She gestured to a table. Yep, the charming beauty was all business now. “Sit. Let me just hop on my broom and fly back to the kitchen to get your samples.”
I just stared at her for a minute.
“It’s called sarcasm. Geez.” She called over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen, unaware that the luscious sway of her hips was almost as intriguing as her personality.
I picked the chair that put my back to the wall. Old habit, again. She disappeared into the kitchen, and for a moment I just sat there, breathing in the sugar and butter and watching sunlight creep across the floor.
She came back with a wooden tray, four slices of cake on clean white plates, each with a tiny fork stuck in the side.
“Carrot, chocolate, strawberry, and lemon.”
I glanced at the slices. The carrot was topped with a smear of cream cheese icing so white it glowed. The chocolate was almost black, dusted with something golden. The lemon wasn’t fancy but was iced with some kind of fluffy icing and had a creamy curd-type filling.
I tried the carrot first. It was good. Too sweet for my taste, but the texture was right, and the frosting had that tang people liked.
The chocolate was dense, and rich, and bitter in a way I respected. She watched my every move, her eyes anxious and curious at the same time.
The strawberry was fresh, moist and full of flavor. The icing creamy.
Then I tried the lemon. The moment I did, the world just about stopped.
The cake was light, so delicate I barely tasted it before it melted away. But the flavor—it was sun-warmed, sharp, so perfectly balanced it nearly made me angry. And that acid bite hit right in the jaw.
I set the fork down.
She waited, holding her breath.
“What did you put in this?” I asked, almost accusing.
Her brows pinched together. “Lemon. Sugar. Eggs. Butter. Little bit of buttermilk, maybe.”
“No magic?”
Her face closed up. Now she just looked hurt. “I promise you mister, if I had any discernible magical abilities, I likely wouldn’t even know how to bake. Now, do you like the damn cakes or not?”
I tried to read her, but all I saw was exhaustion, and wounds that ran about as deep as the scars I carried. I knew that look. I’d seen it in the mirror off and on for years.
“I’m not judging,” I said, voice softer now. “Wolves and witches don’t usually mix. Experience makes me a little skeptical.”
She laughed a sarcastic laugh. “Really? I wasn’t aware of the ancient history between wolves and witches.” She looked away, then back at me. “Someone told me the Iron Valor Pack was different. That I might be safe if I were to move here alone. Maybe they were mistaken?”
Shit. She looked so small and vulnerable. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Iron Valor judges people strictly on their merit.” I told her.
“Maybe you could have given me that courtesy before you threw out accusations.” She attempted to glare at me. Cutest thing ever.
She was right. I came in here with a chip on my shoulder ready to judge her. “Again, my apologies.”
I looked down at the cake, then up at her again. “You ever bake for two hundred?”
She blinked. “Two hundred?”
“We’re doing a mating ceremony in three weeks. Might be more like two-twenty if the vampires show.”
Her jaw dropped, just enough to be funny. “Vampires?”
I nodded. “They’re friends of ours. You’ll know them when you see them. Pale, overdressed, allergic to small talk.”
She grinned, but it faded quick. “Who’s ceremony?”
