But soon he nods towards Hex proper to Main Street. I get his meaning and follow. He lands, tucking his wings in as close as he can to not touch the buildings on either side of the street.
Kids rush towards him, and even though he can’t speak with words, he speaks with actions and allows the children to play on him. It’s the sweetest thing, and I have to wonder if he likes attention more than he lets on. Does our grumpy griffin actually want eyes on him, or is he just sweet with children?
I want to watch him relax and let loose, and watching the children play and climb across his lion body is the best thing I’ve seen in so long.
Lark and Pike peek out from their house. They run over to us with Frankie, who yips and plays with the kids just as much as Talon does.
Lark looks up at me. “So you broke through the griffin.”
“I don’t know about that, but he’s amazing” And I hope we can do this again and again.
I look over to Talon, and he meets my eyes. I’m sure if he had something to change into, he’d shift and say something. We don’t have to have words to know what the other’s thinking about right now.
I’m pretty sure he’s telling me that he wants to do this again and again. And I’m here for it.
But the sun’s setting, and the kids disperse. Lark and Pike and Frankie leave us, and it’s just the two of us in the dark.
“I’m ready for that baking lesson,” I say.
He uses his paw and tosses me onto his back.
“You want me to ride you?” I ask.
He nods and lifts back into the air, and soon we’re at Wick’s.
Not to be selfish, but I hope he lets me in more and more as the days go on.
18
TALON
By the time Wren and I make it back to the bakery, my griffin is still humming under my skin.
That only happens when I’m deeply content or deeply agitated, and for once it’s not the second one. I’m still a little dazed from having Wren in my field, in my sky, circling around me with his wings glowing in the late afternoon light while he laughed and called me magnificent like he didn’t realize what that word does to a man.
Or maybe he does realize. Maybe Wren knows exactly what he does to me every second he breathes in my direction.
He unlocks the front door while I carry boxes of fresh cherries for Mother’s order. The bell jingles softly when he pushes the door open, and the familiar scent of sugar and bread and butter wraps around me. It should settle me. Usually it does. Tonight it just makes me more aware that Wren is here with me. Barefoot. Hair a little windblown from flying. Cheeks pink from laughing.
Mine. No. Not mine. We’re dating.
Wren flicks on the front lights, then spins to face me with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Come on.” I lead the way to the kitchen and set the cherry boxes on the counter. “Wash your hands,” I say.
He salutes. “Yes, sir.”
Oh, this might be dangerous.
He saunters off to the sink, and I busy myself pulling out ingredients before he can see me smiling. I shouldn’t smile this much around him. It feels dangerous. Like if I let him see too much of how happy he makes me, I’ll end up gutted. That old fear still lives in my ribs. But every day with Wren makes it a little quieter.
I line everything up on the counter the way Grandma used to. Flour, sugar, salt, butter, the cherries, cornstarch, lemon, vanilla, almond extract. I grab the big silver mixing bowls and the pastry cutter, then pull down my favorite rolling pin.
Wren comes back and leans his hip against the counter. “You look different in here when you’re not working.”
“What do you mean?”
“Relaxed.” His voice is quiet. “When you’re baking for work, you get all serious and grumbly. Right now you look... happy.”
