I hear Chloe moaning like she is next to me. Right. Next. To. Me. I was in bed when I heard it, and I looked over, expecting to see her lying on the empty pillow beside me. Nope. She’s across the street, but somehow still in my head.
I’m kind of glad she isn’t next to me at the moment, because I’m going to burst. I’m as hard and thick as a log of hard soppressata .
I tried to cool off after she left. I even tried a cold shower.
It did nothing but make me think insanely inappropriate thoughts about the woman who sang one song and promptly took over my heart and life.
Thoughts about her warm pussy wrapping around me, about our bodies rubbing together until the sweat builds, about us bursting together. ..
My hand starts pumping, and I’m feeling ways I haven’t felt since my honeymoon, and I can hear her sweet, heartrending song in my mind—and then I hear her moaning again.
Soft, at first, then louder. It becomes a shout of “Come for me, Jared!” and I obey, shaking and stunned at how fast and hard it happens.
Did she really say that? Did she scream that into the night, or inside my head?
Doesn’t matter, because it’s not like I can go rush across the street and show her that I’m a good listener. Not until tonight.
“I’D LIKE A DOZEN ROSES , please. And a vase to put them in.
” The floral counter in the Fresh Mart is my last stop for the morning.
I have a dozen eggs, three kinds of cheese, seventy dollars worth of charcuterie board assemblage, flour, fennel, onion, garlic, tomatoes, basil, oregano, and two pounds of ground beef.
My Nana’s recipe (scanned into the family shared drive from the mess of handwritten recipes on scraps of paper, backs of envelopes, and clipped, faded magazine pages) is already up on my tablet, waiting for me to get to work.
I’m glad I have the day off. I’m making homemade pasta from scratch.
“Someone has a romantic night ahead of him,” says the little lady who works the balloons and flowers counter in the corner.
“I hope so,” I say with a nervous smile. What about a dessert? We need a dessert. And a salad. “Can you have that ready in a couple of minutes? I forgot something.”
“Oh, ho. Better not forget anything important,” she smiles, unspooling white and purple paper to wrap the roses in.
Anything important. I nod and head towards the bakery, but stop at the healthcare aisle. Do I get condoms?
No. I swerve away, back to the produce. That would be ungentlemanly and super presumptuous.
Come for me, Jared!
Chloe’s screams of delight echo in my head and dance down my spine. “Shoot. Nope, nope, nope.”
I have to separate dreams from reality.
Why? asks my inner wiseass. Banshees and magic spells don’t belong in reality either, but—
“Excuse me, sorry.”
I turn and almost bite off my tongue. There’s a huge, greenish-gray man towering over me—and I’m already tall. His skin is a net of fine scars and stitches. His dark hair is long enough to almost cover circular burns at the juncture of his head and throat. “I— I...”
“It’s Manny! Manny Finkelstein, the mechanic who helped you change that tire two weeks ago? You dropped your garlic!” he says and uncurls the long fingers to reveal a bulb of garlic in the center of his palm.
“I dropped my... I dropped my garlic. Thank you,” I manage to croak.
“You okay, Jared?”
“I think so.” I look around frantically, but everyone else in the big store seems normal. “Do you know Chloe?” I ask, just because my brain is making connections, my mouth is on autopilot, and my manners are lost in the shuffle.
“From Chloe’s Curiosities? Sure do! Lovely girl.”
“Yeah. I... I’m making her dinner.” That’s not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say, “What are you?” If there are real banshees, and there is this man, who looks like he’s not quite human...
“Really? A little romance?” Manny looks thrilled. “Good luck. She’s an absolute doll.”
I smile, nerves temporarily vanishing. “I’m trying to impress her. I think she’s pretty special, too.”
“Well, take a little advice from one of the old-timers in town. The bakery here is fine, but nothing special. Go to The Pine Loft and ask if Georgie will make you his famous Guinness Chocolate Cake. Tell him it’s for Chloe, and he’ll probably have it ready for tonight.”
“Oh! Wow, thank you. That’s a great idea.”
Manny winks at me. “You strike me as the marrying kind, Jared. We marrying kinds have to stick together. Chloe hasn’t dated in donkey’s years. If she likes you... Lucky fella.”
He talks like an old man. Looks like Frankenstein’s monster, fixes flats, and gives dating advice.
You know what? Chloe and I have to end up together, because if we don’t, I’ll have to leave town... And even if she’s not in love with me, I think I just fell in love with Pine Ridge.
“Thanks, Manny! I’m going to head over to The Pine Loft now—ooh, as soon as I pick up the flowers.”
“Flowers?” Manny’s voice develops the tiniest hint of alarm.
“A dozen red roses? They’re the symbol of love and romance, right?” I try not to sound like a gawky freshman asking for advice from one of the cool older kids, but that’s the way I feel next to Manny.
“Chloe sure does love plants,” Manny nods slowly. “Uh... You know, just thinking ahead here, it might be a good idea to take the thorns off before you give them to her. So she doesn’t hurt her hands.”
I think of how my philodendron shot up and sprouted leaves in seconds when Chloe was happy last night.
“I don’t want thorns the size of shark fins if she gets upset, got it,” I mumble.
Manny gasps. “You know?”
“I know,” I wink, and suddenly, I’m back to cool kid status. I know the secret—and Manny’s scarred, stitched hand reaches out to give me a fist bump.
“Good luck,” he repeats, winks, and walks off.
I WORRY ALL DAY ABOUT what to wear, about what wine to bring, about how I’m going to be able to get to know someone when I’ve already broadcast clear signals that I’m lonely and aching for love.
A green sundress with spaghetti straps and adorable green sandals that show off the pedicure I got at lunchtime will work, right?
I hope all of this works.
If it doesn’t, I don’t think I can stay here. Or he can’t stay here. He’ll have to move, or I’ll feel his heartbreak all the time, layered on top of mine.
“Especially not if he keeps cooking like that,” I tell Marmalade as I fasten on my earrings and inhale the mouth-watering aromas that are coming across the street. Fresh bread... Garlic and tomatoes... Meat and onions, and something sweet and savory, and...
Home. He feels like home and home cooking.
I totally do not skip down the stairs, giggling to myself in excitement that I’m about to rush into the big, cuddly arms of a man who is cooking just for me. I’m a powerful businesswoman. In my thirties. I do not giggle and skip.
Oh, the hell with it, yes, I do. I try to compose myself enough to knock on his door, but before I can even raise my hand, Jared is there, smelling like Italian heaven and holding roses in a white vase that looks like it’s an antique.
“Hi!” he says breathlessly.
“Hi!” I answer back.
He holds out the roses, and I hold up the bottle of wine, both of us saying, “This is for you.”
We’re adorable, aren’t we? The skipping is smaller now, confined to my little banshee teenager who was convinced she’d never find real love with a side of happy paranormal life.
“It smells amazing in here.”
“I left the windows open all day to tempt you with my love letter in sauce.” Jared sweeps one arm forward. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving. I skipped lunch to go get a pedicure.” I stick out my sandaled foot and love the way his eyes linger on my leg, but not too long, before he smiles into my eyes.
“Then the bread and salad await. I made the pasta fresh, so I’m not going to cook it until just before we’re ready.”
“You made pasta?”
“Mmhm. It’s not that hard. Plus, I have the attachment to roll it and cut it on my stand mixer—something Patsy didn’t fight for in the split.”
“My instant dislike of this woman is growing every time you talk about her.”
“I’m sorry. It’s probably bad form to talk about exes on a first date.”
“Maybe, but I don’t care. My God, is the bread homemade, too?”
“Oh, yeah, but it’s easy to make. Two hours from bowl to oven. I’ll give you the recipe.”
“I’d love that.”
Conversation flows like the currents in the ocean, endless and easy, natural, knowing just where we’re going.
I tell him the last time I had a home-cooked meal was two years ago, that I’m a sucker for Italian-American food, something my parents never made when I was growing up, and I admire the vase and the roses.
“They came in a cheap glass vase, but I thought... Chloe wants something with more character. I went over to my office today and got this from my desk. It was my nana’s, but she sent it to me when I moved here, along with some flowers. Housewarming-slash-congrats on a new job.”
It’s something from his family—and he’s just giving it to me? “I can’t accept it.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You can give it back if it’s not your style.”
“Everything is my style,” I admit. “I’m like a magpie. I love all the junk that people keep, because it’s not really junk. It’s treasure. The stories that objects hold... That’s the fae side of me. My dad is half-human, half-fae.”
“Fae?”
“Like fae folk? Fairies? Not the tiny kind with wings. The tricksters who like to make deals with humans. My dad’s a good one.
He never liked to trade for anything big, just people’s junk.
He only wanted things that carried value to the person, not monetary value—and often as not, he’d lose whatever he bartered for during his weekly poker game anyway.
” I turn the vase that sits on the edge of the table, looking at the white-on-white roses.
“I think this might be Parian ware. Valuable.”
“Then it’s a good gift to bring to my pretty magpie,” Jared says easily, and I can tell he means it.