Den and Breakfast: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance (Honeycomb Falls Book 1) (5 page)

I crouch by the letter and pick it up. A wave of relief washes over me. Mama B approves. Or approved. I can't quite keep my tenses straight.

Your main challenge will be the Cairn Elder, an old werelion by the name of Aurion who is fair minded if a little stuck in his ways. The traditional type. You'll have to make a very strong case to set this new precedent, but I know you'll have what it takes. If he gives you any trouble, remind him of a certain morning in 1963 when he came across me bathing in the Knassatock Stream up in the hills. That should set him straight.

"My god, Mama B, how did I go my whole life without getting to know you?" My sense of loss is only growing stronger the more I get to know her personality. What a firecracker! I sit back down on the bed.

Now, in the chest at the foot of my bed is my most important possession, my staff of power. It will help you on your journey to becoming a witch.

I let out a small scream and drop the letter all over again, leaping off the bed and dancing back toward the window as if the world's biggest spider has just crawled out from under the pillow. A witch? Me? No! I'm not a witch! I wasn't even able to see Paul's betrayal coming until I caught him naked in bed with another woman. What the hell?

I hug myself tightly. I don't want to be a witch. I like myself just fine the way I am. A sassy, curvy woman with a sharp tongue and a passion for dark chocolate and hot shifter men. A witch? No thank you.

I stand there for another minute, staring at the letter. It doesn't do anything. I almost want to fold it up and throw it away. Who knew a letter could be so dangerous? But my curiosity gets the better of me. I finally pick it up again.

It will help you in your journey to becoming a witch. I wish I could have trained you myself, but there is real power in my staff, and it will help guide you in my stead. Be careful. There are many who will wish to steal it. Keep it safe. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, it could become a very dangerous weapon indeed.

Great. Just great.

I imagine you have a lot of work to do. Put an ad up in Mindy's General Store for a cook and a maid. Trust me on that one. And Mayor Thrushmore's son will make a fantastic gardener, if Blake proves reluctant. Girl, I wish I was there to see all the changes you're going to make. Have fun. Make Honeycomb Hall your own. Because, after all, it is, isn't it?

That's the end of the letter. I set it down and shake my head. What a lady. Then something hits me and I pick it back up.

There's a certain wolf prowling around the premises... I believe he'll be a perfect match... saved him for you.

My face flushes a bright scarlet. Did she purposely leave Blake trapped here to set me up with him? My god! I feel a surge of guilt and embarrassment. Poor Blake! Is this my responsibility, then? I have to get him out of here. Mama B had no business keeping him prisoner like that. Should I tell him? My heart does a flip. Hell, no, I can't admit that to him. It would only make him hate me. I just have to find a way to help him. Maybe I can find another witch?

Which reminds me. I march over to the chest and throw it open. There, lying atop a pile of blankets, is a twisted staff of black wood with an honest-to-goodness red crystal clutched at the head. My breath catches in my throat. Witchcraft. Her staff of power. The same staff Blake tried to steal.

I swallow. How might it help me? Do I want to pick it up? Would that be my first step toward becoming a witch?

The afternoon sunlight catches in the red crystal and gleams there as if trapped in a glass of wine. All I have to do is pick it up. Mama B clearly wanted me to. A stubborn streak arises within me. Just because she wanted me to become a witch doesn't mean I have to agree. I have a choice. I can choose to remain myself, plain old Rachel Wilder.

I stare at it for a long minute, and then slowly and deliberately close the chest. The staff can wait.

Suddenly I really want to head back into town. This is all too much. I feel overwhelmed. I leave Mama B's bedroom, run down the stairs, and out the front door. The late afternoon sunshine is golden, and I inhale deeply. I turn to look up at Mama B's window. For a second I think I see her standing there, watching me through the dusty panes, a wicked smile on her lips, but then I realize it's just my imagination and a trick of the light.

I hop into my Mustang and drive around the driveway, gravel spitting in every direction, and back out onto the street. Sure, it's only a quarter mile, but I want to keep my car close.

I drive quickly along the curving road, until the Conway River hoves back into view, the sound of the falls filling the air with its faint roar. I drive up the two blocks to Mindy's General Store and park out front. It's a large old building, classical New England style, with a peaked roof and a porch out front on which a cluster of backpackers are seated, eating a mess of power bars and cups of soup. I slip past them and into the store.

It's lovely inside. One half is dedicated to wine and beer, the back is a gourmet deli, and the rest is filled with all manner of goods. I drift down one aisle, and pause when I reach the deli counter. I'm starving. I remember the monstrous sandwich Blake prepared for me, a tower of everything and anything he'd found in the fridge, and cup my hand over my mouth as I fail to choke back a laugh.

"Can I help you?" A friendly-looking young man with dreads smiles at me.

"Yes, please. A bowl of your chili soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich. And, um, where is your community board?"

"Sure thing." He notes down my order. "Board's by the front door on the left. Can't miss it." He flashes me his smile again, and turns away.

I walk back to the front of the store and find the board. It's covered in notices, posters, and business cards. Pottery classes, art gallery viewing times, offers for guitar lessons, apple picking hours at a local orchard, a play being performed in the next town over, yoga classes, and more. Honeycomb Falls is a busy little town.

I frown until I see a notepad and pen sitting on the counter. Hoping no one will mind, I quickly write out my own notice:

Hello! Looking for a cook and maid for a new bed and breakfast I'll be opening in Honeycomb Hall. Fair wages in exchange for honest work!

I write down my cell number, and then hesitate. Should I say anything else? If this were New York I'd ask for background checks and references, but something about this town is lowering my guard. That, and Mama B's prediction. I don't want to admit it, but this feels like a sure thing.

I pin up the note and return to the deli to pick up my cup of chili and tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. I want to be more friendly with the guy behind the counter, introduce myself maybe, but he looks busy and I suddenly feel shy, so I pay and walk back outside. There's plenty of time to get to know people.

Instead, I cross the street and head over to the pedestrian bridge. There's a large sign planted by its entrance, and I read about how it used to be the old bridge, built over a century ago, but how when the new truss bridge was made it was abandoned until the Honeycomb Falls Women's Club converted it into a garden.

Munching on the sandwich, enjoying the rich melted cheddar, I step onto the bridge and take my time crossing the Conway River, pausing to admire one outrageous bloom after another. The Women's Club is doing an amazing job. I find a little bench and sit. I feel at once hopeful and very lonely. People are bustling around me, heading this way and that, couples holding hands, children running and laughing. I smile and shrug. Soon. I'll get to know people around here, I will. I won't turn into a weird recluse in Honeycomb Hall.

I dig out my phone and am about to call Maria when I'm interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

I look up. A curvy woman about my age is standing a few paces away, clutching her purse nervously, full lips pursed tight. She's wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses that give her a sexy librarian look, though I can tell from the way she holds herself it's not intentional.

"Yes?" Am I on her bench?

"Hi. I saw you put up the sign in the General Store? About a cook?"

"You did? No kidding." I laugh, and see confusion cross her face. "No, I'm not laughing at you, I'm sorry. It's just that a friend told me - never mind. Are you interested in the position?"

"Yes, I am." She takes a deep breath, as if she's preparing to dive into a pool. "My name's Anita. I'm not trained in a culinary school, but I love to cook." She sounds very earnest. "I know you're probably looking for someone with a degree, but I promise you won't be disappointed. I specialize in baking, but I can make anything, well, almost anything, and I'm willing to work really hard, you'll see."

I hold up my hand, cutting off her flow of words. "I believe you." She's so sincere and nervous that I want nothing more than to give her a hug. "I'm Rachel Wilder. I'd love to try your cooking. How about you bring something over to Honeycomb Hall tomorrow morning? I'd let you use my kitchen, but it needs a serious cleaning."

"Yes, absolutely." She nods, her expression determined. "What would you like me to bring?"

I shrug. "How about your best dish? Knock my socks off. Whatever you want."

"My best?" I almost expect her to say,
Are you sure?
As if her best is dangerous, perhaps too dangerous for public consumption. "OK. I'll bring it around tomorrow morning."

"And - you don't mind working at Honeycomb Hall?" Blake's warning about its reputation rings in my ears.

"No, ma'am." Anita says. "I really need the work."

There's something going on here. She's beyond determined, almost desperate. Still, it isn't any of my business. "Great. Well, swing by when you're ready. I'm looking forward to it."

Anita's eyes light up with excitement, and she rises to her tiptoes for a moment with a squeal of sheer glee before composing herself, smoothing down her skirt and forcing herself to adopt a professional, serious look. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you. For this opportunity. You won't regret it."

"Well, I haven't hired you yet," I say, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

"Oh, I know. But you asked me to bring you my best. I don't think you'll be disappointed." Of that she seems strangely confident. What on earth is she going to cook? "I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Wilder."

And with that she turns on her heel and marches off the bridge. I watch her go, bemused and hopeful. I'm going to need somebody with that kind of energy and determination, and I have a good feeling about Anita. A very good feeling indeed. Plus, I have to admit that the idea of having a baker on the premises is dangerously attractive.

Grinning, I bite down into my grilled cheese and look out over the Conway River as I dial Maria's number. Things are shaping up!

Chapter Five

I get home late, the headlights of my rented Mustang sweeping the woods before I pull up before Honeycomb Hall's iron gates. They're standing open, just as I left them, so I pull into the driveway, purring up to the circle before the front door, and kill the engine. It's past dusk, and I'm a little tipsy. I spent several hours exploring the town, and found a gallery that was celebrating a new exhibit, complete with complimentary wine and a hunky artist who was more than willing to explain the sources of his inspiration.

Even as I laughed and talked to him, I was thinking of Blake. Thinking of his golden eyes, flecked with blue that seems to darken when he's aroused. His broad, callused hands. The play of his muscles beneath his tee. His scruffy jawline, the dangerous air that surrounds him that's only dispelled when he tries to be smooth.

But when he's himself, oh god. Oh my panties-melting-primitive-god-of-the-woods. So I just sit there, staring at the corner of the house which leads to his shed. He's probably there right now. Doing what? What does one do for two years alone in the dark?

I should be getting inside. Locking the door. There are wild and dangerous animals out here. But as I climb out of the car, I realize I don't want to be safe. I don't want to snuggle under a comforter all by my lonesome. I want to tread the darkness in search of predators. I want to be hunted. Desired. Devoured.

So, half scared, half exhilarated, and not really knowing what I'm doing, I creep off the gravel into the knee-high grass and around the house. The moon hangs low above the tree line, painting the garden in shades of cobalt blue, silver gray and stark black. My senses are alive, and I can smell night flowers from somewhere, the aroma sweet and light. There. His shed. Its front door is outlined in white light. He's home.

I bite my lower lip. My nipples are hard. What am I doing? I have no idea, but still I creep closer.

I just want a peek. I know that's wrong. I know I'm invading his presence. But I just want to see him with his guard down. Not trying to act human. Fully a wolf. Does he sleep naked? Oh, what I wouldn't do for one image of his perfectly sculpted body to tide me through the night, adding rocket fuel to my fantasies. I part the tall stalks of goldenrod and creep up to the shed wall. There's a small window in the side, four panes of glass set in a warped frame. Should I? I bite my lip, uncertain, desire muddying my thoughts.

"Lost, Ms. Wilder?" Blake's voice sounds from behind me, and I spin around, suddenly terrified and mortified both, pressing my back against the shed wall. He's just a shadow against the trees, tall and powerful, his golden eyes gleaming as they catch the faint light of the moon.

"I - I was coming to ask you if you need anything." My voice shakes, my knees are weak. What was I thinking?

"You were going to ask me through the window?" His voice is darkly amused. He begins to walk closer to me, making absolutely no sound.

"The window?" I laugh weakly. "Oh. I was going to make sure... you were awake... before..."

I trail off as he gets closer. And closer. And steps into the light streaming from the little window over my shoulder. Oh god. He's only wearing his jeans, low slung over his hips, a faint fuzz of hair rising up over the top button across his abdomen. I swallow. Abs. I've heard of six packs, but an eight pack? I fight the urge to count them. Blink and look up. His chest. Powerful and muscled. Shoulders that are deliciously rounded. Up to his eyes. That are glittering with amusement that does little to hide his hunger. His need. He's the predator I was looking for. I've found him, and now he's stalking me. Hunting me. And like a deer in headlights, I can't move.