Cat disengaged from Hatchet’s face, gracefully landed on the floor, and flicked away a clump of Hatchet’s hair that was stuck in his claw.
Diesel carted Hatchet at arm’s length to the open door, pitched him out, closed and locked the door.
BAM, BAM, BAM. Hatchet was hammering on the door.
Diesel opened the door and looked down at Hatchet. “Now what?”
Hatchet had a bunch of cat scratches and punctures that were beginning to ooze blood. “I think I left my sword in your living room.”
Diesel retrieved the sword, gave it to Hatchet, and closed and locked the door again.
“Have you ever thought about getting shades on those kitchen windows?” Diesel asked me.
“Shades cost money.”
“Ma
ybe I should spend the night here. Make sure you’re safe.”
“Not necessary. I have Cat.”
My clock radio went into music mode at 4:15 A.M. Still dark out. Cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. No rain slashing against the window. All good signs. I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed in my usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.
The floors throughout the house are wide plank yellow pine. Some very, very old. Some new. The ceilings are low. The walls are old-fashioned plaster. The windows are wood, with small panes. The kitchen is far from high tech, but perfectly functional, and it feels cozy. I have my pots and pans hanging from hooks screwed into ceiling beams over my little work island.
I started coffee brewing, poured some kitty nuggets into a bowl for Cat, and gave him fresh water. I ate a small container of blueberry yogurt while I waited for my coffee, and reviewed my day.
It was Monday. That meant I would make all the usual cupcakes, plus an extra forty-five strawberry for Mr. Nelson’s weekly lunch meeting at the boat club. And Clara would need help with the bread, because Mr. Nelson would also want forty-five pretzel rolls. My afternoon and evening were open, but I had a feeling Diesel would fill the empty spaces.
I poured the brewed coffee into a travel mug, added a splash of half-and-half, stuffed myself into a sweatshirt, and grabbed my purse. Diesel had taken the Lovey key and Reedy’s papers with him, but the Shakespeare anthology was still on the counter. I stared at the anthology and thought about Hatchet and Wulf . . . that they might be lurking in the dark somewhere between me and my car, waiting to snatch me.
If I’d let Diesel spend the night, he would have protected me against all sorts of drooly, knuckle-dragging, bloodsucking monsters. Problem was, who would protect me from Diesel? Diesel was six foot three inches of mouth-watering, heart-stopping male temptation. He was annoying, charming, pushy, practically leaking testosterone, and he always smelled great. He also was off-limits. According to Diesel, if two people with exceptional abilities do the deed, one of them loses all their special skills, and there’s no way to tell which one will lose. It’s a total bummer, because if I could be sure it would be me, I’d be happy to make the sacrifice. Unfortunately, if it was Diesel and I had to save the world all by myself, I’d be up the creek without a paddle.
I peeked out the front window at my car. It was sitting under a streetlight only a few steps from my door. No sign of Wulf or Hatchet. Houses were dark across the street. Most of Marblehead was still asleep. Cat was leaning against my leg.
“What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Is it safe?”
Cat blinked, and I took that to mean yes.
I opened the door and cautiously stepped outside. I had a plan. If someone came rushing at me, I’d hit him with my purse and kick him in the crotch. I suppose I should also scream, but I hated to wake my neighbors. I locked my door, quickly walked to my car, and jumped behind the wheel. No one came rushing at me. But Wulf appeared out of nowhere, standing motionless, holding my door open, looking down at me.
I couldn’t muster enough air to scream, and kicking Wulf in the crotch wasn’t an option.
“This isn’t a safe place for you,” Wulf said, his voice soft and seductive. “And this life you’ve chosen has limitations. If you played for my team, you would have no limitations. I could give you a new car, your own bakery, a house that doesn’t lean downhill.” He paused and his eyes softened a little. “I could give you normalcy.”
My upper lip broke out in a cold sweat. How did he know I craved normalcy? I reached for the car door and found myself staring at Wulf’s perfectly pressed pants. Not a wrinkle in sight. My eyes were at package level, and it was like Baby Bear’s bed, not too big and not too small. It looked just right.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing my attention to move to his eyes. “I’m good.”
Thirty minutes later, I rolled into the small lot behind the bakery and parked. Light poured out the open back door of the building and flour floated in the light like fairy dust. Clara was already at work.
Clarinda Dazzle is the latest in a long line of Dazzles who have operated the bakery, stretching back to Puritan times. She owns the historic building, and she lives in a small apartment on the second floor. She’s forty years old. She’s twice divorced, currently single. She’s my height at 5'5?, but she seems taller, in part because of her hair. My hair is blond and straight as a pin. Clara’s hair is black, shot with gray, possibly shoulder-length, but it’s difficult to tell due to the frenzied curls and sheer mass of it all. She’s part Wampanoag Indian, but it’s a very small part.
I exchanged my sweatshirt for a white chef coat and wrapped a chef apron around my waist.
“It’s our usual Monday,” Clara said. “Extra pretzel rolls and strawberry cupcakes.”
I was already measuring out flour. “I’m on it.”