Pawsitively Cursed

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  “Nothing,” she said, riffling through her purse on the bed. Amber could tell she wasn’t actually looking for anything—just trying to keep her hands busy.

  “Will,” Amber said again, walking over and putting a hand on her sister’s elbow.

  Willow stopped and turned to Amber, arms crossed. She shrugged. “It’s stupid.”

  “Try me.”

  With a huff, Willow said, “We talked a couple days ago. He called me out of nowhere and was really flirty and said we should go out sometime and that he regretted not asking me out in high school.”

  Amber grinned, but when she saw Willow was still frowning, her smile slipped. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Seventeen-year-old me was ecstatic. I had it so bad for him in high school. Like vision-board bad. But he was kind of pushy in the conversation a couple days ago. Asking a lot of questions about you and Mom and Dad. I tried to convince myself it was because he’s a journalist now, but …”

  Frowning, Amber said, “You think it was the Penhallow.”

  “I knew something was up, but I didn’t know what. He called this morning, asking if I wanted a special press pass since he knows I was really into Ramp It Up in high school.”

  Amber cocked a brow. “Really?”

  “Amber!” Willow said, laughing. “I had a poster of Olaf on the back of my bedroom door!”

  Amber winced. “That was Olaf? I thought he was in one of those emo bands you were obsessed with.”

  Willow thunked herself in the forehead with the heel of her palm. “Anyway, after he asked about the press passes, he asked how I was since he hadn’t had a chance to catch up with me since the night of his birthday, since he’s been so busy with fashion show stuff.”

  Amber nodded slowly. “Which means it wasn’t him who called you a couple days ago.”

  “Right,” said Willow. “So … I’m just feeling like an idiot right now. He wasn’t flirtatious at all this morning. I think I’m still his buddy Willow. Just like high school. And I don’t know what’s going on with you and Connor so—”

  “Nothing,” Amber said quickly. “Absolutely nothing. I promise.”

  Willow absently scratched at her ear. “I live in Portland anyway. It doesn’t matter. Long distance is hard even in the best of circumstances.” Groaning, she added, “I was so happy when he called two days ago, Amber. Like … pathetically happy.”

  Amber couldn’t help but smile at that.

  “I feel like such a moron for turning into teenage me again just because Connor Declan flirted with me for half a second,” Willow said. “And then it wasn’t even real.”

  Amber took both of Willow’s hands in hers, the two standing toe to toe. They were both barefoot and sported bright red toenails. “Not that you need my permission for anything, but if you still get all hot and bothered for Connor, I say go for it even if you live in different cities. And if he shoots you down, it’s his loss.”

  “Thanks,” Willow managed, still looking at her toes.

  Gretchen cleared her throat and they looked over at her. Their aunt wrung her hands. She’d never been the best at dealing with “feelings.” She was the rock you could rely on when you were falling apart. She was practical and levelheaded and could solve big problems like a champ. But she wasn’t necessarily the person you’d choose to cry to when you struggled with something less dire, like being confused about a guy. In high school, Amber and Willow had relied on each other for the small things.

  Wincing slightly, Gretchen said, “Would it make you feel any better if I let you doll me up like you did for Amber?”

  Willow’s mouth dropped open. “You better not be teasing me, woman! You know this is my dream.”

  Aunt Gretchen offered the least convincing smile Amber had ever seen. “I’m not teasing you.”

  Willow squealed, let go of Amber, grabbed Gretchen’s hand, and pulled her across the apartment. “Let me at them eyebrows!”

  Gretchen shot a pleading look over her shoulder at Amber.

  She could only offer her a sympathetic wave before her aunt was yanked into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind her.

  Chapter 16

  Jack arrived at two on the dot. Amber had been pacing the empty shop for the better part of ten minutes, so she saw him as he walked up to the front door, waving at her.

  “I’m leaving!” she called out.

  “Tell Jack we say hi!” Willow called back from somewhere upstairs.

  Ten minutes ago, Gretchen had still been complaining about how thin and sore her eyebrows were. Willow and Gretchen were going to meet her at the Edgehill Community Center closer to three. Amber wasn’t sure if Willow had decided to accept the press passes from Connor or not.

  Amber let herself out onto Russian Blue Avenue and took in Jack’s dark blue jeans, black button-up shirt, and navy blazer. He was somehow effortlessly casual and professional at the same time.

  “You look amazing,” he said, holding out an arm for her.

  She hooked a hand around his elbow. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself.”

  Between getting into his car and heading west on Russian Blue Avenue, Jack hadn’t uttered another word. The radio wasn’t even on. After several more minutes of absolute silence, Amber couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Are you breathing?” she asked his profile.

  “Nope,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve blinked in four hours.”

  Amber laughed. His shoulders seemed to relax a bit at the sound.

  “So what are the Terrence brothers offering as refreshments?” Amber asked.

  That got him talking. He rambled on about blueberry, lemon seed, and raspberry scones. He listed half a dozen other pastries. Larry was in charge of coffee and his raspberry iced sweet tea that people seemed to purchase by the gallon. Then Jack went on a very long tangent about the second oven he had installed a few days ago and what a difference the larger model had made for him. She knew he’d slipped well into panic-rambling mode, but the excessive talking seemed to calm his nerves, so she didn’t interrupt him.

  When he pulled up to the light just outside the community center, he abruptly stopped talking. He seemed to have just spotted the news van they idled behind. It was a giant white thing with a satellite dish on top, and a ladder running up the length of one of the back doors. A splash of the van’s blue logo wrapped around one of the doors, the majority of it plastered on the side and out of view.

  “Oh good,” Jack said, sounding vaguely nauseated. “The media is here. They’ll be able to report my meltdown live. Olaf-flipping-Betzen is here. What was I thinking?”

  Amber placed a hand on his arm. “During that very impressive and informative rambling session I just experienced, you said you hired a couple people to help out, right? Baking round the clock?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ll be fine. I promise. Your pastries are amazing and everyone will love them. Larry’s tea is like crack.” When he didn’t say anything, Amber asked, “Okay, why are you really this freaked out?”

  The light turned green and he followed behind the Channel 4 news van as it turned left into the busy parking lot of the community center. They were early enough, though, that they found a spot close to the back of the lot with relative ease.

  He parked, then turned slightly in his seat to face her. “I’m prefacing this with the fact that I absolutely love my brother …”

  “But?”

  “But Purrcolate was more Larry’s dream than mine. I told you I’ve always wanted to start my own bakery, right?”

  Amber nodded.

  “But I’ve had that dream for years. I’m too scared to follow through. I’m very good at coming up with excuses not to do it. But if this goes well and the Here and Meow goes well … I might actually consider it. I don’t know what that would look like yet or if it’s something I could do to expand on what Purrcolate already offers, but I’m thinking of trying something on a much bigger scale.”

  Amb
er grinned at him. “You’d be great at it.”

  He heaved a breath. “I made a ton of new recipes. I got business cards made. I even have clotted cream!”

  Laughing, Amber said, “Well, put me to work. Let’s impress the pants off everyone.”

  They climbed out of the SUV and Jack stood behind the car. “Be warned. There’s … a lot.”

  When the back door swung open, Amber’s eyes doubled in diameter. There were white pastry boxes with “Purrcolate” written in black on the sides—the “o” sporting a pair of cat ears—stacked six high. There were three rows, and the rows were two deep.

  “And this is just my batch. Larry has just as many.”

  “Goodness,” Amber said. “How did you guys get this all done in time?”

  “Sleeping is for the weak.”

  They each grabbed three boxes and then hustled toward the redbrick building. The front door had a peaked white awning supported by four columns. A small lawn stretched out on either side of the front entrance, dotted at intervals by tall oval-shaped hedges. Since it was still winter in Edgehill, the grass had seen better days, but she knew it would be a bright sea of green come spring.

  Instead of heading for the front door, Amber followed Jack down the sidewalk and around the left side of the building. Grass ran between the building and a chain-link fence. Someone’s house lay beyond it. A bouncing, barking golden retriever ran along the fence, tongue lolling.

  Amber walked over and the dog pressed his body against the fence, looking at her with a pleading expression. She squeezed her fingers through diamond-shaped holes so she could give the side of his face a scratch. When she stepped away, the dog flopped down on his haunches and whimpered pathetically in their general direction.

  “Sorry, no time right now, boy,” Amber told the dog.

  Jack smiled at her as they reached a gray metal door. He balanced the boxes with one hand, then rapped on the door with the other. “I would have pegged you as a cat person. And not just because you live in Edgehill.”

  “I’ve always wanted a dog,” she said. “But my dad was allergic so we couldn’t have one growing up. There were hints that I’d get one for my seventeenth birthday, but … well, that didn’t happen.”

  Jack’s face took on an “Oh no! I’ve indirectly brought up a dead parent—abort mission! Abort mission!” expression.

  “If I had a place with a yard,” Amber said, trying to save him from uttering an obligatory platitude, “I would love to have a dog. Though Tom Cat might never forgive me.”

  The gray door swung open before Jack could reply, and he hopped out of the way just in time to avoid a dropped-pastry disaster. A very tall, lanky man with thinning hair stood at the door. He sagged with great relief. “Oh, thank the heavens! The natives were getting restless in here without snacks. Hurry, hurry!” A large rock sat just inside the hallway, and the man picked it up and used it to prop the door open. “It only has a lock on the inside,” he said, then hurried away.

  Amber and Jack shared a look, shrugged, then followed after him.

  After a very short trip, the man opened a door to their left and held it open for them. “This room is for the models and the designers.”

  Amber followed Jack into the spacious room. There was no one inside, certainly no one “restless for snacks.” The back wall was lined with tables, and given the carafes of coffee and water, someone had already started setting up.

  “We’ll have a spread in here and one out in the main lobby for the guests and the media. Extras can be stored in the kitchen.” The man still stood at the door, holding it open. Then he peered out into the hall and said, “Sally! Paul! Come help carry in pastries! We’re dreadfully behind.”

  The room was filled with clothing racks lined with hanging black garment bags. There were duffel bags and suitcases stacked around them. Amber assumed they were filled with makeup, shoes, and accessories. It was eerily quiet inside, the hanging bags quietly waiting for the excitement to start.

  “Your brother said you have a special batch set aside for the guest of honor?” the uppity man at the door asked.

  Jack turned to him after placing his boxes on the table. “Yes, I have them in the car.”

  The man’s nostrils flared. “Well, do be a lamb and fetch those?” he asked, suddenly assuming a rather pronounced English accent he certainly didn’t have just moments before. “Then you can let Sally and Paul know which things go where. Mr. Betzen and his people are scheduled to arrive at any moment and it’s imperative that everything is perfect for him.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jack said, grabbing Amber’s hand. “We’ll be right back.”

  They scuttled past the man, who had his nose hiked so far in the air, Amber could practically see his nose hairs.

  Sally and Paul, it turned out, were a pair of teenagers who looked two seconds from fainting dead away in the hallway. They both stood behind the uppity man, pressed against the wall as if they hoped it would do them a favor and swallow them whole. Sally wrung her hands. Paul had his hands buried under his armpits, eyes the size of saucers.

  “My car is near the back of the lot,” Jack said in a tone usually reserved for scared cats one is trying to coax out from underneath the bed.

  Wordlessly, the teenagers peeled themselves off the wall to follow them. They both shot looks at the man still loitering in the doorway.

  Once they’d made it back outside, Jack said, “Do be a lamb …” in the same affected English accent.

  Sally snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “He’s not usually like this,” she added. “He’s our drama teacher at school, so they got him to help run the fashion show. He was totally normal until we found out Olaf Betzen is going to be here. Now he’s—”

  “A complete nightmare,” Paul offered.

  “The whole town has gone a little nutty,” Amber said.

  Jack and Amber loaded the teens with boxes and instructions on where to take them, then off they went again. Amber grabbed another three boxes, while Jack pulled a small fabric cooler out of the back seat. He slung it over his shoulder and patted the top gently when he caught Amber looking at it. “These are the special ones made for the king himself.”

  Amber laughed. She wished she knew what all the fuss was about, but then again, she’d never been one to get starstruck. And she didn’t know the first thing about fashion.

  Once they were back inside—and Paul and Sally were on their way back to the car to grab another stack of boxes—Captain Nightmare led Jack and Amber past the room full of hanging garment bags and a set of bathrooms before coming to a small door with a printed sign taped to the wood. “Mr. Olaf Betzen” the slightly askew sign read.

  “This,” Captain Nightmare said, placing an open palm on the wooden door, “is where Mr. Betzen will be lounging during his stay here until it’s time for the show.”

  Amber wondered if, when Olaf left town, Captain Nightmare would emerge from his celebrity-induced haze and regret his actions come morning—like a hangover.

  “Can I trust you two to set up the necessary accoutrements while I make sure Paul isn’t stuffing all the pastries in his pockets? Positively dreadful, that boy.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Jack said.

  “Splendid,” Captain Nightmare said, clapping his hands once. “Take care to get in and get out so you’re not mucking about in his room when he arrives.”

  And then the man was taking long strides across the hallway.

  “That poor man needs a sedative,” Jack said.

  He then let Amber into the room, closing the door behind them. The space was shabby at best. There were two country-plaid sofas, the fabric crisscrossed with forest green, navy blue, and a muted yellow. Each had a pair of matching pillows resting on the couches’ backs. Amber wondered if the sofas were always in here, or if someone’s mother was currently without couches until the great Olaf Betzen breezed back out of town.

  A low stand sat against the back wall, a small flat-screen T
V sitting on top. A fake tree, its pot filled with fake Spanish moss, stood to the right of the TV. Thick dust coated some of the leaves.

  In the middle of the room was a round table topped with a forest-green tablecloth, a vase of bright yellow sunflowers—also fake—in the center. A small stack of platters waited beside the vase. Without a word, they started plating the pastries. There was a box filled with fluffy pumpkin muffins, spiced shortbread cut into perfect triangles, and cranberry scones topped with a light drizzle of icing.

  It took everything in Amber’s power to not be dreadful like Paul and shovel all the pastries into her mouth. She imagined being covered in crumbs and sugar, only to have Captain Nightmare come in, see the destruction, then collapse in the doorway, hand to forehead. She chuckled to herself.

  “What?” Jack asked, smiling at her.

  Before she could answer, the door to the room opened and in walked the most beautiful man Amber had ever seen. She, being the classy lady she was, dropped the pastry box she’d been holding. Thankfully, it was empty. She flushed and hurriedly went to pick the box up off the floor—and while she was down there, she grabbed her jaw, too.

  He was around five-eight, purposefully bald, had piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, and his button-down blue shirt was tucked into well-tailored black slacks. The shirt had two buttons undone, showing off a hint of well-muscled chest underneath. His shoes were shiny and black.

  The man strode for her, hand out. He didn’t seem remotely fazed by her reaction. Amber blinked at the perfectly sculpted hand before her, then realized she was supposed to shake it. “Oh! I … uh …” She giggled. Amber Blackwood was not a giggler.

  Amber wedged the pastry box under her arm, then shook the man’s offered hand. His tanned skin felt as if it were made of silk. His skin was free of blemishes, save for a tiny white scar above his right eyebrow. The small imperfection somehow made his face even more stunning.

  He smiled at her, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. Amber nearly melted into a puddle.