And apparently, I had a cake to order.
I pushed to my feet, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the door. It was a long walk across the compound to my bike, and I needed the air to clear my head. The wind tasted like dry grass and pine; the sky already sharpening to blue.
The last thing Pearl had said played in my head: Be nice to her. I was nice to everyone. It’s who I was. Don’t know why I felt like I wanted to benotnice to this girl.
I’d try. But if she put raisins in the cinnamon rolls, we’d definitely have problems.
I decided to reserve judgement just like I wanted people to do with me.
The sun was just starting to bake the streets when I made it into Dairyville proper. My bike rumbled under me, stubborn and loud and comforting. The main square was buzzing: the hardware store’s lights flickering, drug store clerk propping the door with her hip, a couple of ranch hands sipping coffee from to-go cups on the courthouse steps.
The bakery was impossible to miss. The yellow paint didn’t just stand out; it shouted. Looked like somebody had poured a can of daylight over the old facade. On either side, the buildings were more subdued—hardware store to the left, hair salon to the right, both painted a tasteful gray and navy. The bakery blazed in the middle like a beacon of warmth.
I parked at the curb, killed the engine, and took a breath. There was a sweetness in the air that hit me even outside, something rich and golden, like the memory of Sunday mornings our housekeeper baking delicious treats my mom was too busy to be bothered with. My stomach gave a hopeful twitch. So did my wolf the moment I stepped through the door.
The bell above the entrance announced me with a happy little jingle. The sound was so at odds with the world I came from that it almost made me shiver. I squared my shoulders like I was looking for a fight, and stepped inside, boots leaving a dust mark on the freshly mopped tile.
It was bright in here. Sunlight pooled on every surface, bouncing off lemon-painted walls and glass display cases. The counters gleamed. There were several small tables, each with mismatched chairs, and the smell—God, the smell—was a full-bodied gut punch: vanilla, caramelizing sugar, a sharp drift of citrus that made my teeth ache. I wasn’t sure if it was the pastries or the beauty standing at the counter.
There she was, five feet five inches of delicious curves and softness. She stood, back straight, hands folded on the counter, waiting as I took her in. Even from here, I could see her subtle nervousness. Her skin was pale as fresh milk, hair a black river of silk falling over one shoulder. Her eyes, like two emeralds, sharp, and assessing.
I knew before she opened her mouth or even smiled that she wasn’t human. It was in the stillness of her hands, in the unnatural green of her eyes, and in the way her presence pressed against my chest. My wolf bristled, then settled, as if recognizing some ancient rule.
“Mornin’,” she said, with a voice soft as air. Southern, maybe Savannah or Atlanta, with a sweetness I didn’t want to trust. “Can I help you?”
I tried not to let the military training take over. I kept my voice easy. “Depends. You the new owner?”
She tilted slightly. “That’s what the deed says,” she affirmed. I wondered if she was using magic on me right then. Her voice had a definite, natural, magical lilt. “I’m Aspen.”
Aspen. It suited her. Delicate but tough, the kind of name you give something that survives bad winters.
“Big Papa,” I said, offering the club nickname out of habit. “I’m with Iron Valor.”
Her eyes darted to my jacket, to the patch. She didn’t flinch, but something in her posture shifted. “I heard about y’all. From the hardware guy. He said your club runs most of the town.”
I shrugged. “We don’t run it. We just keep things quiet.”
She smiled, a quick flash of white teeth. “That’s what people say right before they admit they run things.”
My lips twitched. I liked her for all of three seconds. Then I caught a glint of a large leather-bound book on a shelf behind the counter. A grimoire. The reminder that she was a witch. I stiffened, old habits coming back.
“You’re a witch,” I blurted.
She blinked hard as though she had misheard. “Excuse me?”
I nodded toward the shelf. “That’s a grimoire. You can’t deny it.”
A flush crawled up her neck, but she held my stare. “So what if I am?”
“I just like to know what I’m eating,” I said, deadpan.
The friendly atmosphere I’d been enjoying had gone frosty. She looked at her hands, then back up. “You’re here for the cake tasting.”
I wondered if she was clairvoyant as well. “Mind reader, also?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Pearl called this morning. She said you’d be coming.”
Of course. Pearl never left anything to chance.
