I ignore her jab. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on… er… one of her tails. What’s she doing here?”
“She lives here.”
“Not with me she doesn’t,” I say firmly. “No pets.”
“Who says you live here?”
“Miss Dragonfly’s last will and testament says so.” I square my jaw. “Look, let’s get on with the review of Appendix C. Didn’t you say you had dinner plans?”
Sophie glares daggers at me. “As ifyoucould makemeforget I have a date tonight!”
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself almost jealous that she’s going out with someone else tonight. A ridiculous notion, since I find her far too showy, snappy, and sloppy for my taste. Sophie is the embodiment of everything I abhor. Well, except for the way she smells… and looks; she could stop traffic in that outfit.
Sophie kisses the top of the little fox’s head, puts her down, and leads me through a set of swinging double doors into the kitchen. The room reeks of Pine Sol—atleast the cracked linoleum floor and avocado green appliances appear recently scrubbed—but the kitchen is just as cramped and cluttered as the main room. Pots and pans and dishes and pantry items are stacked on the counters and crowded into cupboards; there isn’t an inch of unoccupied counter space anywhere, and half the cabinet doors are slightly ajar, obviously overflowing with contents.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the migraine forming behind my eyes at the sheer chaos that is Sophie Spellman Brownlee. She seems to realize we need at least fourteen square inches of clear space to review Miss Dragonfly’s will, because she grabs an armful of cookbooks from her Formica-topped table and stacks themon top of the stove.
“Er… that’s not safe,” I say, wondering what other hazards are hidden within these claustrophobic walls. I’m somewhat of a fanatic when it comes to fire safety; I have a fire science degree and long for an opportunity to put my knowledge to good use.
“What do you take me for? Some feather-brained faerie?” Sophie grumps, pulls up a chair at the table, and waves me over.
“If you know it’s an unsafe practice, then why do you do it?”
“Really? Are we going to waste precious time discussing my decluttering skills, or are we going to look at this will?”
“No offense,” I reply stiffly, taking my seat next to her. “But you don’t appear to have any decluttering skills. You merely move stacks of stuff around, like thoserail cars that crisscross the country hauling expired waste from coast to coast.”
Sophie shakes her head and huffs, “If you’re not careful, you’re going to insult the wrong person in Riddle Hill, someone far less easygoing than me. And then you’ll be lucky if all you’re fending off are fangs and claws.” At my quizzical expression, she adds, “Visit the Sit for a Spell Café and take a look at the gargoyles beneath the countertop. That’s what happens when you cross a faerie!”
“I don’t understand.”
“They weren’t always made of stone.”
My eyes narrow into twin slits. “Are you threatening me?”
Sophie shrugs. “If the boot fits… ”
She’s intentionally trying to goad me, and I refuse to take the bait. Instead I paste a neutral expression on my face, determined to reach detente with this infuriating faerie so I can unpack my car and get some much-needed rest. “I’ve been on the road since eight this morning. I have no energy for a verbal tussling match; let’s just get on with it.”
I withdraw Miss Dragonfly’s will from its leather portfolio, turn to the appendix in question, and show Sophie the relevant paragraph. She snatches the document from my hands and begins to read. I watch her through half-lowered lids, waiting until her eyes widen, and she hisses, “This is ridiculous! It’s bad enough I’d forfeit my bakery if I don’t employ you for a year. But if I refuse to give you room and board, it amounts to the same thing!”
“True, but Miss Dragonfly adds protections for you as well. If you deem my work ethic unsatisfactory—for example, if I fail to show up for work without a valid excuse—then you may send me packing and buy out my shares at the end of the year.” Shrugging, I add, “However, I think you’ll quickly find my work ethic is outstanding, and you’ll have no reason to activate the forfeiture clause. In my three years of employment with Miss Dragonfly, I never missed a day.”
“Unbelievable.” Sophie slaps her hand on the table. “I assumed all along you were female and had a tolerable personality—but Auntie knew the truth, and she still drafted this will! What was she thinking?”
I can’t help myself; my sister Bella always says I’m too curious by half. “What’s wrong with my personality?”
Sophie glares at me. “You’ve done nothing but look down your nose at me since you arrived at the shop. You insisted I had to bathe and change before discussing the will, and you’ve been wincing and grimacing ever since you entered my home. You called poor little Zosia a rat and compared my decluttering skills to managing radioactive waste. Seriously, how did you survive into your twenties without one of your packmates taking you out?”
My mouth turns sharply downward as I pin her with a wolfish glower. Sophie’s estimate of my issues with pack life hits a little too close to home. Not that my “personality” was the problem; no, it was my loyalty to my alpha that nearly got me killed. But Sophie doesn’t need to know that. I rise from the chair and tower over theoutspoken faerie I have to live and work with for the next twelve months.
I refuse to dignify her question with an answer. Instead I ask, “Is this a roundabout way of telling me you wish to forfeit?”
Sophie hurtles out of her chair like it’s on fire and jabs her finger into my chest, which sends a frisson of tingles around my torso, down my spine, and into my gut. Peering down at her shiny brown hair, I inhale her delicious scent, and suddenly, I’m struggling to swallow. I notice Sophie seems immobilized; her forefinger is still pressed into my chest, but she’s not saying or doing anything.
I have this inexplicable desire to wrap my arms around this maddening faerie and draw her close for a kiss. Her scent, her curves, her lips seem to beckon me… Whoa! I blink away the thought, wondering if Sophie is part siren.
I cough to clear my throat, and she whips her head up at me, dropping her hand. Her pupils are dilated, but her voice is as loud and brash as ever. “I am not forfeiting, Leslie T. Barker!”
