Chapter Two
Nick Wicker wiped a smudge of motor oil off his cheek and stared.
His reflection stared back at him, bleary-eyed. The bathroom mirror out the back of Orc’s Garage was covered in grime, making it look like his dark green skin was growing a strange species of mold.
“You look fine,” he told himself. “You look normal.”
Nick’s normal was a pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt—even in winter—to expose the inked panther curling up his toned arm.
He usually had at least one stain on him from working at the garage, and his dark hair never lay flat, no matter how hard he combed it.
Not that he combed it much. He’d stopped trying to tame that beast in his twenties.
Decided to lean into it instead. If people were going to tease him about it, he might as well go all in.
If only he could have the same attitude about his baking, and he could start telling people he occasionally stress-baked a mountain of baked goods instead of secretly leaving them in the middle of Main Street like evidence at a crime scene.
He didn’t want to admit why he was so squirrelly about people finding out he was the Baked Goods Bandit, or even that he baked.
But the embarrassing truth was he just didn’t want people to laugh at him.
And big, swaggering Nick Wicker baking cupcakes?
Of course people would laugh. Nick didn’t want to put himself through that.
“You’re charming,” he told his reflection. “Be charming. Don’t screw it up like you do every time you talk to her.”
He shot himself a pair of finger guns and slunk back out into the garage. Duncan and Wyatt were sitting in the fold-out chairs they dragged in for breaks, using their sandwiches to point at something on the underside of the car up on the lift.
Nick tiptoed behind them. If he was quiet enough, he could escape unnoticed.
“Where’re you scurrying off to?” Duncan asked, brushing crumbs from his mustache. The old orc was supposed to retire years ago, but he’d never gotten around to it. He’d been wearing the same two pairs of overalls since Nick had started working there during his last year of high school.
Nick straightened, trying not to look like he was creeping around, as both men turned to look at him.
“Just grabbing some coffee,” he tried.
Duncan jabbed a greasy thumb at the break room. “Got coffee.”
“Nice coffee.”
Wyatt sat up straight, beady eyes gleaming. “You’re c-c-clean,” he said triumphantly. Wyatt was five years younger than Nick and the scrawniest orc Nick had ever met. Wyatt had been stuttering since his first words. He didn’t let it stop him from being the biggest blabbermouth in the garage.
“So?” Nick said, heading for the open garage door again. “A guy wants to wipe this shit off his face before going out into the world? Call the presses! Alert the president!”
Wyatt hooted and ran up behind him. Nick was already braced for it, catching the brunt of Wyatt’s small frame as he leaped onto Nick’s back.
“Nicky’s going to the b-bookshop,” he yelled.
Nick pushed down the knee-jerk panic that rose up whenever he thought someone might suspect. He pulled up a smile and shoved Wyatt good-naturedly. “Shut up! You know I gotta get my cat fix. One day, he’s gonna let me pet his wings.”
Wyatt chuckled, climbing off him. “S-s-sure. You g-g-go for the cat.”
“Can’t stain that nice fur,” Duncan agreed wryly from his fold-out chair.
He picked at his fangs and took another bite of his ham sandwich, his lunch of choice for the past several decades.
Every year, at least one of his Christmas gifts was ham related.
Giant ham hocks. Plastic ham key chains.
A ham plushie for his adorable pet Doberman, Chicha.
Duncan asked, “You coming bowling after work today, Nicky?”
Wyatt groaned. Nick swatted at him instinctively; Wyatt rocked out of the way just as instinctively.
“Can’t,” Nick said. “I have something.”
“He never c-comes,” Wyatt complained, ruffling Nick’s hair. For a few seconds, Nick let it happen. He liked Wyatt’s dumb little-brother antics, and besides, it wasn’t like his hair could get messier. He slipped out from Wyatt’s grip and ran for the door.
“Come on, man,” Wyatt called after him. “You g-gotta let me g-get you b-back for thrashing me l-last time!”
“That was years ago,” Nick called back, jogging out of the garage door to freedom. “Some of us have a life, loser!”
Wyatt and Duncan flipped him off.
Nick did it back, grinning, and vanished into the street.
He didn’t have anything happening after work.
He rarely did. He just felt like he was intruding on Wyatt and Duncan whenever he joined their bowling nights, or barbecues, or movie nights with their other friends.
He’d felt like this the first shift he’d ever worked at Orc’s Garage at seventeen years old, and he still felt it now.
It wasn’t new: Nick had felt like an outsider his whole life.
Sure, everybody, except one, found him charming.
But only for short periods. If he stuck around too long, he got nervous and weird.
Better to leave early and let them think he was still cool, breezy Nick Wicker who didn’t get nervous in crowds.
“Hey, baby,” he said to his motorcycle as he passed it in front of the garage.
He paused to kiss his fingers and press them to the polished handlebars, his gaze instead drawn to the bookshop across the street.
He could already see her through the window: Vi Harper, leaning over the counter, stroking Mosey absentmindedly.
She looked stressed. She looked beautiful. Two things that had remained constant about Vi Harper since he met her two years ago.
Nick pulled up his trademark carefree grin and walked toward his mate.
* * *
After that disastrous first meeting at the barbecue, it had taken Nick months to work up the courage to venture into Sweethelm Books.
That had gone almost as bad as their first encounter—so bad that he stress-baked enough to overflow the trestle table he used as the Baked Goods Bandit.
He’d had to leave a plate of brownies on the concrete next to it.
He hadn’t been rejected, he assured himself every time he slunk out of the bookstore, with Vi pretending not to glare at him as he left. Not officially. It wasn’t enough for the rejection sickness to properly set in.
He had to find a way to make her like him.
Then he’d tell her. If she told him to leave her alone, then he would, and he wouldn’t even complain about the shakes and sweats the rejection sickness would put him through.
But until then, he was stuck dropping by the bookstore, hoping that one day, her smile would be real when she looked up.
The bell jingled above his head. Vi looked up, polite smile only faltering for a moment before sliding back into place.
Mosey the winged cat now sat in front of her on the counter, licking an elegant paw.
To their left, Chester was perched on top of that wheely ladder that Nick had always wanted to try out, leaning dangerously far to grab a book.
“Hi,” Vi said. “Can I help you find anything today?”
“Violet,” Nick replied, watching Chester until he safely righted himself, book in hand. “I was looking . . . for a book.”
Her smile got imperceptibly tighter. Nick’s heart sank into his shoes.
“You’re in the right place,” Vi said. “What kind of book?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Nick sauntered up to the counter, keeping his elbows in.
He didn’t want a repeat of last year, when he’d knocked over a display of Christmas books during the December rush.
Vi’d had to clean them up while fielding a flurry of customer questions.
Nick had watched her through the window, shame curling through his gut.
Not enough to go back in and offer to help, obviously.
He probably would’ve knocked over more books.
Orcs weren’t known for their gracefulness, especially not Nick.
He was even bigger than the average orc.
Nick turned his attention to Mosey instead, who looked much more excited to see him than Vi did.
“What do we have here?” Nick said to Mosey. “He-llo, sweetness.”
He held out a hand to Mosey, who sniffed it, considering. Then, as always, he rolled over for belly rubs.
“I missed you, too,” Nick cooed. He stroked him delicately, perpetually afraid his belly-rubbing privileges would be revoked under pain of claw.
Mosey was the only cat who had ever allowed him to touch his belly, let alone pet it.
He eyed Mosey’s wings longingly. They twitched, the horns on the ends quivering dangerously.
“Not even going there,” he assured the cat. “Don’t worry.”
Over on the ladder, Chester’s muttering got loud enough to hear snippets from below. Nick caught a mumble of idiot customers . . . and wouldn’t know poetry if it smacked them in the snout . . . Classic Chester. Nick didn’t understand a word of what the guy talked about most of the time.
Vi’s mouth twitched, like she was holding something back.
It was her default state. Nick had learned quickly that Vi kept things close to the chest. Sometimes she’d get this look on her face like she wanted to correct a customer or respond to some jackass’s teasing.
Then she’d give a friendly smile that only showed the strain if you looked close enough.
Nick had been looking closely for two years now.
“Soooo,” Nick said. “What’s up? Anything new with Violet?”
“Same old life,” Vi said. “Staying busy. Keeping warm.”
He snapped his fingers. “Right, you’re from one of those warm states. Alaska still kicking your ass?”
“Massachusetts isn’t exactly warm, but sure,” Vi said. “How’s the garage?”
He had to give it to her. No matter how she felt about someone, the woman was going to make polite small talk.
“Oh, big changes. Yeah. Duncan started bringing cheese sandwiches.” Nick rapped an anxious beat on the counter, which got faster the longer Vi gave him that blank smile.
Of course, she didn’t know about Duncan’s long-standing love affair with ham sandwiches; why would she?
Ever since she arrived in town, everybody was always talking about how helpful Vi was, how she’d saved the day yet again at their wedding or school play or baby christening.
That she helped them move or brought over soup when they were sick or came with a condolence casserole after a tragedy.
But just because she was plugged in to the community in a way that made Nick’s introverted self shudder, didn’t mean she knew the lunch habits of the mechanics across the street.
“Your hair looks nice,” he said. Then he tried for a joke: “Is that a new ribbon? Thank god. That old one sucked.”
“It’s the same one.” Vi tugged at it, looking offended.
“No, I know,” Nick said weakly, silently cursing himself. “I was kidding. Looks great.”
Mosey butted Nick’s hand. He’d stopped stroking in his panic.
“You’re right. That was rude,” Nick told him, and resumed. “Please forgive me.”
Mosey purred in response.
Vi stepped back, twisting a strand of brown hair around her finger. “Are you really here for a book this time, or just for the cat?”
“Books! Oh my god, books. I love— Violet, you know how much I love books.” Nick flashed her a goofy grin, hoping it worked the same way it worked on girls at the bar he frequented with slightly more regularity than the bowling alley.
“Great,” Vi said. “What can I help you find today?”
Nick made a long, warbling noise to indicate he was thinking hard. “What’s the book club reading this month?”
“We have a meeting every week, actually.” Vi went over to a stack of books at the other end of the counter and pulled the top one from the pile. “Here’s our current read.”
Nick held out a hand for the book. Vi paused, which was unlike her. The customer always knows best. Or whatever.
“You’ve got . . .” She pointed at his hand.
Nick looked down. There was a streak of black grease nestled in the dark green webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He swore, rubbing it clean on his shirt.
“Dirty work,” he said. “You get it. All this . . . bookshop dust.”
Vi gave him the fakest laugh he’d ever heard. Nick winced, realizing he’d just implied she didn’t keep the bookshop clean.
“But this book is squeaky clean,” he tried, grabbing it from her. It was one of those classic types, all leather-bound and fancy. “Persuasion. Jane Austen. Oh hey, I know her. They made us study Pride and Prejudice in high school. Snoozefest, right?”
“Many people think so,” Vi said after a pause that reminded him he should really stop insulting random books while talking to a person who works with books for a living.
His heart twisted in his chest. He’d screwed up again. Why did he even try at this point? He might as well take this as a rejection and move on.
Mosey’s wet nose bumped into his wrist. He resumed belly scritches, regretting every stupid decision that brought him to this point.
He’d go back to work, suffer through his coworkers’ teasing, then go home and bury himself in the guts of his motorcycle to de-stress. Maybe he’d even start baking again.
Then he’d suppress the embarrassment and joke about it with his coworkers until he was stupid enough to try again.
Wyatt and Duncan were convinced she didn’t hate him.
That he was making it all up in his head.
That the lovely Violet Harper was incapable of hating anyone, especially not some guy who came in once every few weeks to pet a cat and make shitty small talk.
You’re overthinking it, they would tell him, just like every time. And Nick would have to laugh and come up with a joke instead of shaking them by their shoulders and screaming, Put me out of my misery and talk me out of going back to that bookshop ever again! My mate hates me!
“Well,” he said, sliding the book back across the counter. “Hope it’s a banger. I’m gonna . . .”
He nodded toward the door.
“Have a great day,” she told him smoothly. Still smiling. Still hating him.
Nick gave Mosey one last belly rub, trying to hide how he was dying inside.
“See ya, Chester,” he called toward the fiction wall, where Chester was wobbling his way down that tall ladder.
“Uh-huh,” called Chester distractedly, climbing down the next rung. The wood creaked under his slippers.
Nick turned toward the door.
A cry echoed through the bookshop. There was a loud thump, then a smaller one, as if an old dragon had hit the carpet, followed by a slipper. And then there was an awful silence.
“Oh,” said Nick weakly. “Shit.”