Page 6 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)

Bastien

“Fuck!” Bas cursed, dropping his knife in favor of the towel slung over his shoulder and clasping it around his finger, hands tight against his chest. It had been years since he’d last slipped with a knife.

“ Dammit ,” he hissed. That was at least three pounds of steak that would need to be tossed due to contamination. Hal would be pissed.

That was the fourth time in as many hours Bas had screwed up a simple task because he couldn’t stop daydreaming about big, hazel eyes.

He had been going to the mausoleum just about every night the last few weeks, reading by candlelight until she would show up, then he would watch her from the mausoleum windows until she left again .

That was until, compelled by a bout of recklessness the night before, he shifted and attempted to slip out of the tomb to get a little closer.

Turned out, he must be as sneaky as a train, because he hadn’t even made it completely out of the door before her head snapped in his direction.

Bastien wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but for her to disregard him and walk away? That was a surprise.

The cowbell above the door rang out, clearing the fog that consumed his mind.

“Sebastian! How ya been, Man?” Cheap cologne permeated the shop as Gunther sauntered in, his wet boots squeaking on the concrete floor despite his pathetic attempt to kick the snow free on the entry rug.

“Bastien. It’s just Bastien,” he corrected, tossing the bloody towel into the wash basket and reaching for the first aid kit.

“Right, Bas, listen.” Bas inhaled deeply, more insulted by the use of his nickname than the mispronunciation. Gunther continued, “What’s your protocol on roadkill? Can you guys process it down?”

“In order to process anything, we either need the carcass copy of a legally issued hunting license or we would need to make a copy of your salvage permit—you do have a salvage permit, right?” Bastien probed, one eyebrow raised in doubt.

“Of course I have a permit,” Gunther huffed. “And, for the record, I was asking hypothetically . For a friend.” He stalked over to a display case, slapping a hand on the glass. Bastien flinched at the greasy handprint that would surely be left on his freshly polished glass.

“Anyway,” Gunther said, drawing out the last syllable while he continued to scan the available cuts, “go ahead and wrap up a pair of these New Yorks for me.” He tapped the glass above the steaks. “I’ve got a date.”

Bastien fought the urge to roll his eyes until he could see his brain as he slipped on a pair of gloves.

The thought that anyone would want to share a meal with this guy was absurd, let alone as a date.

While wrapping the meat, his thoughts drifted back to the mournful doe and the conversation he’d had with his mother the night before, when he returned home after being seen.

Shivering, Bas eased open the back door. The old hinges ignored his attempt at silence, squealing loudly and causing him to grimace.

“Mijo?” The question came from the kitchen which he now saw was dimly lit, likely by his mother’s favorite reading lamp.

She was the only person he had ever heard of who preferred to read at the kitchen counter instead of a plush sofa in the living room, always saying something about how the kitchen was the heart of the house.

“Yeah, Mama, it’s just me,” Bas answered while digging around in the coat closet.

Soriah had suggested they keep spare clothes there after he and Desiderio had barreled into the house, buck naked in the middle of her book club’s monthly meetup.

With a sad smile at the memory, he stepped into a pair of sweats and threw a towel over his head.

He was still roughly drying his dark hair as he walked into the kitchen, where Soriah sat, just as he expected, at the island with her little lamp, glasses perched on the end of her nose and a worn-out paper back laying open in front of her.

“It’s late, why are you up?” Bas asked when her eyes, full of concern, met his.

“You’d think by now you’d know that you can’t leave this house without me knowing.” She raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “Was it the nightmares again?” The question was almost a whisper and most definitely rhetorical.

Bas only ever got out of bed in the middle of the night if he was afraid to go back to sleep, he had been that way since he was a little boy. Bastien shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he pulled out the stool next to his mother and sank onto it with a sigh.

Soriah pursed her lips and rubbed her son’s back. “Tea?”

He nodded again, and she rose from her seat, walking around the island to the kettle.

“Want to talk?”

“Actually, yeah.” Bastien proceeded to tell her about the doe and how he suspected there may be more to her than meets the eye.

“I know there are some of us out there like Papa and Del, herbivore shifters, I just never put much thought into it before, I guess. Have you ever heard of a family of deer? ”

“Sí,” Soriah replied. “Your Abuelo used to tell me stories when I was a little girl about all of the different families he had heard of—one was deer.”

“ Twenty-seven, thirty-two,” Bas said, sliding the carefully packaged steaks across the counter.

“Thanks, man,” Gunther replied, impatiently ripping his card from the reader before snatching the meat off the counter. “Same time next week?” he joked, stalking back to the door, not bothering to wait for a response before stepping out into the cold.

“Can’t fucking wait,” Bas muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair and resting his hand on the back of his neck. He glanced at the clock; it was nearly two and he still had not taken a lunch break—not that he was exactly hungry. Still, Bas made his way to the back office to find Hal.

“Whatcha need, son?” Hal asked when Bas knocked on his office door, not looking up from the journal he was scanning.

The old man was practically buried beneath a mountain of books, his shiny, bald head barely peeking over the top.

Even though all the finances, inventory, and sales were logged in the computer and safely saved to the cloud, Hal still insisted on keeping a physical ledger—one he meticulously updated himself.

Bas made a mental note to buy the man a printer and show him how to print all the reports.

Surely, he wouldn’t complain too much about the time saved; Lord knew his arthritis wouldn’t .

“Hey boss, I wasn’t watching the time. Would you mind grabbing the front for fifteen minutes so I can run down the block to The Glass and snag a bite?”

Hal perked up. “The Glass, huh? Only if you bring me back one of those Elvis Sandwiches!”

Bas chuckled, shaking his head.

“You can shake your head all you want, son. Until you quit being a chicken-shit and actually try one, you aren’t allowed to say anything!” Hal scoffed playfully, as he stood and rounded his desk.

Even at his age, the man still stood a touch taller than Bastien and, thanks to his white beard and strong nose, he looked exactly like one of those paintings of The Old Sea Captain.

“You bring me one of Aimi’s creations, and I’ll let ya tromp over to The Glass as often as you want. Just don’t tell Hattie,” he whispered conspiratorially, patting his round stomach and glancing over his shoulder as if his wife would magically appear to chastise him.

With a wink, Hal slipped his thumbs into his suspenders and walked down the hall.

“You know I would never come back without one!” Bastien hollered after the old man. “You’d probably lock me out!”

The hearty guffaw that rang back all but confirmed his accusation. Bas shook his head again, then ducked out the back door into the alley .

The Glass Half Full was quite literally just down the block from the butcher shop, on the opposite corner. Though it was not the only coffee shop in town, it was the best, without question, and the constant ringing of the wind chime above the door only confirmed it.

Bas leaned against the back counter, waiting for his order: a ‘hot double zinger, one Spicy Chelsea, and one Elvis’, which translated to a hot double-shot americano, a four-cheese and chorizo grilled sandwich, and a toasted, peanut butter and banana sandwich.

The chimes sang again.

“Babe! You’re late!” the barista with the dual-colored hair cooed to whoever had just walked in.

Unable to remember a time he had ever heard the woman speak so sweetly to anyone, Bas glanced up, searching for the recipient of such honey. Not that he needed to know, but Hattie would love a little fresh gossip and she paid in duck eggs—which his mother called “the magic ingredient” for flan.

Bas could easily be considered a regular at The Glass. At least four out of five days a week, he showed up for his piping hot bean water and, more often than not, Hal’s questionable taste in lunch.

So how had he never seen her before?

She stood in the doorway, her auburn hair frizzy from the hat she’d just pulled off her head. Bas watched through his lashes as she kicked the snow from her boots and hung her oversized jacket on one of the hooks behind the door.

“You can complain to my boss,” the woman replied. “She’s had me working all damn day on a project I might not even get paid for.” She sighed dramatically, but the slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth hinted that she was not as exasperated as she sounded.

The barista laughed loudly at that, and Bas furrowed his brows, clearly having missed a joke. He was further surprised when the woman started walking toward him, eyes down as she dug with one arm into the canvas bag hanging from her opposite shoulder.

High cheekbones dusted with freckles, a slender nose still red from the cold and full pink lips pursed in concentration. She was not wearing a lick of makeup, but Bastien felt like that had been a conscious choice—not from a rushed morning.

A look of triumph crossed her face when she pulled a worn book from her bag, and it took everything Bas had to keep from mirroring her reaction.

Then, when she was only two feet away from where he was still propped against the counter, she looked up and met his eyes.