Chapter 3
Shore Shack
TEDDY
I follow the narrow, weed-strewn path around the side of the bakeshop, hoping its unkempt appearance isn’t a harbinger of what I’ll find out back. Surely my new faerie employer takes better care of her personal residence. The cottage must be in better condition… right?
Wrong.
Mongrels and moonbeams! It’s not a cottage at all… It’s a dilapidated little shore shack. The formerly white wooden siding is so weathered it’s turned a dingy gray, most of its paint peeled away, the battered front door is sagging on its hinges, and every window is crusted with grime.
I’m a fastidious man, which I realize is a bit unusual for my species.
My old pack alpha used to say I should have been born a vampire instead of a werewolf.
He was teasing me of course; he understood me better than my own parents.
A wave of sadness washes over me at the memory of Jarrod and the fight that took his life—and nearly ended mine.
I shake off my melancholy and step up to the door. Unable to locate either a door bell or a knocker, I use the side of my fist to pound on the flaking green paint. I pause, hear nothing inside, no swish of fabric or footsteps on floorboards, and resume my assault on the door.
A female voice finally shouts, “Geesh… I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
My eyebrows quirk upward at the quaint expression, reminding me of Miss Dragonfly. I heave a sigh, ignoring the surge of nostalgia threatening to sink my spirits yet again. I have no choice but to forge ahead; I must find a way to work with slovenly Sophie.
But when she pulls open the door and steps aside so I can enter, my breath hitches and my feet refuse to move. The faerie standing before me can’t possibly be the same person I encountered in the shop.
This faerie is wearing a coppery silk blouse that shows off her flawless complexion, black jeans that hug her curvy hips, and ankle boots with four-inch heels that boost her to nearly my height.
Her lustrous brown hair falls in long, loose curls past her shoulders, and her gray eyes have flecks of blue, almost like the lake when a cloud passes over the sun.
I gaze unabashedly at her glossy lips, which are painted the color of burnished bronze.
And then there’s her scent, which I didn’t notice earlier in the bakery, probably because it was masked by all the construction dust clogging my nostrils. But now the mossy aroma of damp grass after a gentle rain wafts toward me; I smile, inhaling the greening scents of spring, my favorite season.
Sophie Spellman Brownlee is a vision of such loveliness and perfection that I’m struck speechless—until she purses her pillowy lips, draws her slanted faerie eyebrows into a mighty scowl, and hollers, “Well, what are you waiting for? Come inside so we can get this over with.”
I’m so startled by the contrast between her natural beauty and her snippy mouth that I take a step back. Then I realize it may appear I’m retreating, so I square my shoulders and cross the threshold, entering the monstrous mess this faerie calls home.
I pause, wincing at the disorder, uncertain where we’ll find an unoccupied spot to review Miss Dragonfly’s will.
Half-open boxes are stacked haphazardly around the living room; torn newspapers and bubble wrap lie scattered across every available surface, and the scarred floorboards are grimy underfoot.
To my left sits a lumpy sofa covered in a bilious brown throw.
Two oversized chairs with frayed slipcovers, one green and the other gold, are shoved against the far wall.
“Follow me,” calls Sophie over her shoulder. “We’ll use the kitchen.” I notice her wings are partially protruding from the specially-designed slits in the back of her silk blouse.
Trailing behind her, I’m momentarily distracted by the sway of her hips until I step on something soft and cushy.
An indignant screech causes me to jump as a flurry of white fur streaks past. Sophie chases after the creature and returns moments later, cooing at the fuzzy bundle in her arms. “Poor baby. Leslie is clumsy and didn’t mean to step on you. ”
“The name’s Teddy. And what is that? Some sort of rodent?”
Sophie’s gray eyes darken. “Shh, you’re insulting her!” She coos some more endearments at the ratty creature with the voluminous tail… er make that plural. The rat has too many tails to count.
“This is Zosia, my nine-tailed fox. She’s still a kit and doesn’t know to hide from big, bad wolves yet.”
I ignore her jab. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on… er… one of her tails. What’s she doing here?”
“She lives here.”
“Not with me she doesn’t,” I say firmly. “No pets.”
“Who says you live here?”
“Miss Dragonfly’s last will and testament says so.” I square my jaw. “Look, let’s get on with the review of Appendix C. Didn’t you say you had dinner plans?”
Sophie glares daggers at me. “As if you could make me forget I have a date tonight!”
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself almost jealous that she’s going out with someone else tonight.
A ridiculous notion, since I find her far too showy, snappy, and sloppy for my taste.
Sophie is the embodiment of everything I abhor.
Well, except for the way she smells… and looks; she could stop traffic in that outfit.
Sophie kisses the top of the little fox’s head, puts her down, and leads me through a set of swinging double doors into the kitchen.
The room reeks of Pine Sol—at least the cracked linoleum floor and avocado green appliances appear recently scrubbed—but the kitchen is just as cramped and cluttered as the main room.
Pots and pans and dishes and pantry items are stacked on the counters and crowded into cupboards; there isn’t an inch of unoccupied counter space anywhere, and half the cabinet doors are slightly ajar, obviously overflowing with contents.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the migraine forming behind my eyes at the sheer chaos that is Sophie Spellman Brownlee.
She seems to realize we need at least fourteen square inches of clear space to review Miss Dragonfly’s will, because she grabs an armful of cookbooks from her Formica-topped table and stacks them on top of the stove.
“Er… that’s not safe,” I say, wondering what other hazards are hidden within these claustrophobic walls. I’m somewhat of a fanatic when it comes to fire safety; I have a fire science degree and long for an opportunity to put my knowledge to good use.
“What do you take me for? Some feather-brained faerie?” Sophie grumps, pulls up a chair at the table, and waves me over.
“If you know it’s an unsafe practice, then why do you do it?”
“Really? Are we going to waste precious time discussing my decluttering skills, or are we going to look at this will?”
“No offense,” I reply stiffly, taking my seat next to her. “But you don’t appear to have any decluttering skills. You merely move stacks of stuff around, like those rail cars that crisscross the country hauling expired waste from coast to coast.”
Sophie shakes her head and huffs, “If you’re not careful, you’re going to insult the wrong person in Riddle Hill, someone far less easygoing than me.
And then you’ll be lucky if all you’re fending off are fangs and claws.
” At my quizzical expression, she adds, “Visit the Sit for a Spell Café and take a look at the gargoyles beneath the countertop. That’s what happens when you cross a faerie! ”
“I don’t understand.”
“They weren’t always made of stone.”
My eyes narrow into twin slits. “Are you threatening me?”
Sophie shrugs. “If the boot fits… ”
She’s intentionally trying to goad me, and I refuse to take the bait.
Instead I paste a neutral expression on my face, determined to reach detente with this infuriating faerie so I can unpack my car and get some much-needed rest. “I’ve been on the road since eight this morning.
I have no energy for a verbal tussling match; let’s just get on with it. ”
I withdraw Miss Dragonfly’s will from its leather portfolio, turn to the appendix in question, and show Sophie the relevant paragraph.
She snatches the document from my hands and begins to read.
I watch her through half-lowered lids, waiting until her eyes widen, and she hisses, “This is ridiculous! It’s bad enough I’d forfeit my bakery if I don’t employ you for a year.
But if I refuse to give you room and board, it amounts to the same thing! ”
“True, but Miss Dragonfly adds protections for you as well. If you deem my work ethic unsatisfactory—for example, if I fail to show up for work without a valid excuse—then you may send me packing and buy out my shares at the end of the year.” Shrugging, I add, “However, I think you’ll quickly find my work ethic is outstanding, and you’ll have no reason to activate the forfeiture clause.
In my three years of employment with Miss Dragonfly, I never missed a day. ”
“Unbelievable.” Sophie slaps her hand on the table. “I assumed all along you were female and had a tolerable personality—but Auntie knew the truth, and she still drafted this will! What was she thinking?”
I can’t help myself; my sister Bella always says I’m too curious by half. “What’s wrong with my personality?”
Sophie glares at me. “You’ve done nothing but look down your nose at me since you arrived at the shop.
You insisted I had to bathe and change before discussing the will, and you’ve been wincing and grimacing ever since you entered my home.
You called poor little Zosia a rat and compared my decluttering skills to managing radioactive waste.
Seriously, how did you survive into your twenties without one of your packmates taking you out? ”
My mouth turns sharply downward as I pin her with a wolfish glower.
Sophie’s estimate of my issues with pack life hits a little too close to home.
Not that my “personality” was the problem; no, it was my loyalty to my alpha that nearly got me killed.
But Sophie doesn’t need to know that. I rise from the chair and tower over the outspoken faerie I have to live and work with for the next twelve months.
I refuse to dignify her question with an answer. Instead I ask, “Is this a roundabout way of telling me you wish to forfeit?”
Sophie hurtles out of her chair like it’s on fire and jabs her finger into my chest, which sends a frisson of tingles around my torso, down my spine, and into my gut.
Peering down at her shiny brown hair, I inhale her delicious scent, and suddenly, I’m struggling to swallow.
I notice Sophie seems immobilized; her forefinger is still pressed into my chest, but she’s not saying or doing anything.
I have this inexplicable desire to wrap my arms around this maddening faerie and draw her close for a kiss. Her scent, her curves, her lips seem to beckon me… Whoa! I blink away the thought, wondering if Sophie is part siren.
I cough to clear my throat, and she whips her head up at me, dropping her hand. Her pupils are dilated, but her voice is as loud and brash as ever. “I am not forfeiting, Leslie T. Barker!”
“The name’s Teddy,” I remind her, slipping the will back into its carrying case.
“In that case, would you please show me to my room? I need to unpack.” I’m desperate for some alone time, preferably in a quiet, uncluttered room so I can process what just happened when Sophie stabbed me with her finger.
Sophie’s plush lips form an O. “But, but… you’re staying?”
“I believe I’ve already established that fact.”
“How am I going to explain you to my prospective boyfriend?”
A tiny pang forms beneath my rib cage at the mention of a boyfriend.
I give myself a good mental shake. Although this ridiculous faerie causes an occasional fizzle in my belly or tingle down my spine, there’s a perfectly rational explanation that has nothing to do with the fact she’s stunning—even more so when she’s angry.
I’d have the same reaction to any reasonably attractive woman who paid me a little attention.
I’m a twenty-four-year-old man who hasn’t been on a date since college, and who’s been living with an ancient faerie for the past three years.
Other than periodic visits to my sister Bella, I’ve eschewed all social engagements.
The simple truth is I’m starved for affection.
Sophie appears to be waiting for my answer. “Tell your boyfriend the truth.”
“Prospective boyfriend,” Sophie corrects me. “I haven’t met him yet.”
“Huh?” I know I’m weary, but Sophie isn’t making any sense.
Sophie waves her hand in the air. “I’m speaking hypothetically.”
“Well then,” I reply, secretly relieved by Sophie’s non-existent love interest. One less complication at the moment. “Tell your hypothetical, prospective boyfriend that I’m your business partner.”
“Oh please,” Sophie snorts. “No one is going to believe that.”
“Why not?”
“You’re too good looking.”
“Oh I see.” I smirk, some of the heaviness in my chest lightening at the compliment.
“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not the only pretty face in Riddle Hill,” Sophie grumps.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. “I look forward to meeting the other pretty faces in town. Perhaps we could start a club.”
“Spare me your dog-eared werewolf humor.” Sophie shakes her head. “Come on, let me show you to your room.”
“Just a sec.” I remove the stack of cookbooks from the stove and pile them back onto the table.
Sophie gives me an eye roll before heading through the double doors. I pat the ugly green refrigerator on my way out like it’s an old chum, welcoming me home.