Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I hand the customer her order, a pot of Earl Grey tea and a lemon pastry; she shuffles away with a half-hearted thank-you. The café is quiet. The city has been weird lately, and its inhabitants have felt the change in the air and are sensibly keeping away.
I yawn so big my jaw clicks. I am bored.
Story has finished her latest wedding cake. She unzips her protective suit—a hygiene precaution as she has to crawl all over the cakes to apply the delicate icing—and wiggles out of it. She ties the arms around her waist and stands back with her hands on her slim hips to survey her masterpiece.
“Hey, roomie, can you lift me? I need to see it from a higher perspective.”
I nod and slap my palm down on the counter to let her jump on board. Her wings shed tiny particles of fairy dust, so using them inside the café is a big no-no.
I have no problem with being her elevator.
I lift her for a better view, and we both stare silently at the three-tier cake with its pink sugar petals and silver pearls.
“Nice,” I say helpfully. It’s a cake. If it tastes good, it’s a good cake. If it tastes bad… I shrug. Yeah, I’ve no idea what I am looking at.
“It’s perfect,” Story says with a satisfied smile, and her sapphire cheeks glow with pride.
Story has proven herself to be super artistic.
When I showed Tilly the photos of the sunflower that she’d painted on her bedroom wall, Tilly wanted to know if Story could do that design again but on a cake.
All it took was some guidance and encouragement from Tilly, and Story rapidly clocked up some fancy skills in cake decorating.
My friend has genuine talent, and her cake designs, I admit, are beautiful.
I’ve no idea how they do what they do. There’s no way Tilly would let me near her cakes. She barely lets me near the pastries, ha. I can imagine what a mess I’d make. I am more a Hulk-smash kind of girl than artistic.
Although some fighting moves can be artistic, so I am not without skill. Fighting can be beautiful. A splash of blood, the crunch of bone… I lick my lips.
Vampire.
I might be a vegetarian, but I can still appreciate the grim details of a good fight and blood without having to partake. I scrunch my nose with the thought. Blood and me, we are soooo not friends.
Story taps her foot, her signal that she wants to go down.
Obediently, I drop my hand, and she jumps back onto the counter.
Even though she is getting a fair wage—she earns more than I do—Story still insists on living in the garage with me and Dex.
She also didn’t think twice about adding her wages to mine so we now have a growing pot of savings.
I’m so grateful.
It won’t be long till we have enough money to move, and Story says she’ll put the place in her name so we don’t have to wait for my birthday.
How good is that?
Things are finally looking up.
“Storm winds,” Tilly swears. “We’re out of eggs. How can we be out of eggs? The new delivery company is diabolical.” A cupboard door slams, and a harassed Tilly stomps towards us. She heads for the till and madly presses the buttons.
“Do you want me to ring them?” I ask sweetly while rubbing my hands together with glee.
“No, I’ll do it. You’ll only frighten them, and you’re the reason that we have to use a new supplier and delivery company anyway.”
Oh yeah, oops.
The till prints a receipt, and the drawer pops out with a ding. Tilly grabs the receipt and signs it, then stuffs it back into the till, swapping it for a twenty-pound note. “Would you take a trip to the shop and grab a few dozen?”
“No problem.” I rip my apron off and throw it into the staff room without looking. Miraculously, it hits the counter and doesn’t fall to the floor. I do a funky-chicken victory dance. What a shot.
Tilly tuts.
Story giggles.
I snatch the twenty out of Tilly’s hand and head out the door.
“Don’t forget to get a receipt,” Tilly shouts after me. I wave my hand. “Oh, Story, that’s the best one yet. I love the placement of the pearls…”
On the way back from the shop with the bag of eggs swinging in my grip, I see a vision.
I spy wide shoulders, and I speed up my steps.
I can only see the back of him, so I’ve no idea what has got me so intrigued.
I guess you just know. When a guy is gorgeous from the back, you just know instinctively that he’s going to be just as good-looking from the front.
He has to be. Nature couldn’t be that cruel.
Oh, and I’m also a sucker for hair-free necks.
And whoever cuts his dark hair, they’ve cut it into perfection, short on the sides, floppy on top.
He’s also tall, like really tall. Which is a massive plus point.
I’m lucky I can ogle all the supernatural guys as it’s rare for human males to be taller than me.
I like feeling strong, and I work out hard to have the body that I have, but sometimes I also like to feel feminine, and creatures do tend to come on the big side.
Yep, he’s rocking the wide shoulder, narrow hip, bubble-bottom body, and with his jacket off and the sleeves of his dark grey striped shirt rolled up to show the most tantalising, incredible forearms. ’Ello, Mr Stripey Shirt.
I shake my head. I don’t even like forearms. I had heard the term arm porn, and it was something I’d always sneered at. How can a guy’s forearm be sexy?
Yeah, Mr Stripey Shirt showed me. Even from a distance, his arms are just… he is just—I cough. Those babies almost make me swallow my tongue.
His head turns, and I almost get a side view of his face. I tilt my head and—
—and I slam into a lamppost.
Ouch.
I keep my arm with the plastic bag out to the side; I saved the eggs, but I didn’t save my embarrassment. Please God please… shit, I hope he didn’t see that. I rest my sore forehead against the cool metal, and my eyelashes batter against it as I blink.
I peek in his direction, and he’s no longer there.
Phew. I just hope he didn’t see me go smack.
I’m not so lucky with the other shoppers on the street.
Two teenage boys elbow each other and laugh at me.
I’m sure I catch one of them mouth, Ooh, that’s got to hurt.
I groan. Why did I think learning to lip-read was a good idea?
I wipe my hand across my red face and roll my shoulders. Okay. I better get back to work.