I’ve been avoiding Teddy all morning at the café, which isn’t as hard as you might think. Whenever he casts me a wounded look, my heart constricts a little tighter in my chest, my breathing turns a little raspier in my throat, and I quickly find something for him to do.
So far he’s cleaned the bathrooms, dusted all the ancestors’ gold-leaf picture frames, and polished each gargoyle, which turned out to be the worst chore of all. Each little fiend made gagging noises in Teddy’s ears; by the time he finished, he looked pale, sweaty, and nauseous.
I didn’t realize Teddy had such a sensitive stomach, or I wouldn’t have put him through that experience. But at least he’s stopped all attempts at eye contact; he must realize his flimsy excuse about having a “werewolfcondition” won’t fly with me. I probably know as much about werewolves as any faerie in Riddle Hill, and there’s no such thing as a condition that forces adult werewolves to disappear for a few days at a time.
Even so, I feel really bad about our fight yesterday, and I definitely regret firing him. I think if I hadn’t been ready to kiss him, I might not have reacted so strongly when he told me he couldn’t work this weekend. I’m also shocked Teddy handed over his ownership interest in the bakery without asking for anything in return. I don’t feel right keeping it, and I’m too mad at him to return it, which goes to show how muddled I’ve become over the whole thing.
At one o’clock I hang up my Sit for a Spell apron and cross the street to the Rhyme ’N Riddle Bakeshop. It’s time for me to start baking for tomorrow’s grand opening!
I just wish I didn’t have this heaviness deep down in the pit of my stomach over the whole Teddy debacle; I feel like I swallowed a bucket of sand, and it’s weighing me down. I also wish I didn’t have to stop, get cleaned up, and go to Pru and Vreeland’s shower tonight. Not only would I prefer to continue baking, but I’m nervous about seeing Rafe. I finally told Cassia she’d been right about him all along, but I didn’t tell her about the text messages because I didn’t want to alarm her; she has enough anxiety issues without dealing with mine.
After donning my apron and headwrap, I let my faerie form emerge; I may not have any magic, but at least I can be myself in my own kitchen. My ears slopeinto points, my eyebrows tip upward, and I partially extend my wings; if I let them unfurl completely, I’ll be knocking over all my pans.
Since the summer fest is the busiest weekend of the year, and I have no employees to help me, I’m going to keep things simple. I’ll bake two desserts, caramel-fudge brownies and chocolate chip cookie bars; I’ve come up with catchy titles for them, Spelled for You Brownies and Riddler’s Magic Bars. I plan to cut them into sample sizes and serve them for free, along with a cute card displaying my hours of operation. The business card was Teddy’s idea; I’ll admit he’s whip smart. He’s also a whiz at remodeling, and if cleaning were an Olympic sport, he’d take the gold medal.
But Teddy skipped out just when I needed him most, which makes him pretty unreliable in my book. I’m stirring up another batch of dough, but I flip off the mixer, upset with him all over again.
I wander out of the kitchen, hoping for some fresh inspiration to tamp down my sadness. I smile at the lovely shade of dune-grass green on the walls, the cheery travel posters in their black frames, the cute tables and chairs perched by the window, and the neatly painted white trim.
It’s perfect—and ninety percent of it is Teddy’s doing.
My wings droop; he’s holding back something very important from me, something related to his phony werewolf condition. When this weekend is over, I’m going to get to the bottom of Teddy’s secrets—every single one of them.
I’m standingin the lobby of the castle-like supper club, where a larger-than-life statue of a knight in shining armor perches on his silvery steed; he’s holding a staff in his right hand and looks ready to charge down Highway 42. Sir Reginald is one of Jake’s werewolf ancestors, so I feel like he’s a member of my quirky, extended family.
“Hey, Sir Reginald,” I nod, since his ghost still inhabits the armor.
His helmeted head creaks slightly in greeting.
“I might need some help tonight,” I whisper.
There’s a clang, and then Sir Reginald goes quiet. Well, it was worth a try.
I smooth down my short, violet cocktail dress and blow out a puff of air. It’s showtime; one of my closest friends is getting married, and she deserves my happy face.
But it’s kind of hard always being the bridesmaid… you know? I was Cassia’s maid of honor, of course, and I’ve been a regular bridesmaid four other times. Everyone looks so happy on their wedding day, so in love, that my heart twists up inside my chest each time. Honestly, I think the real reason most women cry at weddings is because they’re lonely and want a man to look at them the way the groom gazes lovingly at his bride.
Take me, for example; the one man I want to kiss has vanished, and the one man I never want to see again is walking into the lobby now.
I swallow nervously and take a step back, resting myhand on Sir Reginald’s horse. “That’s the guy,” I mumble, but the ghostly old knight is probably sleeping, because he doesn’t stir.
Rafe is dressed in a black, unstructured jacket, navy V-neck tee, and black jeans. “Hey, darling, you look stunning,” he drawls in a low voice that he might think is sexy but makes me want to stomp all over his highly polished cowboy boots.
“I’m not your darling.” I glare at him, but he merely smirks as if this is a game we’re playing. Then he invades my personal space and reaches an arm around my waist like we’re dating, which I’ve made abundantly clear we’re not.
Thunk!
Sir Reginald’s long staff drops down on Rafe’s shoulder, and he yips in surprise. I quickly extract myself from his grasp and clack down the hall in my spiky heels, anxious to join the party and escape from Rafe.
“Hey, Sophie… um… I could use a little help here!”
I glance over my shoulder and compress my lips to keep from laughing. Sir Reginald’s staff is now pressed in front of Rafe’s chest, pinning him against the large mare. “If you promise to keep your hands to yourself and stop bothering me, he might let you go.”
“Huh?” Rafe is such a clueless oaf.
“You’re a big, bad wolf; figure it out yourself,” I tell him and push open the door to the private party room.
For the first twenty minutes I actually have some fun, and then Rafe turns up. But he’s looking pretty disheveled; his jacket is gone, he’s limping slightly, and the V-neck of his tee is all stretched out.
