Chapter 7 #2
The kitchen smells wrong the second I unlock the back door of the bakery and walk inside.
Not spoiled exactly, but… bad. Then again, when you’re used to eau de trash can, you might have a higher tolerance to gross smells because, while I wrinkle my nose, Gus rears up, covering his snout with his paws.
For an added bonus, he heaves.
Ash doesn’t react. Of course not. He can’t smell shit, and he’s lucky. It’s not as bad as Gus makes it out to be, but it ain’t pleasant, either.
Crap.
I drop the keys and my phone on the counter like yesterday, then rush over to the big commercial refrigerator. Yanking it open, I don’t know what’s worse: the warm air spilling out or the rank scent of yeast that comes with it.
Slamming it shut, I huff out a frustrated breath. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Ash appears at my elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Power failure,” I guess. The emergency lights in the kitchen are on.
I flip the switch for the bright fluorescents, relieved when they hum to life.
I put my ear to the door of the refrigerator.
Nothing. “Or the fridge died. Freezer, too. I don’t know, but I think all the doughs that Honey prepped for me is trash. ”
Ash looks thoughtful. “You think maybe there was a power surge? I had this apartment when I was at school that had a problem like that. Certain breakers blew, and if you switched them on and off, you could get the appliances up and running again.”
One benefit to Honey’s very detailed notebook? She actually gave instructions should something like that happen. I’m able to find the breaker box, swap out a couple of fuses at random at Ash’s suggestions, and the fridge turns back on.
Great, but that doesn’t do anything about the ruined doughs that I can’t bake now.
Maybe if I didn’t care about Honey’s rep as a premier baker in Moonburrow, I’d cross my fingers and toss them in the oven.
Since I do—and I’m stubborn enough to insist on opening at some point today when I know the nosy neighbors will be rapping on the front door sooner or later—I decide we need to come up with a backup plan.
No surprise that my sexy librarian suggests that we go looking for a book.
As helpful as Honey’s notes are, they only help in telling me how to bake the premade doughs.
When it comes to creating something that we can try selling to the residents of Moonburrow, I need something easy enough to make with the ingredients we have on hand.
Milk is out. So are eggs. If the fridge went early yesterday, I don’t trust using perishable ingredients, and Ash agrees. Everything else in the well-stocked pantry should work… but what can you make without milk and eggs?
That’s when Gus finally decides to take pity on us.
He chirps something to Ash. Ash nods and drifts over to the counter nearest to the door that leads upstairs to Honey’s old apartment.
Gus leaps off of Ash’s shoulder, landing on the counter with a thump before he starts tapping on something with his tiny paws.
I swear, it’s moments like these that I wonder if Gus is the brains of the operation, and whether or not he really is a shifter who never resumes a two-legged form, or if he’s just the smartest opossum to ever live.
I’ve heard an exasperated Honey give the details to Gus’s history countless times.
The fact that he’s eight-years-old and still kicking when wild opossums usually tap out after three definitely gives me a pause, but I lean toward him just being a true opossum who imprinted on a half witch-half opossum and got a couple of perks out of it.
Either way, I’m not an idiot. If Gus is tapping on something in this kitchen, I’m going to see what it is.
It’s an old leather-bound book of recipes. The thing looks ancient, thick with handwritten notes stuffed between worn pages that are yellowed with age—or maybe butter.
Score.
“Okay,” I say to Ash and Gus. “Looks like we’ve got some recipes to work with.”
I start flipping through the pages, turning each one when I see eggs or milk in the list of ingredients.
Finally, about halfway through, I find a page that looks promising.
It needs sugar, cocoa powder, oil… good, got all that.
A couple of weird spices that I’ve never heard of, but when I peek in the pantry cabinets, there they all are in alphabetized bottles.
Water. Vanilla. Yeah. I think this might work.
Holding out the book, I show Ash.
“‘Make You Love Me’ Dark Chocolate Brownies,” he reads.
“Sounds tasty.”
“And this is from Grandma Jean’s recipe book?”
I pause, remembering the fiasco with the charmed cupcakes that meant half of Moonburrow ‘couldn’t resist’ telling the truth.
Then I shake my head. I’m not a witch. I’m full-blooded raccoon, through and through, without a drop of magic in me.
Besides, there’s no spellcasting in this recipe.
Just normal brownie ingredients and some spices to add flavor.
Even the instructions seem pretty normal. Mix, bake, serve.
“It’ll be fine. And having one choice just means we’ll be able to get through the inevitable line faster.”
Ash smiles. “I like the way you think, Roxy.”
Works for me. At least my future mate likes something about me. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get to work.”
The kitchen slowly warms around as the oven heats up and I run around gathering ingredients. Before long, flour dusts the formerly pristine counters. Sugar sparkles. The rich scent of cocoa powder fills the air. I measure the spices, then toss the spoons into the sink to wash later.
It’s only as I’m pouring the first batch of lumpy batter into a greased pan that I realize that Ash is watching me in amazement.
Oil stains my shirt. Flour dusts my pants. My fingers somehow ended up with cocoa powder under my nails. A lock of hair—some black strands, some white—fell loose from my bun, sticking to my cheek.
And Ash is marveling at me as though I’m Betty fucking Crocker and not a tornado let loose in the middle of Dough You Believe in Magic.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Nothing. I just… I know you own your own shop and you mentioned you’re not a baker, but watching you jump into action like that, I’m thinking there’s nothing you can’t do.”
Except figure out how to save my mate.
Torn between not knowing how to take a compliment and annoyed at myself that I haven’t done what I’ve always done and figured it the fuck out when it comes to Ash’s troubles, I respond by dipping my fingers inside the massive bag of all-purpose flour and flick it at him.
Sure, it goes through his translucent form, but feisty Roxy gets the message across.
I smirk at him. “You’re lucky you’re incorporeal.”
“You know… I think that might be the first time anyone’s ever had cause to say that.”
“What can I say? I’m one of a fucking kind.”
Surprisingly, his smile widens at my easy boast, and because I don’t have a smart ass response for that, I shove my hair out of my face before focusing intently on pouring out the batter in the next tray.
That’s the dangerous thing about mate bonds, I think.
Not the overwhelming attraction everybody talks about.
Not the instinctive possessiveness or the certainty that you’ve found your forever.
No, it’s this. How easy it is to imagine a life with this male even though we only just met.
It’s been a full day, but it feels like eternity and no time at all.
I want forever, and it pisses me off to no end that I… I might not get it.
But I’m going to try—and, for now, I’m going to distract myself with baking while I let my brain percolate in the background, figuring out how I’m going to help the mate who seems convinced I can do anything…