Chapter Twelve-Donny
As soon as I ran out of the bakery guilt hit me like a hurricane wind.
I didn’t even speak to Bella. Shit.
I grabbed my Witch approved smart phone and dialed the bakery line—which I had on speed dial.
“The Tasty Tart, this is Ryan,” a deep voice said.
“HOLY FORK!”
“What was that?” Ryan asked, tone sounding bemused.
Of course, he didn’t know it was me or that he just lit me up like a forking Yule log.
“Um, nothing. Can I speak to Bella?” I croaked, pretending I hadn’t just semi-orgasmed from the sound of his rumbling, like a thirsty Succubus on day six of a juice cleanse.
“Sure. One second, she’s in the back,” he said, and I swear I could hear the hint of a smile just as easily as I could picture it beneath the beard and mustache that looked like they’d been kissed by the gods of rugged masculinity and sinful bedtime dreams.
Ugh. There I went again.
I squeezed my thighs together tighter than the last pair of skinny jeans I’d ever bought and immediately regretted.
Ryan McLeod was hotter than Luigi’s Fra Diavolo special—with double the heat and none of the regret—unless you counted the ache between my legs every time he so much as breathed in my direction.
I gulped.
He growled into the receiver, and I swear the world tilted.
“Here she comes, but I’ll see you later? For my appointment.”
Oh, fork me sideways. He did know it was me.
His voice was low, grumbly, and just a little too intimate.
I nodded, which was dumb. Ryan couldn’t see me over the phone, for fork’s sake.
But I couldn’t find my tongue.
Could not. Find. My. Tongue.
So naturally, I just kept on nodding like an unhinged bobblehead.
Smooth, Donny. Real smooth.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes, Honey.”
Then, he chuckled—a low, masculine rumble that made my nipples harden beneath my bra.
I listened as he called out for Bella like he hadn’t just completely wrecked my day with a few measly words.
I mean, The Tasty tart was a daily stop for me.
But how the forking hell was I supposed to waltz past this bakery every morning now, knowing full well this man—my possible, probable actual mate—was inside slinging croissants and sex appeal like it was his job?
Inhale. Exhale.
No lightning.
That was good.
I was managing my profanity enough to avoid celestial punishment.
Small wins, girl. Small wins.
“Morning, Donny,” Bella said.
She always sounded so happy and bright.
Like a damn Botticelli angel who’d traded in her harp for a mixing spoon.
The beyotch.
“For fork’s sake, Bella, stop being so cheerful!” I snapped, more bark than bite.
She didn’t even flinch. Just giggled with the patience of a thousand blessed bakers and cooed to me like I was a small child having a temper tantrum.
“Oh, so you are trying to stop cursing, och?” she said, and I could almost see her blue eyes twinkling.
I narrowed mine.
“Uh, yeah. And what’s with the Orc? Are you listening to Drusilla Bartholomew Frankenstein Yaganova’s Language Vlog, too?”
Bella paused.
“What?”
“You know, the one with the cursed name and the weekly affirmations in fourteen dialects? She has a whole episode about swearing substitutions. She calls it sanitizing the soul.”
“Donny, you need coffee. And something deep-fried. And covered in sugar,” she said as if she were addressing an invisible council of Wise Pastry Elders.
Which was entirely possible.
It was Castor’s Corner.
Something covered the receiver, and I heard Bella speaking fondly to someone else. She mentioned Petyr, and I tried in vain to listen to their exchange.
Her tiny Domovyk familiar was the epitome of manners and helpfulness, while mine was pure evil incarnate.
He was always trotting about the bakery cleaning or cooking or with six trays of perfectly balanced baked goods in one freakishly strong hand.
He even waved politely to me whenever I saw him.
“Bella? Bella! Is that Petyr?” I shouted into the phone.
“Good morning, Lady Donatella,” he said in his deep, old-timey accent, like we were at a royal court instead of a bakery.
“Yeah, Donny. Sorry, Petyr was just telling me about the funniest thing that happened when he went and delivered cookies to the elementary school this morning,” Bella explained.
I took in her mirth and merriment with something akin to shock.
“Okay, what the actual fork? He works for you? Voluntarily or you have to pay him in like your unborn children or something?” I asked.
“What? Oh my goodness, Donny, no! Petyr is amazing!”
She went on to explain his duties. Told me how he loved stocking shelves, wiping counters, and taking expert care of the stainless steel trays used to hold the baked goods she was famous for. He even spent his nights cleaning the kitchen.
From what she said and what I’d seen of Petyr, I knew he did all these things with so much grace he made me feel like an awkward rhinoceros in a thong.
“I just adore him,” Bella said, and I could almost picture the little weirdo puffing out his chest like she’d handed him a damn Oscar.
I was also willing to bet he had all the shelves filled, the kitchen restocked, and not a single sprinkle out of place in the whole damn bakery.
“I don’t understand. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Your Domofreak isn’t trying to destroy your bakery or pull your hair out? How?”
Bella gasped and probably clutched her pearls—or rather, her flour-dusted apron strap.
“First off, Donny, I don’t call him demeaning names!”
“Oh, please. Gryn is a freaking monster with a Napoleon complex and a hair fetish. He yanked my ponytail this morning and called me a cow in Slovakian.”
“You don’t speak Slovakian,” she said mildly.
“No, but I felt the insult in my soul,” I snapped.
Bella giggled, and I could only imagine what Petyr was doing now. Probably serenading a tray of muffins.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Petyr’s a doll. Maybe if you were a little more—”
“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want a hexed scone shoved up your—”
“Ladies, sorry to intrude, but the customers can hear you both through the phone,” came Ryan’s voice again through the receiver, deep and low, interrupting the world’s most awkward familiar intervention.
I froze like a deer caught mid-lip gloss application.
Bella, of course, just spoke normally. “Thank you for the reminder, Ryan. Donny is a delight in the mornings, isn’t she?”
“Totally,” Ryan replied, and his voice went even deeper.
Oh, Goddess, help me.
I was going to die of spontaneous combustion right there between the shampoo station and my shelf of conditioning masks.
All because of a Bear with bedroom eyes and a voice that melted my insides like hot sugar on a funnel cake.
Fork me sideways.
Yes, please!