Chapter 20
Aspen
That would have been enough for the old Aspen—just lying there, counting the seconds, watching the rectangle of moonlight crawl along the wall.
But the new Aspen, the one who had completed her mate bond and survived it, was restless.
My body tingled, every nerve ending humming like a live wire, skin still sensitive where his teeth had marked me.
I slid out from under Papa’s arm, careful not to wake him, and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
The shower stall was still damp from last night, and the whole room smelled like lavender and sage.
I let the water run hot and stood under it, trying to reassemble my sense of self after being absolutely, undeniably ravaged by my mate. In the best way.
The memory of last night ran on a loop in my head—how he’d stripped me down, lifted me up, worked me open with tongue and hands and words so filthy I’d blushed in places I didn’t know could flush.
Our mate bond made every time we’re together feel like a rush of sensation that made me see stars.
It should have scared me. Instead, I felt…
powerful. Like I could walk into any coven in Texas and hex the paint off the walls.
I toweled off and checked my reflection.
The mate mark was beautiful: a bite-shaped crescent that had healed fast, surrounded by skin that glowed warm pink.
My mother’s green eyes looked back at me, brighter than ever, the whites clear and fierce.
There were shadows under them, but they made me look powerful, not tired.
I threw on a pretty red dress with little white Swiss polka dots and a bow at the white collar.
White tights and black boots completed my look.
I dressed a bit unconventionally for Dairyville, but even if the people around here didn’t know it, I was a witch after all.
I pulled my hair up into a high ponytail and made my way to the kitchen.
The sight stopped me cold: Papa, fully dressed in a black Henley and jeans, was flipping bacon at the stove, coffee already percolating.
Oscar sat at the table, whiskers immaculate, dressed in a tailored green jacket with a gold brocade vest and a crisp white cravat.
The two of them looked like the opening to a very strange sitcom.
Papa turned at the sound of my feet. “Morning, Sunshine,” he rumbled. “You’re looking beautiful as always. Pretty as a picture.”
“You’re too sweet,” I said, eyeing the plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and triangles of toast that waited on the counter. “You’re spoiling me.”
He shrugged, setting down the spatula and crossing the kitchen in three strides. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, hands gentle on my waist. “It’s not spoiling if you deserve it.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Miss, I recommend the eggs before they lose their steam. There’s nothing sadder than congealed yolk.”
I grinned and slid into my usual seat, Oscar to my left, Papa on my right. The food was hot and perfect, the bacon crisp, the toast buttered to the very edges. I enjoyed every bite. I couldn’t tell if it was the bond or just happiness, but I was starving.
Papa poured me a glass of orange juice, then sat back with his own coffee. “I’ll be heading out after the store opens,” he said. “Church at the clubhouse starts early. Bronc wants us on high alert until the ceremony’s over.”
My heart skipped. “You think they’ll try something? The witches, or—”
He shook his head. “Don’t know. But Bronc isn’t taking any chances.
” He set his mug down, voice dropping. “We’ll have teams running perimeter checks day and night.
Arsenal and Gunner are handling inside security.
I want you and Oscar to stick together. Don’t go anywhere alone, not even to the back trash bin. ”
Oscar puffed up, tiny chest swelling with pride. “I shall attend to the Miss as though she were the crown jewels, sir.”
I wanted to make a joke, but the worry in Papa’s eyes killed it on my tongue. “We’ll be careful,” I promised. “I want to see Bronc and Juliet’s ceremony go off without a hitch. They deserve it. And I don’t wanna see anybody get hurt on my account.”
“I know you don’t sweetheart. And we want to give Bronc and Juliet a night they’ll want to remember forever.” Papa said.
We ate in peaceful silence for a bit. I could feel the energy between us—hot and sweet and hard to describe. I wanted to crawl into his lap and never leave, but Oscar would probably combust from embarrassment, and besides, I had work to do.
Oscar seemed to read my mind. “Miss, your bakery schedule is quite full today. Shall we review?”
“Go for it,” I said, glad for the change in topic.
He pulled a tiny notebook from somewhere in his jacket, flicked it open with deft claws, and recited: “Kolaches, six dozen, to be delivered by ten. Sourdough proofing as we speak. You’ve a custom cake for the Hendricks party to be crumb coated today and finished tomorrow.
The wedding cake layers are all baked and chilling.
Tomorrow, assembly and piping at the venue. ”
I exhaled, tension bleeding from my shoulders. “We’re ahead of schedule. That’s a miracle.”
Papa eyed me over the rim of his coffee. “You’re a miracle, Sunshine.”
I ducked my head, fighting a smile. “Don’t make me blush before sunrise.”
Oscar clicked his tongue. “There is nothing wrong with a healthy glow, Miss. I daresay it suits you.”
We finished breakfast, and I stood. Papa lingered, clearing the table, then wrapped his arms around me from behind. His hands splayed across my hips, holding me steady.
“You good?” he asked, voice close to my ear.
“Better than I’ve ever been,” I said, truth warming my chest. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
He squeezed me gently. “We’ve got you. All of us.”
I nodded, letting myself melt into his arms for one perfect second. Then I straightened, squared my shoulders, and said, “Alright, gents. Time to make the donuts.”
Oscar hopped off the chair, bowing at the waist. “Lead on, Miss.”
Papa watched us for a second, pride and love all over his face, before heading out to the truck. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said as the screen door slammed behind him, and I let the quiet settle.
We all headed to the truck. He got me settled into my seat and fastened my seatbelt securely in place before heading to the driver’s seat.
Those little things he did spoke of more than his love for me; they said he cherished me.
That meant almost as much. He didn’t do it to make me feel weak.
It was how he expressed to me how important it was to him that I was safe.
I never wanted to rob him of that by fussing about the fact that I was capable of doing it myself.
I liked the fact that I mattered to him, even in the small things.
The drive to the bakery took the usual fifteen minutes and gave me a moment to get my thoughts mapped out for how I wanted the morning prep to run.
There was a method to how I ordered my mornings.
Some doughs needed to be started so they could be in the proofing drawer before others if I expected to have rolls or breads in the case by the time we opened.
Others could wait. It was all a balancing act.
Some days I got it right, others, not so much.
But each week the routine revealed itself, and I was becoming more comfortable with the curveballs of special orders.
When we got to the store, Papa unlocked the door and started turning on the lights. Oscar and I headed straight to the kitchen to get started. I grabbed a fresh apron and turned on the oven to preheat.
Oscar scampered onto the prep counter, paws folded. “Miss, if I may speak frankly—”
“You always do,” I said, grinning.
He looked up, eyes sharp. “You are strong, but you needn’t be alone in this. If anything troubles you—about the grimoire, the bond, or tomorrow’s event—I am here.”
“Thanks, Oscar,” I said, softer than I meant. “I’ll remember.”
He beamed. “Now, shall we get to work?”
Papa popped his head into the kitchen and asked what he could do to help.
I had him pull an enormous bag of flour from the storage closet.
He was great for muscling things around.
He set it out by my industrial mixer and got it opened and ready for me.
I had him get the dining room ready, moving the chairs down from the tables and setting up the napkin holders and setting out the sugar caddies. We made a great team.
I set to work for a few hours, and the world shrank to flour and eggs and the rhythm of mixing, folding, rolling. Oscar read the orders aloud and double-checked every measurement. He even taste-tested the kolache filling, though I caught him sneaking some strawberry jam just for pleasure.
Papa headed out just after the open sign went on and the bell over the door started ringing.
The morning sped by, one perfect pastry at a time. And as had come my routine, I felt…prepared. Not just for the bakery, or the ceremony, but for whatever hell the world wanted to throw at me next.
Bring it on, I thought. I was ready.
The bakery always grew quiet after the first rush, the air thick with the ghosts of cinnamon and butter, the sun rising slow and lazy across the checkered tiles.
I wiped the counters and let my mind drift, watching the dust motes spin in the pale beam slicing through the front window.
Oscar, who had decided the best place for a familiar was directly in the patch of morning sunlight, perched on the prep table and looked every bit the dignified familiar, if you ignored the crumb of cheese danish clinging to his whiskers.
“Miss,” he said, after clearing his throat twice for effect. “If I may, now might be an ideal moment to take another look at the grimoire. There’s so much we haven’t gotten to. It’s usually quiet until eleven, and the protection wards are fully engaged.”