Page 12 of When the Weaver Met the Gargoyle

“You’re welcome.” He clears his throat. “So my magic isn’t pleasant like a faerie’s or some of your friend Tully’s potions.”

“Tully isn’t really my friend.”

“No?”

“I don’t think so. But back to you.”

“I can bring up rock from the earth.”

“I’ve heard you can build wallswith that magic.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rom says. “I haven’t tried in a long, long time.”

“Because it’s dangerous?”

“Yes, exactly. If I unleash even a whisper of my power, it tends to have a mind of its own.” His tone is sharp like he’s daring me to question him. I don’t know why I would. I know nothing about him.

“What could happen?”

“I hurt people. Even when I don’t intend to.”

“I can’t even imagine you raising your voice to someone.” Not that he would need to; his very presence is frightening. Well, it was before I got to know him a bit. Now, I know he is a sweet guy—so far, he’s the kindest male I’ve met in my entire life.

He grumbles like he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t say more. “Stone magic is tied to emotion.”

“Tully’s can be like that sometimes. I’ve seen her blow up her cauldron after a breakup.” I snicker, but Rom doesn’t join in. His past haunts him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light of what you’re telling me.”

“You don’t need to apologize because your life with magical friends has been positive. That’s how life should be.”

“It could be that way for you, too, couldn’t it? If you learned to control your power?” I bite my lip. I went too far.

Rom is quiet for the rest of our trip to the bakery, and I worry I’ve ruined this burgeoning friendship. Damn it. Why am I too quiet most of the time and then a word vomit monster the moment I decide to speak?

Rom must not loathe me too much because he opens the door to Kaya’s Two Cats Bakery for me. The place isn’t terribly crowded—no line out the door like it can be on big market days. Inside, ten or so people sit at various tables and chairs covered in fluffy pillows. A very fat maplecat curls up on the red rug by the flickering hearth and proceeds to lick at her orange, leafy pelt. Two more scrap playfully over a ball of white wool in the corner under the painted menu on the wall. Kaya may have started with just two cats, but now she has well over five.

Cinnamon, vanilla, sugar, and mint dance through the sweet air. We approach the counter display case, and I’m already drooling. Tiny, circular cakes covered in pink frosting line up beside sweet rolls that glitter with raw sugar. On the bottom shelf, shiny chocolate croissants and neatly crafted apple tarts lie next to the famous cinnamon scones.

“What would you like?” Rom asks, his voice low and soft.

Something about that voice of his heatsme right up. It’s like I’m standing near Kaya’s bread oven. I swallow, trying to ignore the warmth pooling low in my belly. Friends. Just friends.

“I can’t say no to one of her scones. They are heaven on earth.”

“Two scones, please,” Rom says as Kaya approaches.

Wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, she gives me a curious smile, like she wants to know what I’m doing with the town gargoyle, but she doesn’t press me with an actual question.

“No problem. I hope you two are having a lovely morning,” Kaya says.

Her gaze slips to the hump of Rom’s wings hidden under his cloak. Concern blinks through her eyes—not in a mean way at all, but as if she can imagine how much a twisted back might hurt, especially with winter coming. I want to tell her he feels just fine and is concealing some amazing wings, but of course, that isn’t my story to tell.

She bends to pick out two scones with a set of tongs, then she slips them into a paper bag marked with the Two Cats Bakery logo—two kitties pawing at a triangle, which I’m sure represents a scone. She folds the top down and hands the bag over to me. I slide a few silvers to her over the counter, but Romsets his hand on mine, stopping the transaction. A shock rockets down my arm, and I meet the unreadable gaze that remains in the shadow of his hood. His skin is cooler than mine, and the texture is more supple—so different from a human male’s hand.

He shakes his head, then lifts his hand from mine and drops his coins onto Kaya’s counter. She grins at me, then accepts his payment.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, gathering my money and tucking it into the pouch I keep tied to my belt.

Kaya also hands us two steaming cups of what smells like cider. “These are on the house. I just want your opinion on this new flavor. If it gets a good response this morning, I’ll bring this recipe to the Harvest Party.”