Falling for White Claws (Paranormal Dating Agency #98)

Chapter 1 Faith

ONE

FAITH

Dawn spilled through the bakery’s front windows like honey over warm bread, casting golden rectangles across floors that had seen better decades.

Faith moved through her morning ritual with the precision of a surgeon and the grace of someone who’d learned that survival lived in the details.

Her hands worked independently—glazing croissants with mathematical strokes, rotating trays with clockwork timing—while her mind tallied numbers that refused to add up to anything resembling hope.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since the award buzz faded and reality crept back in.

The New Jersey Food Critics’ Association had called her maple bourbon donuts “transcendent,” and for six glorious weeks, lines had snaked around the block.

Fame tasted sweeter than her signature cinnamon rolls.

Then the novelty wore off. Awards didn’t pay rent for long.

Faith’s eyes swept the familiar damage: the oven’s cracked panel that she’d been ignoring like a toothache, the espresso machine that wheezed like an old dog, and the stack of invoices she’d shoved beneath the register because looking at them made her chest tight.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her skull—reckless, impractical, foolish—the same words her ex-boyfriend Chet had hurled at her when she’d announced her plans to leave the restaurant.

You’re just a dessert chef, Faith. Stay in your lane.

Except her lane at Premier had been a dead end.

They’d stolen her recipes, slapped their name on her creations, and handed her a paycheck that felt more like hush money.

She’d wanted credit and recognition. So she’d walked away from security and built this place with her own bleeding hands.

Now those hands shook slightly as she arranged day-old muffins in the discount basket.

One month’s worth.

That’s all the money she had left before the landlord came calling for both the shop lease and her upstairs apartment rent. The math was brutal. She could cover one or the other, not both. Maybe everyone had been right. Maybe dreams were luxuries she couldn’t afford.

“Morning, Faith.” Mrs. Martin shuffled through the door, her walker clicking against worn tiles.

Faith’s smile came automatically, genuine despite everything. “The usual?”

“And maybe one of those chocolate things for my grandson.”

Faith slipped an extra cookie into the bag without charging for it.

These small acts of generosity were the only parts of her day that felt like victory instead of surrender.

Mrs. Martin’s grateful nod reminded her why she’d built this place—not just as proof she could, but as something the neighborhood needed.

The breakfast rush trickled rather than flooded. Faith served her regulars with practiced warmth, remembering coffee orders and asking about grandchildren while her mind calculated how many customers she’d need to break even. The answer made her stomach clench.

Near the window, a woman sat alone at a table meant for two.

She’d been there since opening, nursing nothing but the morning light.

Faith had noticed her immediately—hard not to, with that crisp white bob and clothes that belonged in boardrooms rather than bakeries.

Designer everything, from her pink pantsuit to shoes that probably cost more than Faith’s monthly flour budget.

But the woman wasn’t checking her phone or rushing through emails. She watched. Her blue eyes tracked Faith’s movements with the intensity of someone cataloging secrets.

Faith had learned to read people like recipes—a survival skill from years of managing temperamental chefs and entitled customers. This woman felt different. Purposeful. Like she’d come here for reasons that had nothing to do with pastry.

When the morning crowd finally thinned, the woman approached the counter with the confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted.

“Your donuts.” Her voice carried authority wrapped in velvet. “The maple bourbon ones that won the award. Tell me about the technique.”

Faith blinked. Most customers asked about calories or ingredients. This felt like a job interview.

“The bourbon reduction takes three hours. I caramelize the maple separately, then fold them together while the yeast is still active. The timing has to be perfect or the alcohol kills the rise.”

“Innovative.” The woman’s eyes shifted, catching light like cut gems. “Most bakers would take shortcuts.”

“Most bakers don’t care about the difference between good and extraordinary.”

“Exactly.” The woman leaned against the counter, and Faith caught a scent like vanilla lightning—sweet with an electric edge. “I’m Gerri Wilder. I broker opportunities for people whose talents are being criminally underused.”

Faith’s laugh came out sharper than intended. “Ms. Wilder, I appreciate whatever you’re selling, but I can’t afford—“

“I’m not selling anything.” Gerri’s smile held secrets.

“I’m offering something. A royal commission.

One week on an alien planet called Nova Aurora.

Their annual festival needs a cultural centerpiece—desserts designed with human creativity.

Full artistic control, all expenses paid, compensation that would solve your little rent problem and then some. ”

The words hit Faith like cold water. Alien planet. Royal commission. Annual festival. It sounded like the setup to a cosmic joke.

“There’s also a social component.” Gerri’s tone stayed conversational, as if discussing grocery lists instead of interplanetary travel. “The hosting prince needs a companion for public events. Think of it as a professional date—no strings, no expectations beyond showing up and being yourself.”

Faith’s hands gripped the counter edge. “Not to be rude, but you’re insane.”

“No, dear. I’m successful.” Gerri’s eyes flashed gold for just a moment. “One hundred percent success rate with my business ventures. Just think about the exposure. You could be seen on a universal stage.”

“I can’t just abandon my bakery.”

“For one week? Honey, this place will still be here when you get back. The question is whether you’ll have the money to keep it.”

Faith’s chest tightened. The offer sounded impossible, ridiculous, too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.

Faith’s laugh carried the sharp edge of someone who’d heard too many impossible promises. “Ms. Wilder, with all due respect, this sounds like the kind of scam my grandmother warned me about.”

“The kind where strangers offer desperate people exactly what they need?” Gerri’s smile didn’t waver. “Smart grandmother.”

Faith crossed her arms. “I don’t trust strangers bearing gifts, and I sure as hell don’t believe in dating aliens for money.”

“Good. Desperation makes people stupid.” Gerri reached into her purse and withdrew a thick folder. “But intelligence makes people curious.”

The folder hit the counter with a satisfying thud.

Faith found herself rifling through documents that looked more official than her own business license.

Letterheads from organizations she’d only seen in news articles.

References from CEOs whose names graced magazine covers.

Charity endorsements from foundations that moved mountains.

“Paranormal Dating Agency.” Faith read the heading aloud, tasting the absurdity. “You’re a matchmaker.”

“Among other things.” Gerri flipped through pages with practiced efficiency. “Disaster relief coordinator. Interplanetary cultural liaison. Philanthropist. The matchmaking is more of a calling than a profession.”

Faith scanned testimonials that read like fairy tales with bank statements attached. Success stories measured in both hearts and hefty donations to worthy causes. The numbers made her head spin. Then Gerri handed Faith a contract for the royal commission to the festival on Nova Aurora.

Faith skimmed it with practiced efficiency. “This contract.” Faith’s finger traced a clause near the bottom. “Immediate return home, no penalties, no obligations.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” Gerri said, her voice softer now. “Including me. But you never know when romance might strike.”

The words hung between them like smoke. Faith felt the familiar tightness in her chest—the same suffocating sensation she’d experienced whenever Chet had talked about their “future plans” without consulting her.

“I would be going there for my skills, not my heart.”

“Of course, dear. Though hearts have a way of making their own decisions.” Gerri’s eyes flashed gold again, just for a heartbeat. “Think about it. Get back to me tonight.”

She left the folder on the counter and walked toward the door, her heels clicking against worn tiles like a countdown timer.

“Ms. Wilder.” Faith’s voice stopped her at the threshold. “If this is real—“

“It’s real, honey. But are you brave enough to grab it?”

The door chimed her exit, leaving Faith alone with paperwork that smelled faintly of vanilla and lightning.

The afternoon dragged like a funeral march. Faith served her usual customers with mechanical precision while the folder burned holes in her peripheral vision. Every time the register drawer opened, the stack of unpaid bills underneath reminded her of mathematics that refused to lie.

When the last customer left and she flipped the sign to closed, silence settled over the bakery like dust. Faith pulled out her calculator and the invoices she’d been avoiding. The numbers stared back at her with brutal honesty.

Rent: $3,200. Utilities: $487. Loan payment: $1,850. The commission Gerri offered could cover all of it with enough left over to fix the oven and maybe even advertise more.

One week.

Seven days on an alien planet wasn’t running away from her dreams—it was a calculated investment in keeping them alive. Faith signed the contract with a hand steadier than her heartbeat. Her signature looked bold against the crisp white paper, like a declaration of war against circumstance.