ripping through pounds of flour every day, Rachael felt it was only the barest politeness to eat whatever they wished to offer her. She was merely being a good guest. A very good ravenous guest with an enormous capacity for pie.
Which is why Call Me Jim and Please Call Me Martha were sitting with her on the porch, watching with satisfaction as she sucked down the last of the devil’s food cupcakes they’d brought her.
“Young lady, damned if I know where you put it,” Call Me Jim observed. Amusement. Admiration.
“I used to be able to put it away like that, but then I had kids. Never have kids, Rachael.” Resigned. Amusement.
“Mmmph ggmmph unnph,” she replied. Umm. Homemade buttercream frosting, surely a gift from the gods.
“You stop that, Martha, you know you wanted kids more’n I did.” Call Me Jim was as weathered as a saddlebag but much friendlier and more talkative. He was slouching in his usual outfit of ancient jeans and a faded flannel shirt, long sleeves, black dress socks, and sneakers. Like the vampires, Call Me Jim was always chilly. “There wa’ant no shuttin’ you up ’til you caught preggers.”
“Says the guy who didn’t have seven months of morning sickness, not to mention eighteen hours of drug-free labor.” Irritation. Amusement.
“Good God, woman, it was thirty years ago! Let it go.”
“Twenty-nine and six months.”
“Nnnph gmmph,” Rachael added, feeling she ought to contribute to the conversation. And that was when Edward roared up. Well. Pulled up, though his little sewing machine car engine made it sound more impressive than it was.
“Hi!” he called, bounding out. Happiness. Happiness. He was carrying a large grocery bag stuffed . . . with what, Rachael could not guess. “Am I late?” Anxiety. Happiness.
She managed to swallow the last of the buttercream, and gurgled, “Not at all. You’re a minute early.”
“Traffic,” he said, and shrugged.
“These are my landlords. This is—”
“Call me Jim.”
“Please call me Martha.”
“Hi. Edward Batley.” He beamed and wrung their large wrinkled hands. Then winced as the bakers, made tremendously strong from years of slinging dough, wrung his back. “Ah. Ah! Oooh, that smarts. I won’t lie. Eesh.” He gingerly took his hand back and flexed the fingers.
She grinned to read his shirt: “I Appreciate the Muppets on a Much Deeper Level Than You.”
“What the hell is a muppet?” Call Me Jim asked, eyeing Edward’s proud logo.
“Oh, you know. That puppet show from the late seventies.”
“I didn’t watch puppet shows in the late seventies.”
“Well, if you did,” his wife reminded him helpfully, “you’d know what the boy’s shirt meant.”
“Hope you weren’t waiting long, Rachael.”
For twenty-nine minutes, actually. But it wasn’t Ed’s fault she got tired of waiting inside. Besides, she had told herself, he might get lost. I should be available in case he needs directions. He might drive right past and never realize.
Sure.
“It was too nice to wait inside,” she said, as likely an explanation as any. Too bad it was a lie. “Want to come in?”
“Sure!” He almost tripped coming up the porch steps but caught himself at the last minute. “Ah, man. I hate when that happens.”
“Boy’s got it bad,” Call Me Jim observed, and Rachael couldn’t help but laugh when Ed reddened.
He smiled and shrugged. “So? It’s the truth.”
Charmed, Rachael forgot all about vampires, baked goods, retired bakers, and the murders.
Too bad.
Twenty-four
“It’s your very own hobbit hole!” Edward exclaimed, delighted. He had prowled through the small apartment after dumping his grocery bag on the kitchen counter. “It’s so cool and cute!”
“Thank you.” He was correct. It was cool and cute. She was pleased he thought so . . . and wondered why she was pleased. What was Edward, exactly? A diversion? A possible boyfriend? Pack members weren’t known for dating. They tended to hook up—and stay hooked—early. The drive to create a stable environment for cubs was strong. Always, always they remembered how vastly the humans had them outnumbered. “I liked it the minute I saw it.”
“It’s got everything . . . you can even see out the windows.”
“Yes.”
“So.” He looked around again, then looked at her. “What d’you want to do? I brought some stuff . . .”
“Oh?” She stalked him toward the kitchen. He was backing up, and she was certain he didn’t realize it.
“Yeah . . . I thought . . . a picnic . . . on the bluffs?” Lust. Anxiety. Happiness.
She had him backed into the corner between the fridge and the counter. “A picnic?”
“Yeah. I . . . brought some . . .