Den and Breakfast: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance (Honeycomb Falls Book 1) (2 page)

"'Dear Rachel,'" I read aloud. "'I know this has been a terrible day. While I am the one who has died, you are the one left with all the pain. But as your grandma, let me tell you that boy was a no-good, lying sack of...'" I trail off and meet Maria's eyes. We stare at each other in shock.

"That's from your grandma?" Maria's voice shakes.

"From Mama B," I say, my heart tight, as if someone is squeezing it. "But..."

"How?" Maria completes my sentence. "How'd she know about Paul? I thought you'd stopped seeing her when you were six? Never mind, keep reading!"

"'Lying sack of'..." Ahem. "'Trust me, my dear, when I tell you that you've dodged a bullet by not marrying him, a truth that will no doubt fail to console you now, but should become ever more apparent as your life continues. Because it will continue. You have no choice but to move on, though the question is: what will you do? You're free to pick your future. Or perhaps a better way to put it would be, free to finally accept your past. No matter what your mama said or tried, you cannot deny your heritage. The heritage I am leaving to you. As my only surviving descendant, I am leaving you everything I have, which means my home, my savings account, and a special item you'll find safely stowed away in the chest at the foot of my bed. Mr. Hanscomb, my lawyer, has all the paperwork ready for you.'"

I can barely believe the words I'm reading. I lower the letter. Maria and I gape at each other. I grab my amaretto, gulp it down, then read the last line. "'I've always loved you more than you know. It's been one of life's greatest tragedies that we never got to know each other, but it's time to come home, child. Home to Honeycomb Falls.'"

Silence. It feels like a bomb has gone off in Maria's apartment. We blink and say nothing, till finally Maria leaps to her feet, alarmed. "All right, stop. Wait a minute. This is full-blown crazy."

I put the letter down on the coffee table as if it's dangerous, and sit back. I feel dizzy all over again.

Maria runs to the front door and yanks it open. The mailman's long gone. She closes it, pulls her hair out of its ponytail and promptly ties it back all over again, only to march back over and throw back the rest of her amaretto. She sits down, marginally composed. "OK. Rachel? I'll ask real nice. What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know. Mama B's left me her house." Her beautiful, gorgeous old home. Three stories tall, with a wrap-around porch, a tower set in the left front corner, a grand ballroom, a scary wine cellar, an ancient swimming pool out back, and an ornate black iron gate that opens to the white gravel driveway that loops into a circle before the huge front door. A fantasyland from my childhood, the coolest, scariest, most wonderful building in the world.

"But how did she know? How did this letter get here? How did - wait." Maria's eyes narrow. "Why did your mother fight with her to begin with?"

"She gave me a bunch of reasons over the years. But I know the real one. The one she told me first, that night we packed up and left, never to go back. She said that Mama B was a witch. That she was dangerous, and that no good would ever come from her."

"
Una bruja
," whispers Maria, and crosses herself. "That would explain a lot."

I stand up, walk to one of Maria's windows, and look out at Manhattan. It's raining. Everything looks gray. I'll have to find a new bed, or better yet, a new apartment. A new job. A new man. The thought exhausts me. Or... I feel a shiver of excitement run down my spine. I could go back to Honeycomb Falls. The cutest little village in the world, nestled in the woods of western Massachusetts, right against the Berkshire Mountains, the Conway River cutting through its center. I think of Bridge Street, with its old trees, wonderful little shops, cafes and restaurants. I rest my forehead against the window. Manhattan looks grim and impersonal. A machine that has chewed me up. What good has it ever done me?

"What are you going to do, chica?" Maria steps up beside me.

"I think I might go back." I feel another shiver of excitement run through me as I say those words. "I don't know if I'll stay there forever or anything. But I want to take a look. See Mama B's old house again. See what she's left me. Learn what my mother wanted to hide me from, all those years ago."

"Your heritage," says Maria, quoting the letter.

"My heritage. My past." I hug myself tight. "And who knows? Maybe my future too."

Chapter Two

Welcome to Honeycomb Falls
, reads the sign.
Pop. 1746.
Two days have passed since my breakdown in Maria's apartment, and now here I am, driving a rented Mustang convertible, lipstick red and more fun than a night at the Crazy Horse Saloon. I've driven four hours straight from NYC, and only now has the sun come out, breaking free of the clouds as if to welcome me back home. Maria made me an epic mix-tape collection, and I've been blasting it the whole way so as to not lose courage. I'm alternating between giddy anticipation and bouts of panic.

My best friend has already talked me down from the ledge at a scenic rest stop an hour ago, where I'd called her, declaring that this was an insane idea. What did I know about country living? What was I doing out here? I should go back and start hitting the pavement and looking for my next crappy soul-destroying job.

Instead, she filled me with energy and enthusiasm, and now here I am. I slow down. Honeycomb Falls seemed perfect during my childhood, but now I'm about to drive through it for the first time in over two decades. How have things changed? I turn onto Bridge Street, the only street with a traffic light in town, lower my music, and drive slowly along, drinking it all in.

It's gorgeous. Unreal. Art galleries. A coffee shop called The Gypsy Cafe. A bookstore. A pharmacy. I peer through its glass window. Is that a soda fountain? Families are walking along licking ice cream cones, old ladies are seated in the sunshine on cast iron benches and everything seems cheerful and fresh. A gentle wind blows through the trees that line the street, and before I'm ready I reach the new truss bridge that crosses the Conway River. My car rumbles over the wooden boards, and I slow even more to take in the flowing water that turns into the actual Honeycomb Falls to my left. To the right is the old trolley bridge, now converted into a pedestrian footbridge, its length bursting with blooming flowers like the most glorious fireworks in the world.

Gorgeous. Instinctively I make a left once I cross the bridge, drive past a large building with a sign reading Mindy's General Store, and alongside the river for two blocks before pulling over to park where it turns into the falls. I hop out and step up to the waist-high fence. The Conway River turns into whitewater rapids shortly before dropping a good ten yards into the large basin that I remember swimming in during the height of summer. All kinds of vague memories are coming back. Glaciers eroded deep holes into the rocky riverbed, giving the waterfall - and the town - its name. With autumn about to hit, the water is too cold to swim in, but I can see some kids on large rocks with fishing poles, casting their lures into the emerald water.

I turn and lean back against the fence so that the sun hits me full in the face. A modest mountain rises up on this side of the river, cradling the buildings that line the only street that runs along the river. The air is sweet and clear, crisp and delicious, like biting into a cold green apple. Honeycomb Falls is smaller than I remember, but just as cute and old fashioned. Can I live here? Can I make this my home? Will I get stir crazy, or more accurately, man crazy? Before I can start doubting myself again, I jump back into the Mustang, reverse into the street, and drive to Mama B's.

It's just outside of town, a quarter mile along a winding road. I pull up before the wrought iron gate, flanked on both sides by two enormous oaks, and stop, a lump rising in my throat. These gates seemed huge when I was little, their ornate W's making me feel special, as if our family was distinguished, like some kind of nobility. Now I just feel sad. Ivy has worked its way across the iron bars, and Mama B is gone. Worse yet, I don't even really remember her much. Just a little old lady with a wrinkled raisin for a face and a wicked smile. My mother passed away five years ago. My dad died shortly after I was born. The Wilder clan has been reduced to just me.

There are no motion sensors, so I get out and push open the gate, then drive in. The white gravel driveway is just as I remember, crunching under the tires, though today it's marred by weeds and dandelions. It curls around bushes and trees till it opens up and there is Mama B's house. It looks almost like a castle, grand and mysterious, with a large front door under an impressive arch, the wrap-around porch held up by fluted Doric columns. It's just as large as I recall. But not everything is the same. The garden has run wild, the lawn overgrown, the rose bushes that line the walls looking dangerous, the flower garden a jungle of color and weeds, bees buzzing slowly as they dance from flower to flower.

A man walks around the corner of the building as I pull up before the front door, and my eyes go wide. Oh. My. God. He's large and muscular, with shoulder length hair and the hint of a beard along his jaw. He's wearing torn jeans and a white tee that does little to hide his powerful body, tight across the broad shoulders and chest and hanging loose over his waist. Who the hell is he? Please tell me that he comes with the house. Please please please.

I get out of the car, suddenly extremely self-conscious of my curls, which are wild and windblown and totally out of control. I have to actively resist the urge to take a photo of him to send to Maria.

The man stops. He's holding a pair of garden shears, and his eyes narrow with surprise. Now this I don't remember from my childhood. Rough, panty-melting men with callused hands and the most sinfully kissable lips in the world? This is definitely new.

"Hi," I say, and give a little wave before I can stop myself.

He tosses the garden shears aside and steps over, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. Good lord, he moves with incredible grace, like the dancers I've seen at the Broadway shows I took Paul to. He's no dancer, though. Where those men were elegant and delicate like swans, this man moves like a predator.

A wolf, I think.

"Afternoon," he says. His voice is a low rumble like distant thunder, and it goes in through my ears and right down to my pussy, adding fuel to the fire that's started to burn there. He stops a few paces from me, and I see that his eyes are the most incredible color, golden with flecks of green. Beautiful eyes. Eyes I could just stand around all day staring at, chin in hand, a stupid smile on my face.

He's waiting for me to say something, and I realize that I've been staring like a tourist in Times Square. I blush and look away, at the tall trees, the big house, and then at his big package. My face burns even brighter, and when I look up I see amusement in his gorgeous eyes. As if he's reading my mind. It's a good thing he can't, or he'd be shocked silly by the scandalous things I'm thinking about him. The dirty, dirty things I want him to do to me with those strong hands, those lips, those -

"Can I help you?" His voice is a rich rumble, his amusement obvious now.

"Oh!" My voice comes out in a squeak. If this was NYC, I'd assume he was a random
GQ
model, but here in Honeycomb Falls? He's like a primitive god come walking out of the woods. "I'm Rachel Wilder."

My name has an immediate effect on him. The kind of effect dumping a bucket of ice cold water has on people. His brows furrow, and his beautiful golden eyes grow cold and hard. "Wilder, huh? Well. Welcome home, I guess."

I blink. Where did the humorous hot interest in his eyes go? Why has he suddenly become so cold? Have I offended him somehow? "Thank you," I say, feeling off balance and trying not to sound defensive. I wait, but he just stands there, glowering at me. "And you are?"

"Blake." He says his name reluctantly. "I'm the... gardener."

"The gardener?" I turn to stare at the wild lawn, the overgrown bushes, the complete chaos that seems to have taken hold of the grounds. "Were you just hired?"

He considers the garden like Captain Ahab surveying the ocean. "No. I've been here two years already. Two very, very long years."

I don't know what to think. My body wants to attack this frickin' gorgeous hunk of a man, to jump him and tear off that white shirt so that I can feel his skin under my hands, touch his muscles, provoke him and bite him and ask him to devour me. But my mind, the sassy don't-give-me-crap NYC part of me, is trying to process the fact that he's probably the worst gardener in the world. And, for reasons completely unknown, very, very mad at me.

Glaring at me, actually. What the hell? I don't care how hot you are, nobody gives me this kind of attitude. My sass flares up. "Two years, huh? Do you mean to tell me you've been intentionally turning this place into a jungle?"

I immediately regret my words. His golden eyes narrow, and waves of anger seem to radiate from him. He curls his hands into fists and clenches his jaw. Great. He's probably the only super hot guy in all of Honeycomb Falls, and I've already made him hate me. Smooth, Rach. Real smooth.

But then, to my complete surprise, he forces himself to relax and looks away. "My apologies," he mutters. "I'll... I'll work harder." What the hell? Why is he making me feel like an evil slave driver? I only arrived two minutes ago! "If you'll excuse me," he continues, voice dripping with sarcasm, "the rose bushes need..." I see him search for the right word.

"Pruning?"

"Pruning." He grimaces as he sketches me a mock bow, then stalks back around the house, leaning down to scoop up the shears as he goes. I just stand there with my mouth wide open. OK. Maybe I'm also gaping because of how perfect his ass is, but hot damn. Whoever bought those jeans for him did an amazing job, because they hug his sculpted cheeks like -

I rub my face. What is
wrong
with me? The man clearly hates my guts, and here I stand admiring his ass like it's a work of art. Well, fine, maybe it kind of
is
a work of art. Maybe that's why Mama B hired him. To have something to watch during the day. I can understand that. Even if Blake has allowed the grounds to descend into a state of primal nature. I take a deep breath. Blake, I can tell, is going to be a very delicious and exceedingly frustrating problem.