Chapter Eight
For the first time in Claw Haven history, the Baked Goods Bandit struck two nights in a row.
Nick ignored the photos his coworkers tried to show him.
They didn’t even get there in time to grab the goods—two carrot cakes, four trays of carrot muffins, a mediocre pound cake, a seaweed cake, and five trays of chocolate chip cookies with chili flakes—they just had the photos people had forwarded around.
Sometimes Nick found the photo sharing cute.
This time, he was just annoyed. They acted like the bandit was doing some great service, when really, he was just what the sign claimed: a stressed baker who had two options—throw the food out or shove it onto that shitty trestle table, so people could eat it before it went bad.
“It’s probably just some asshole,” Nick told his coworkers as they discussed who it could be.
He kept his eyes on the computer in front of him, his tab open to yet another unanswered email.
Every business in Claw Haven had gotten busier since the tourists had shown up, including them.
“Everyone thinks it’s some selfless baking Robin Hood, but it’s probably just some jag-off who yells at their kids for breaking a plate. ”
Duncan and Wyatt looked over at him. Duncan was working underneath a car and Wyatt was handing him wrenches that Duncan could definitely reach himself.
“D-d-damn, d-d-dude,” Wyatt complained. “Let us h-have some whimsy in our l-lives.”
“Claw Haven’s a boring place,” Duncan agreed. “Get a chance to gossip, bet your ass we’re gonna do it. Mysterious table full of baked goods every once in a while? That’s prime gossip. My money’s on that Ryan woman. She sold those peach cobblers for a while, right?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Ryan’s baking was t-too simple. Th-th-this sh-shit’s got flair. It’s got s-style. Who ever heard of a spicy chocolate chip cookie? And I heard the seaweed cake tasted good even if you aren’t a mer! We g-got anyone who dropped out of some f-fancy c-c-cooking school?”
Nick snorted. He hadn’t even finished high school, let alone attended cooking school.
This book club crap had been making him remember exactly why he’d dropped out in the first place.
It wasn’t that he didn’t try. He just couldn’t do it.
Every time he tried to read something—a textbook, a novel, whatever—he just got more and more panicked until he gave up.
Duncan rolled out from under the car and sat up, wiping his neck with a cloth. “What’ve you got against whimsy anyway? Gotta get used to it if you’re in charge of that book club now. Gotta have those whimsical book club books. Like Oprah.”
“I’m not in charge—” Nick bit his tongue, but it was too late. The boys latched on to it like sharks on to blood in the water.
“That was last night, right?” Duncan asked, tweaking his mustache in a way he only did when he was pretending not to care what he was talking about. “How’d that go?”
Nick stared at the laptop screen in front of him. It was blurry. He’d gotten maybe six hours of sleep in the past two nights, and he wasn’t twenty anymore. That shit took a toll.
A wave of shame washed over him, making his eyes squeeze shut against the onslaught. He’d been humiliated a lot in his life—mostly his own fault—but he hadn’t been that humiliated in a long time. Maybe ever.
It wasn’t an official rejection, but it was as good as one.
It felt like a rejection, heavy and sick.
Nick wondered if he would actually puke over it.
He had a second cousin whose mate rejected him and he was in bed for weeks with a fever.
Some people could shake off rejection sickness, but Nick was betting he couldn’t.
“Nick.” Wyatt snapped his fingers. “Y-you in there?”
Violet. You in there?
Nick wiped his sweaty forehead and stood. “I’m taking my break early.”
“Nick,” Duncan said, frowning. “You feeling okay?”
“Don’t wait up,” Nick said, then stormed out.
* * *
He spent ten minutes of his fifteen-minute break in the bathroom, gripping the mirror and repeating: Normal. Just be normal. Be normal and don’t piss her off. You can do this; just say the words and go.
He also wrote a note. Then he threw the note out, mortified that he would even consider leaving a note.
He was a thirty-two-year-old orc, not some shy middle schooler.
He could talk to Vi. He could look her in the eye without remembering the soul-withering glare she’d given him as she’d yelled at him.
He stuffed an old take-out container into his jacket. Wyatt and Duncan called after him as he walked out of the garage. Nick kept his head down, clutching the lump in his jacket as he sped toward the bookshop.
It was better this way, he told himself, stomach roiling.
He was used to being alone. Now he didn’t have to work on himself or put himself out there or be vulnerable or any of that crap that was apparently good for him.
He’d reach out to do this one last upstanding thing, then he’d go back to his narrow little life.
He might not be good enough for Vi Harper. But he owed her this.
* * *
Sweethelm Books was empty. Apart from Triss Darnelle, mid-twenties succubus, math whiz, and part-time worker at multiple stores dotted along Main Street.
Triss was slumped behind the counter, playing solitaire on a work computer.
“Hiya,” she said, fiery eyes on her screen. “How can I help?”
Nick waited. Triss looked over and blinked.
“Ooookay,” she said, closing the tab. “You look like shit. Here to make Vi yell at you again? Because I gotta be honest. I want to see that. I’ve never seen that woman get properly angry, and I have put her through some really stupid crap.”
“I’m actually here hoping she doesn’t yell at me,” Nick said, fighting the urge to crumple to the floor in abject misery. “How do you rate my chances?”
Triss pushed herself out of her chair. “Follow me.”
Nick followed her out to the back room. She shoved the door open with a flourish, revealing Vi with her back facing them, stacking books onto labeled shelves. There was a clipboard in her hand, a pen shoved beneath her hair ribbon.
Nick stepped inside cautiously.
“Good luck,” Triss whispered. “I’ll come watch if she starts yelling.”
Then she closed the door on him. Vi was already turning, looking distractedly down at her clipboard.
“One moment. I just have to . . .” Vi trailed off. A strange mix of expressions flickered over her face as she looked up at him: shock, annoyance, guilt. She crossed her arms over her clipboard.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
Nick swallowed down a wave of nausea. If his mate was going to look at him with such disappointment, he would’ve hoped it was after years of being with him.
Ideally, they’d have some good times before he screwed it up.
But she’d taken the smart way out and had thrown in the towel before even getting to know him.
Or maybe she did know him—maybe she’d been able to take one look and see him, just like he always dreamed his mate would see him.
Wholly. Utterly. And she didn’t want anything to do with him.
Vi frowned. “Are you . . . feeling okay?”
God, he must look like shit. He strode up and dropped the old container on the shelf next to her. In it sat six chocolate brownies. He didn’t know what she liked, but chocolate was usually a safe bet.
“Hey,” he said, with none of the charm he typically tried to inject into his voice. “Just wanted to make up for those shitty snacks I brought last night. Bye.”
He turned to leave, trying and failing to shove down his self-pity. The Baked Goods Bandit would be making a few more surprise hits this month; he could feel it in his churning gut.
Vi’s voice stopped him. “Did you get these from the bandit?”
Technically yes, Nick thought. He waited until his face was normal again. Then he turned back, hands in his pockets. “Nah, I never get up early enough for those. Got ’em from a fancy shop outside of town. The container’s mine, obviously.”
“Oh,” she said. She picked up the container carefully, like it wasn’t cracked plastic from a Chinese place that had closed down five years ago. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugged. He couldn’t even appreciate her biting her lip as she looked over the brownies, her white teeth leaving dents in that perfect pink skin.
He turned once more to leave. Then he stopped. She’d given him an in. If he didn’t say it now, he really would have to leave a note. And that was truly pathetic.
He whirled to face her. “Look. I’m sorry, okay? I don’t think you’re an idiot. I have no idea why you think that. I think you’re really smart and selfless and great. And I don’t blame you for not liking me! I’m loud, I’m obnoxious, I’m flaky. I didn’t take the book club seriously.”
Vi stared at him. Still suspicious. She’d heard him out once, and he’d rewarded her by bringing dry cookies and not even reading the CliffsNotes.
Nick rocked back and forth on his heels, laughing helplessly. Everything got easier when you laughed at it. He was going to leave her alone after this, so if this was going to be the last time they had a proper conversation, he needed to know.
“You don’t actually think I was making fun of you, right?”
Vi narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you just say you’d start taking things seriously?”
“I am. I seriously haven’t been making fun of you.”
“You’ve been making fun of me since you met me,” Vi said flatly.
It pinged a memory in his head. He recoiled from it like a hot stove, another mortified laugh falling from his mouth. “I have not! I’m just making conversation!”
She gave him another hard look. It was awful. It was a relief. It was so much better than her hiding behind her customer-service shtick, coating her disdain in sugar-sweet politeness.
“You keep getting in my face,” she said. “Every time we talk. Goading me, like we’re in high school. And you just . . . You keep . . .”