7. Belle
BELLE
I t's that time of day again. I set up a different display on the corner, so when Adam returns from the bathroom, it's all ready. I topped up on my suppressants as I headed to the back to get the chocolate muffins. I really outdid myself last night when I made Choc-o-pan, and the thing which took all of my time, Adam’s all time favorite too.
It's something I can nail sometimes, but when it goes wrong, it's absolutely horrible.
I'm pretty proud of the way they turned out, considering I baked eight and four made it to this afternoon. Adam's lucky these four made it here.
Last night, I was nervous. Today, even worse. So I did what I usually do. When I'm nervous, I tend to bake something spectacular, something that will take me until the end of the night. After cleaning everything up, all I do is curl up in bed and sleep.
“You received an invite and you never told me," Adam says as he pinches me, his fingers finding the soft flesh of my upper arm with surprising accuracy.
"Ouch, that hurt!" I yelp, pulling away and rubbing the spot where his fingers made contact. The sting is sharp but brief, more shocking than painful.
"Good!" he snaps, his usually gentle demeanor crackling with betrayal. His dark eyes flash with hurt, and for a moment he looks like he's about to turn around and storm away out of here. The tension radiates from his normally relaxed shoulders, making him appear taller and more imposing than usual.
When I see that wounded expression cross his features, it’s the same look he used to get when kids would tease him about his stutter in elementary school. I do the one thing that I know Adam can't resist, the weapon I've been perfecting for years.
"Chocolate fondant!" he exclaims, eyes widening as he clasps his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle his voice as it echoes faintly through the quiet corners of the library. The sound bounces off the tall Victorian windows and gets absorbed by the thousands of books surrounding us.
Anger evaporates like morning mist as excitement flushes across the round face, soft around the edges in that trusting way. Hesitation makes those large, capable hands which have been shaped by years of heavy books and library ladders. They hover over the plate like it might disappear.
I set the perfectly crafted chocolate fondant down in front of him with a knowing smile, watching as his pupils dilate slightly at the sight of the dark, glossy exterior that promises molten chocolate inside.
Then I add the finishing touch, the detail that I know will completely destroy his resolve.
"Lavender ice cream," I say softly, placing the small scoop beside the warm cake with theatrical precision.
He lets out a low, dramatic gasp, like he's just been handed the crown jewels. "You didn't."
I nod, feeling a surge of satisfaction as his grin stretches so wide it nearly closes his eyes, transforming his face from hurt to pure joy in the space of a heartbeat.
Just then, the familiar creak of the library's heavy oak door signals someone entering.
We both glance up simultaneously, our heads turning toward the sound like synchronized dancers.
It's Marissa from circulation, wrapped in a soft lavender cardigan that stretches over her seven-month pregnant belly, moving with that particular careful grace that expectant mothers develop.
She's scanning the room with the focused intensity of a bloodhound, her nose practically twitching as she follows the scent of sugar and chocolate that wafts from our table.
Adam stiffens slightly, his protective instincts kicking in as he recognizes a potential threat to his dessert. He leans toward me and whispers behind his hand, his breath warm against my ear, "I'm not sharing with her."
It's as if he remembers why he pinched me in the first place. "Lady Inkwell. I had to find out from her that you had an invite. Really, Belle? After all we've been through. Bullies at school. My parents. Okay, my Mum trying to match us..."
It's as if at that point I remember that the bullies were nothing compared to Adam's mom forcing us to get together.
She was convinced that I was an omega and had found a couple of packs, then invited them all to dinner one night.
Let's just say a room full of ten alphas at a dinner table was never a good idea.
Especially when his mother decided to serve a "family-style" meal where everyone had to share.
Ten alphas trying to be polite while internally combusting over who got the last dinner roll, who deserved the biggest portion, and whether offering to refill someone's water glass was a sign of submission or dominance.
By the time dessert arrived, they were having passive-aggressive arguments about proper fork placement and whether eye contact while chewing was considered rude or a challenge.
And that's exactly why I've never been back to Adam's house for dinner. Not because of the testosterone-fueled etiquette wars, but because his mother still introduces me to every alpha she meets at the farmer's market as "Belle, you know, the one who's still single."
I murmur back, "Lady Inkwell has such a big mouth. We really need to find out who she is."
Adam's eyes widen with sudden inspiration as he glances at Marissa, who's still hovering near our table with obvious longing. "You don't think...?" he whispers, nodding slightly in her direction.
I follow his gaze, studying Marissa's expectant face and the way she seems to be cataloging every detail of our interaction. For a moment, the pieces almost fit, because she’s always at the library, she's always around to overhear conversations, and she definitely has the kind of observational skills that would make for good gossip reporting.
But then I shake my head, and Adam does the same. "Nah," I whisper back. "She's too obvious. Lady Inkwell is sneakier than that."
"Can we help you?" I ask Marissa. After all, I spent half the night perfecting this particular peace offering, and sharing it with someone who wasn't part of the original conflict feels like diluting its power.
She shakes her head with visible disappointment, her shoulders sagging slightly as she realizes she's not going to be included in our chocolate feast. Her expression reminds me of a child pressed against a candy store window, all longing and resignation.
Adam and I exchange a look and then dissolve into laughter like school kids sharing a secret joke.
"I was up all night making this," I admit as he takes his first proper bite, watching his eyes practically roll back in bliss.
"Literally up all night, especially with the fondant.
If you don't get the timing exactly right, it ends up looking like shit in the middle of a cake, which isn't appealing and tastes even worse. "
"Bake therapy," Adam says around a mouthful of molten chocolate, his voice slightly muffled but filled with appreciation. "Your solution to everything."
"It works, doesn't it?" I counter, feeling some of the tension from yesterday's discovery starting to ease.
There's something therapeutic about watching Adam enjoy something I created, about the simple act of taking care of someone I love even when I can't tell him exactly how much he means to me.
Don't get me wrong, there's nothing sensual about our relationship.
As much as I wish there was, there isn't, and this is why I know that I need to let him go.
I know one day he will find a pack and leave me, and this is the part that I dread the most. Just thinking that this day could be around the corner at the ball.
"I felt guilty about the invite," I continue, my voice dropping as I glance around to make sure we're not being overheard. "After giving you such a hard time about yours, finding out I had one too... I didn't know what else to do but…”
"Bake!" Adam finishes with a grin, then his expression grows more serious. "But Belle, this is huge. Do you realize what this means? Both of us getting invitations to the Masquerade Ball? That never happens to people like us."
He's right, and that's exactly what's been keeping me awake at night since I found that gold-embossed card hidden among the book returns.
The Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace isn't just some fancy party, but the most exclusive social event in a three-state radius, with a guest list that reads like a who's who of successful alphas, omegas, and betas.
"I've been researching it," I admit, pulling out my phone to show him the notes I've been compiling.
"Adam, the numbers are insane. Ninety-five percent of attendees find their perfect mate within one year of attending. Three times higher fertility rates for couples who meet there. Business connections that lead to million-dollar deals. Social elevation that can transform someone's entire life."
Adam whistles low, scrolling through my research with growing amazement. "No wonder people apply years in advance. Hotel rooms within fifty miles are completely booked for the weekend. People are flying in from California, New York, even internationally."
"The economic impact on Willowbrook is massive," I continue, warming to the subject despite my personal anxiety about it. "Local businesses make more money during ball weekend than they do during the entire Christmas season. The catering alone costs more than most people make in a year."
"But here's what I don't understand," Adam says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "How did we get invited? I mean, I know my parents applied for me, they've been not-so-subtly hinting about my 'romantic prospects' for months. But you never applied, right?"
“Years!” I correct him. There’s no way that his mom has been concerned about his love life for months.
“Did you apply?” He repeats.