, but she chooses that moment to open the cafe door. Loud cheering erupts from inside, and it completely drowns out my words.
The group gathered at the bar doesn’t even glance my way. They’re busy watching mugs in cute little outfits hop across the coffee bar like it’s a runway in a fashion show.
The whole thing is weird. It would be a whole lot weirder if I weren’t a witch. But I still gape at the mug wearing a bikini as she struts her stuff.
“What’s going on here?” I ask Nephrite with a nod toward the coffee bar.
“You mean the mug?”
I nod.
“It’s nothing. Just a fashion show to help Jenny. She’s the one in the bikini.” Nephrite smiles like her explanation makes perfect sense, and heads behind the counter, presumably to make the drink.
“I should be the one in a bikini,” another female voice calls out from behind the counter, but there’s no one there. “I could totally win that fashion show if I wasn’t strapped to the wall. I won the beauty pageant in Cocovia, you know. My family vacations there every year. Prince Erik himself awarded me a tiara and—”
Her voice cuts off as Nephrite twists a dial on the espresso machine, and steam sprouts from it with a hiss.
“Is your espresso machine talking?” I ask.
“For the last time, I am not an espresso machine!” the espresso machine snaps.
“It’s been a hectic evening,” Nephrite says. “First the chairs tried to run away. Then, the table started crying. And the mugs needed dresses. Now, the espresso machine has… opinions.”
“You’re blaming this on me?” the machine cries in outrage.
“The health department inspector will be here tomorrow,” Nephrite says, completely ignoring her. “We’re nowhere near ready, and I think the spoons are laughing at me.”
A few giggles echo from behind the counter, and Nephrite groans.
“Anyway, here’s your drink.” She hands me a paper cup.
I’m so stunned that I automatically raise it to my lips and take a sip. Then, I realize I’ve made a huge mistake.
“What’s in this?” I demand, fighting the urge to dry heave.
“Pumpkin spice latte,” Nephrite tells me. “Don’t worry, it’s decaf.”
“I’m not worried,” I tell her. Because the caffeine is the least of my worries. Ironically, so is the sugar and the whipped cream. Yes, they’re both gross, but I’m more concerned about the magic.
“Is this spelled?” I gesture at the cup. I’m not sure why I’m asking, since I already know the answer is yes. I wouldn’t have the job that I do if I wasn’t very attuned to magic. If I hadn’t been gaping at the fashion show, I’d have realized something was off with the drink a lot sooner.
“A bunch of our other drinks are spelled,” Nephrite says. “Our Mood Teas change color based on your emotions. Our Morning After Mint Delight cures hangovers. Our Feel-Good Macchiatos summon favorite childhood memories. And drinking our Rainbow Cappuccino changes your hair color.”
“What does the pumpkin spice latte do?” I press.
“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just a latte.”
Except I know
that isn’t true. I can feel its magic coursing through me, urging me to head to my car. Pulling me toward home. Where the squishy shifters and their stinky bakery are ruining the neighborhood, one donut at a time.
York
I hand a box of donuts to another happy customer and feel a wave of satisfaction. I have a certain talent when it comes to donuts, and I don’t just mean eating them. Sure, I scarf down a couple dozen throughout the day, but it’s hard not to when they taste so good.
I’ve had a thing for donuts since I was a kid. I’d detour by the bakery every day on the way to and from school. Sometimes, I’d stop by on weekends and at lunch.
My happiest memories are of standing outside that shop, inhaling the delicious aromas and drooling over the display. I’d always spend my allowance on donuts: jelly, chocolate, glazed, Boston creme. I love them all.
That’s why no one was surprised when I shifted into a donut. It happened in homeroom, while I was doing some last minute homework. One second I was me, and the next I was a donut.
Brooks pumped his fist in the air and shouted, “I knew it.” The rest of the class cheered.
Jetta
The urge to slam on the gas intensifies on the drive home. I don’t know why I feel the urge to speed. I have no clue what was in that drink. I just know it’s something big.
Magic has a different effect on me than it does on others. It’s why the Department of Supernatural Affairs recruited me. Because some of the most powerful spells start out so small most people wouldn’t even notice. I’m the exception.
I react to spells that have potential to be huge. Instead of subtly guiding me to their inevitable outcome, they push and pull me there at hyperspeed. And the department has me flag them for monitoring and investigation in case they need to intervene.
Whatever magic was in that drink has that effect. It pulls me toward three certain squishy shifters, and I can’t resist its call. I could alert my boss, but something tells me I should wait.
This spell doesn’t feel malicious. It’s meant to help me; I just don’t know how.
Maybe it’s a truth spell that will force me to give those bakers a piece of my mind. Or a karma spell that will run their bakery to the ground. As long as this spell stops my bungalow from reeking of donuts, I’ll take it.
Brooks
I’m disappointed when I finish baking. Not because the donuts turned out bad—nothing I bake ever turns out bad—but because there’s nothing left to bake. Then I remind myself that we get to do it all over again tomorrow, and that cheers me right up.
I make my way out front, where York is busy helping customers. He’s the reason our bakery does so well. He can help anyone find their perfect donut: not just their all-time favorite, but the right squishy treat to suit their mood. He looks at someone and he knows exactly what kind of donut they need. And he’s never wrong.
He hands me a cinnamon twist, and I demolish it in three bites. Lucky for me, I don’t gain weight when I eat anything made of dough. Just like York doesn’t gain a pound when he scarfs down donuts left and right. One of the perks of being squishy shifters.
Jetta
I feel sick by the time I pull up behind the Squishy Shifters Donut Emporium. Part of it is nerves. I haven’t a clue why the magic brought me here or what it’s about to make me do. But mostly, I just feel nauseous from the donut smell.
I open the car door and nearly keel over with the need to go inside. If I were any other supe, I doubt I’d even notice it… or know to drive here from Moonlit Falls. I’d probably carry the spell with me for days, or even years, until I finally set foot inside the bakery. Which, considering how much I hate donuts, would be two hours from never.
But my magic wars with my nerves and keeps urging me to go inside. And I know, no matter how much I fight it, there’s only one way this will go. I just hope the day doesn’t end with me eating donuts. Because the idea is so disgusting, I nearly throw up.
Andres
We always close the bakery for an hour after the sunset rush. I made us a healthy meal with lots of greens, and when we finish eating York heads out front to pick out donuts for dessert.
He hands me a powdered donut hole—a small, bite-sized treat that tastes better than it sounds—and I pop it in my mouth. That’s all I have, while my two best friends scarf down five full-sized donuts. Each.
“I still think it’s cannibalism, man,” I tell York as he bites into a jelly donut.
He snorts and powdered sugar shoots out his nose. That causes him to laugh even harder, and that’s when he shifts. It always happens when he finds something hilarious, and I’m up to the challenge.
York’s half-finished jelly donut lands neatly on his plate, while a second jelly donut—this one fully formed—glares up at me from his chair. Because donuts can glare on the inside.
Brooks, the sympathetic shifter, shifts too. A lump of dough tumbles off his chair and onto the floor. Good thing he already finished his cinnamon twist.
I lounge back in my chair with a triumphant grin just as the bakery’s back door suddenly flies open. It crashes into the wall, startling me, and then I shift, too. Karma is a bitch.
Jetta
The moment I step inside the bakery I know exactly what sort of spell I drank… and it’s bad. Like, really bad.
The bakers don’t get their comeuppance. The magic doesn’t make me scream obscenities about donuts. And I don’t get the urge to eat a disgusting, sugary treat.
Nope, the pumpkin spice latte spell is a fated mate spell… and my mate is my worst nightmare. A donut.
I gape at the powdered dessert on the chair. Puffy. Perfectly round. So temptingly squishy. I have this sudden urge to poke it in its jelly-filled middle. Because apparently, my one true love is the epitome of gluten, sugar, carbs, and empty calories. Yup, definitely a donut.
I’m bemoaning my fate when my gaze starts to travel south. Not to the donut’s crotch. A donut doesn’t have a crotch. But to the floor, where I spot the sexiest lump of dough I’ve ever seen. I don’t even like dough, but this one’s just so full. And thick. And tantalizing. Which means I’m oh, so screwed. The dough is my second fated mate.
Then, just as I think my life couldn’t get any worse, I see it. The squishy toy that’s shaped like a donut. It’s round and blue and has a hole right in the middle. A stress ball of a dessert with a painted smile. My third fated mate.
Andres
“Why is this happening to me?” the sexy-as-donuts goddess wails.
She’s absolutely gorgeous, even if she does seem quite unhinged. Her eyes are a beautiful blue that reminds me of my squishy donut. They’re also wide with panic. She threads her fingers through her golden hair, which, I realize, is the same shade as Brooks’s dough. Then she tugs on the strands with so much force that I’m surprised she doesn’t pull out chunks.
I watch her pink sweater rise up and cup her perfect breasts. So large and squishy, like York’s donut. No, not that donut.
I want to touch her everywhere. Run my fingers through her hair. Find out how her skin feels. Not that squishy donuts have fingers, but a guy can dream.
Her gaze snaps from me to Donut York to Dough Lump Brooks. I want her even more.
“I hate donuts!” she cries, and my heart sinks.
Brooks
Disappointment courses through me as I gaze up at the gorgeous blonde. Maybe she has a thing against us Bayans—supes from Shifter Bay. We shift into inanimate objects. Objects that were meaningful to us when we were teens. Like dough. Or donuts.
Personally, I think that it’s the best thing since sliced bread, but there are people out there who just don’t get it. Don’t get us. There are people who think that we’re a joke.
Some supes prefer wolves or bears—or even cats, chameleons, or skunks. Like they’re somehow better than us Bayans, when they’re not. Others only love the big, in your face inanimate objects. Andres’s cousin Xavi shifts into a block of ice, and everyone takes notice. But the
re are benefits to being small and squishy, like us.
When we shift, York, Andres and I don’t destroy everything within reach. Not like a bear or Ice Block Xavi would. And I’d like to see some other shifter scarf down two dozen donuts a day without gaining weight. I’d like to see anyone enjoy tactile pleasure the way squishy shifter Andres can.
And maybe, once the gorgeous blonde gets to know us, she’ll realize it, too.
Jetta
I’m having a nervous breakdown when the jelly donut, lump of dough, and squishy donut start to shift. Into men. Hot, muscular men… who are the furthest thing from squishy.
“You’re people!” I cry like a weirdo. Could I sound any more stupid?
Obviously they’re shifters. How did I not realize they were shifters? It’s not like a person can be mated to a donut. What is wrong with me?
“You thought we were objects?” the squishy donut asks in surprise. I long to thread my fingers through his dark brown hair. I want to feel the rock hard abs hidden beneath his shirt. Not to mention those tanned biceps. Yum. And his killer quads. Seriously, all that muscle makes me drool.
My body heats and my heart starts to race, but now that I’m attracted to men and not donuts—or dough—I’m actually relieved. Being unusually turned on by one’s mates is normal. Being unusually turned on by squishy objects is not.
Squishy Donut nudges his friend, the blond, broad-shouldered hunk who shifted into a lump of dough. When their shoulders touch, I swallow hard. Then I zero in on Lumpy Dough’s huge biceps. And his giant hands. Not to mention his long fingers. I want them on me. Bad. Which is still so much less weird than getting wet while staring at a lump of dough.
Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology Page 5