Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,10

lo—excuse me?”

He said that last part to an unknown person standing at Bartholomew’s back. Bartholomew turned irritably. God, Lachlan was pretty, and he was saying kind things, and things that were—possibly—really super important, and Bartholomew wanted to hear.

And he’d used the nickname “Tolly,” which Bartholomew had never heard before, but which he loved so much more than “Barty,” except when Alex and Jordan used it, because he knew for sure they were his friends.

But the person behind him didn’t know any of that.

It was a girl—young, maybe seventeen or so—and unbelievably beautiful, with dark almond-shaped eyes, a plump little mouth, tawny skin, and a vivid red Black Widow wig to go with her skintight Avengers suit.

“Your costume is gorgeous,” she mumbled. “So shiny….” She lifted her hand as if to pet Bartholomew’s hair, only to have her mother—who was good-naturedly dressed in green padding to be the Hulk—bat her hand away.

“Sabrina!” she said, half laughing. “Honey, what’s gotten into you! C’mon. We got you your sweets. Let’s go check out the art room so I can get some prints for my office!”

“But Mom!” Sabrina wailed, sounding younger and much more lost than she’d looked. “He’s so pretty!”

“Honey, did you or did you not just lecture your little brother on physical boundaries because he wanted a hug! Now let’s go!” She turned to Bartholomew and grimaced. “I’m so sorry. She’s usually more adult than I am!” she said as she dragged her reluctant daughter away.

“That was odd,” Bartholomew muttered, staring at the girl. Pretty? Shiny? What costume?

“I don’t see what’s so odd about it,” Lachlan grumbled. “I’ve been wanting to do that since we first met!”

Bartholomew stared at him, and then someone else bumped into him from behind, and—oh my God!—a hand feathered along his posterior as a voice sighed along his neck.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” he muttered, although he really wanted to go back to that “Since we first met” comment.

Another bump, another hand, and this time he turned around and glared.

And met the wide, besotted eyes of three other people—two girls and one college-aged, broad-muscled young man whose girlfriend was tugging on his bicep.

“But Paul, you said we could go to the film panel!”

“But look at him, Shawna. He’s glowing!”

Bartholomew squinted, puzzled, because the girl had said the same thing, and to his relief, Lachlan grabbed his hand and tugged at him, muttering, “God, can’t a guy catch a break?”

Bartholomew broke into a trot to keep up with him and, he admitted to himself, to keep contact with his hand.

It was warm. And rough. And strong. And well, nice. Sent shivers up and down his spine. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

Oh Lord, Bartholomew hoped so.

They rounded a corner, and Lachlan practically threw Bartholomew in front of him, cornering him in the booth and blocking the view of the rest of the floor with his ever-so-wide shoulders.

“Sheila?” he said desperately.

“Lachlan!”

Sheila Farmer and her wife, Gretel, made their soaps and candles from the purest ingredients they could find. In fact, they’d been a steady source of income to Jordan, who provided them with his signature essential oil blends, and Lachlan, who kept them supplied with hand-carved and sanded candle holders. Their stand practically wafted comfort, and they were purists enough to keep little bowls of coffee beans by their stock so people could cleanse their scent palate before smelling the next candle or soap to see if it was to their liking.

Both women were pleasantly round and vital, in their fifties. Sheila had let her cropped blond hair go gray, and Gretel’s once-dark hair grew to her shoulder blades, but she mostly twisted it into a bun and held it back with a pencil. They dressed in complementary Renaissance outfits—and they seemed to have plenty to choose from. Today’s combo featured Sheila in a purple skirt with a green flowered vest and lilac shirt underneath, her generous bosom threatening to overflow at any moment. Gretel wore a teal-colored skirt with a purple flowered vest and a pale green flouncy shirt—and her breasts were a little more self-contained.

“Hey, Sheila,” Lachlan said nervously, checking over his shoulder. “You remember Bartholomew—”

“He’s that sweet boy who runs the baked goods booth,” Sheila said jovially. “How are you doing, sweetheart? You look a little frazzled, and the day has just begun!”

“Actually,” Bartholomew said, grateful—so grateful—for Lachlan’s heat at his back, “I’m looking for three candles. Black, white, and amber colored.”

Gretel cocked her head. “Witchcraft?” she asked. “Clarity, protection, purification, restoration?”

Bartholomew almost