“Sophie!” screeches Cassia, yanking me back. “Look out!”
“Wah?” I murmur, my eyes still closed in concentration as I envisage the crimson paper peeling away in neat strips.
“The wall! It’s… It’s…”
My eyelids snap open, my shriek matching my cousin’s. “O-oh no-o!”
Not only is the wallpaper shredding itself into grubby confetti—so is the wall.Beginning at the top where the wall and ceiling meet and then cascading down to the floor, small bits of wallboard are disintegrating before our eyes and crumbling in a grimy heap at our feet. Soon we’re both coughing as plumes of dust waft upward, tickling our throats and coating us in a fine layer of grayish-white powder.
I wait until the dust settles—a phrase I’ve never used literally before—and then wipe the grit from my eyes with the hem of my tee. While the wall to the left of the display cases has disappeared, I’m relieved to see the wood studs are still rooted in place. “At least I didn’t break the building,” I murmur through dry lips, retracting my dust-covered wings, which will need a thorough washing once I’m home.
Cassia is sneezing and wheezing so much she can’t catch her breath, so I grab her purse and sweater from the storage closet and tell her I’ll meet up with her later. “And maybe don’t mention this fiascoto anyone in the meantime… please?” Nodding, she chokes out a shaky goodbye before fleeing from my latest magical misfire.
My secret is safe with Cassia, but it won’t be long before my parents find out. Mom and Dad own the Sit for a Spell Café across the road, on the opposite side of Main Street. The only reason they’re not already over here lecturing me on the misapplication of magic is due to the bakery’s front windows, which are so filthy no one can see into my shop.
Rather than try a cleaning spell that might go awry, I grab the push broom and attempt to corral the mess, but all that does is raise more dust. Scowling, I pause and consider whether to throw in the towel and hire a professional contractor with what remains of my rapidly dwindling inheritance.
A pleasant little tinkling sounds from the bell above the shop’s door, drawing my attention away from the gaping hole on the left side of the bakery. The shop is obviously closed, but since I forgot to lock the door after Cassia left, I paste on a smile before turning to greet the prospective customer.
“How may I help—” The words fade on my lips. I back up involuntarily, stomping into the pile of broken wallboard I just swept, staring slack-jawed at the gorgeous Nordic god standing in the doorway.
A weird thought flits through my overactive brain: Am I hallucinating? Or did my magic somehow conjure this giant, muscular Norseman in his periwinkle button-down shirt and pressed khakis? The big, blue-eyed blond man clears his throat uncertainly.
Alright, at least I know he’s real. But that means… wow.
I’m struggling to process why this hot Viking-type with flowing blond locks, chiseled, clean-shaven jaw, and biceps the size of tree trunks has entered my not-yet-open bakery. He has an expectant look on his handsome face, and the corners of his mouth are tipping up ever so slightly, like he wants to smile but is restraining the impulse. As I peer into his sea-blue eyes I notice flecks of gold around the irises, which are darkening all of a sudden; his posture is friendly but slightly guarded. He’s watching me carefully without trying to appear he’s doing so.
Snap! Suddenly I’m on guard too, because now I knowwhathe is.
This man is neither a lost human tourist nor a misplaced Scandinavian model—he’s a werewolf! Of course, only another super like me would recognize his true form, since his appearance is one-hundred-percent hunky male at the moment. But during a full moon, when his inner wolf emerges, woe to any tourist who happens to be taking a late-night stroll. Not that werewolves are dangerous, but the average human would still have a coronary if they came face to face with one.
I sigh inwardly. I know every werewolf in my cousin Jake’s pack, and this guy isn’t one of them, which makes him a stranger and possibly a lone wolf. And lone wolves nearly always spell trouble.
The werewolf nods at my dirt-and-dust-strewn appearance. “Are you alright? Do you need to see a healer perhaps?”
I rake a hand through my long brown tangles, bits of wallpaper drifting to the floor. “Um, no. Um, yes. I mean yes, I’m alright, and no, I don’t need to see a healer.”
“Are you sure? You have a cut on your arm.” He takes a few steps toward me, but I don’t know this guy, and the way he’s gazing at me makes me feel all nervous and fluttery.
Raising my hands, I sputter, “Stop right there. I… I’m fine.”
He immediately stops in his tracks, but the way he continues staring at me is really freaking me out. It’s like he’s never seen a grimy faerie before.
“Look, as you can see, we’re not open.” I wave a hand around the imploded interior. “And I have a lot of work to do before we’re able to open. So if you don’t mind coming back during the Riddle Hill Summer Fest, I can promise a much more welcoming experience.” I say the last part cheerily, as if I’m taping a promo reel for my bakery’s SuperSuite page.
Mr. Tall, Blond, and Drop-Dead Gorgeous arches one perfect eyebrow at me. “I realize I’m a few days early, but by the looks of it, I think you could use my help now.”
It dawns on me I’m all alone with a strange man who’s obviously confused and possibly dangerous. I glance around, wondering what I could use as a weapon if he tries anything, since my defensive magic is non-existent. Keeping my eyes firmly trained on the werewolf, I bend down to retrieve my broom from the floor. Gripping the handle firmly, I ask, “What do you mean, you’re a few days early?”
“I suppose introductions would be helpful here.” Hechuckles nervously. “Is it safe to assume you are Sophie Spellman Brownlee, ninety-percent owner of the Rhyme ’N Riddle Bakeshop?”
My mouth starts to gape open again, but I clamp it shut. Is this one of the attorneys overseeing Auntie Dragonfly’s estate? I attempt to brush the dirt off my t-shirt and jeans, leaving behind more dark smudges everywhere my grubby fingers touch. It’s useless; I look like a walking demolition experiment gone awry.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
The sculpted features of his face soften as he beams down at me. When the werewolf smiles, his teeth are pearly white. “Splendid!”
But I still don’t knowhisname. “And you are?”
