“You look like the sunny windowsill I’ve been chasing my whole life. The only person who should take off that corset is me,” he snarls. “Slowly. With my teeth.”
His words hum through me, like a swarm of bees descending on a particularly delicious flower. I’m warm all over, but where his hands touch, I’m on fire.
His eyes have turned even darker, the black irises creeping towards the edges, swallowing the blue. His body trembles. Or maybe that’s me, maybe I’m trembling.
Rafe’s tail flicks at the hem of my skirts, lifting them, sliding up my leg. A whimper escapes my lips.
In the years that I’ve been married, I told myself that I’m content, that as long as I have my cottage and my garden and my bees and Warrick’s devotion, I’m happy. And I believed it in my bones because I thought that was my lot in life. But ever since Warrick didn’t come home and a menace of a Siamese cat strode into my life and blew it to smithereens, my whole body aches withwanting. It’s as if I’ve been sleeping and he’s woken me up.
And this, right here, his lips inches from mine, his fingers clenching around my waist…I’ve neverwantedlike this.
All I have to do is lean forward, and my lips would be on his, and I’d learn what would happen when this heat between us burned down the wick.
“Rafe…”
He steps back, his shoulders shaking. His tail slips from beneath my skirt. He shakes his head, once, sadly.
Heat flares in my cheeks.
That slow, cheeky smile plays across his lips. He picks up the tray and pushes it into my hands. “I’m just messing with you, Mead Maestro. You look amazing. Get out there – your public awaits.”
I’m all wobbly and flustered when I walk outside, my lips buzzing with the promise of all that we didn’t do, but for once, I’mnotstressing about all the people waiting outside. It turns out that I didn’t need to worry anyway. The free mead is a hit.
Within minutes, the green is filled with villagers clinking tiny plastic thimbles, shouting ‘Prost!’ and ‘Skål!’ and threatening to duel each other.
Rafe-in-human-form moves between the groups, talking excitedly as he hands out samples, working his particular brand of magic. Thankfully, his tail stays down his trousers. At some point, he pulls a fiddle from goddess-knows-where and breaks out some rowdy folk tunes. A group of children circle him, clapping and dancing.
Celeste decides to get in on the action and circulates through the crowd, offering a tray of bite-sized pieces of brownie and sourdough with a balsamic dip.
“I know you’d like to eventually serve your own food,” she says as she passes me leaving my shop with a fresh tray of thimbles to restock her own. “But what if we worked together on your opening menu? Because the building is split, we’re both licensed for each other’s shops. We could allow it so patrons of the meadery could order pies and treats from your POS system, and I’d bring them through.”
“I love this idea.” That would mean we could open with a food menu, which I’d always wanted to do. Mead tastes best paired with simple, warming fare.
“Great. You look hot, by the way.” She leans in close. “What did Rafe say when you walked out in that outfit?”
My cheeks heat as I remember his body pressing mine against the fridge, his chest heaving as his fingers clamped over the laces on my corset, and his tail inching up my leg. “Oh, not much.”
Celeste grins. “I doubt that. Get back out there before he breaks into song.”
As I plaster a smile on my face and rush outside to serve more mead, I notice a figure moving at the edge of the crowd. Veronika. She gestures wildly at me while she talks to Sergeant Wilson, who nods sagely. My skin buzzes. What are the two of them saying about me?
What do they know?
XVII
Celeste: Did you know Rafe started an Instagram account for the meadery? It’s mostly selfies of him in cat form looking aloof in front of the barrels, but it’s doing quite well.
“Ican’t believe we’re so close to opening.” I affix my new alcohol license to the wall behind the counter. It’s past dinner time, two days after the free mead samples. We’re putting the finishing touches on the shop fitout. Rafe, in his cat form today, prances along the counter, knocking off things with his paw in an attempt to make me down tools and fetch dinner. His folk playlist blasts in the background.
I step back and admire the barrel wall with each mead’s name stencilled onto the wooden lids above the taps, and my new sink and kegerator for summery carbonated meads.
I did it. I actually did it. My very own meadery opens on Friday, and Warrick can’t do anything about it or talk me out of it because he’s?—
“Hello!”
I turn to the doorway. A woman wearing a gorgeous lilac-coloured pantsuit hovers there, looking like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Behind her is a man who looked like he stepped out of a ‘hot medieval warlord’ magazine. He holds a box in his arms and wears an expression of abject desolation.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed, but the grand opening is on Friday?—”
