Monster mash, p.10
Monster Mash, page 10
Sitting at my table after Northstar closed for the day, I had to agree. Even after a long day of hard work, he was mesmerizing to watch, especially during the tableside service. Of course, that wasn’t available for everyone. It was a special treat just for me.
I watched him put the finishing touches on my brunch from beneath hooded eyes and considered eschewing the meal altogether in favor of getting a bite of him.
“You keep looking at me like that, we’re going to wind up in your office again,” he warned.
An earlier image of him bent over my desk fluttered through my memory. Face flushed, pants around his ankles, eyes closed, cheek pressed to the polished mahogany surface as his lips closed tight around the tip of my tail…
I smiled and picked up my blood orange mimosa for a sip. “Hm. Now there’s a fantasy I’d like to relive before we go home to christen the new bed.” We had broken the other one. Apparently, it didn’t take that much force to crack a headboard in half. At least, not when it came to us.
Adam let out an exasperated grunt, but his cheeks flushed their familiar pink hue. “I didn’t make all these ricotta pancakes to go to waste.”
He placed a stack of the aforementioned pancakes in front of me topped with sliced strawberries, mascarpone crema, and a sweet and tangy citrus reduction. My mouth watered at the sight, senses prickling at the passion baked right into the food.
Ever since we’d put our arrangement in place, Adam’s excitement for cooking had returned. He no longer dragged himself to the restaurant and sluggishly went through the prep routine. When he appeared every morning, it was with the light of excitement in his eyes. Moving out of that dreadful little apartment and into my mansion in the hills probably helped as well. He had moved his things into a guest room, but never actually slept there. Slowly but surely, his belongings were creeping into my bedroom, his things and my things becoming our things. It was only a matter of time before he abandoned the room altogether.
Adam sat across from me with his black coffee and waited expectantly for me to take a bite. “Well?” he asked after I had. “What’s the verdict?”
My mouth was too busy ascending to food heaven to answer him. Ricotta pancakes were a staple of Italian brunch, so I’d had them a hundred times before. Enough times to know exactly what went into them and how they should taste. Adam’s were light and fluffy with a perfect airy texture and just the right amount of lemon zest… But there was something else in there I couldn’t quite identify. Something that elevated the dish from a standard brunch offering to something truly unique and delicious.
I put my fork down. “All right. I give up. What’s different?”
Adam beamed. “Vanilla yogurt.”
I stared at him, bewildered. Who would ever think to put vanilla yogurt into ricotta pancake mix? It seemed so simple, so obvious, but it never would have occurred to me to try it. That was Adam’s special skill, taking the mundane and elevating it to fine dining.
“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” I said, and shoveled another forkful into my mouth.
Adam’s smile was radiant, and he sat back to watch me eat.
I paused with a frown. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
He shook his head. “Not in the mood for pancakes. I’m holding out for a burger.” Which he would, no doubt, ask me to make for him once I finished my breakfast.
“Well, at least have a drink or I’ll feel very put out.” I waved Gaston over. “Gaston, bring me that special drink we talked about for Adam.”
“Special drink?” Adam frowned, watching Gaston scurry off. “What are you up to, Inzo?”
“Absolutely nothing good, I assure you.” I dug back into my breakfast, almost finishing before Gaston returned with two flutes of champagne.
Adam pursed his lips as he took his glass. “Champagne? What’s the occasion?”
“You are,” I replied and ran the glass under my nose before holding it out. “To you, Chef Adam Northstar, and all of your wonderful genius.”
He shrugged and clinked his glass against mine. I waited for him, watching the confusion flicker over his features. He stared at me a moment longer before tipping the glass to his lips and pausing. My lips turned up in an unrestrained smirk as I watched his eyes widen, taking in the slight movement at the bottom of the glass when he tipped it.
Adam lowered the glass, trembling. “Inzo…” He sounded thoroughly, beautifully stunned.
I got up, taking my time to push in the chair before picking up his glass and emptying it unceremoniously over my fingers. I caught the band of gold with its trio of inlaid diamonds in my hand as the champagne splashed into the discard bin.
Adam’s hand closed over his mouth as I went to one knee and his eyes began to water. I didn’t even get the first word out before he jumped up, nodding frantically and squeaked, “Yes! Oh my God, yes, Inzo!”
I lifted an eyebrow, my tail swishing against the floor in mock irritation. “You didn’t even let me ask.”
“You don’t have to.” He grabbed me by the forearms and pulled me to my feet, throwing his arms around my neck and squeezing tight. “Of course I’ll marry you. I love you, you jerk. How dare you do this to me here? God, now I’m crying…”
I smiled and decided I should keep it to myself that my original plan had been to propose when the restaurant was packed. Gaston had advised against a public display, saying Adam would likely find it terribly embarrassing, and he was right. Adam didn’t like to flaunt our relationship in the restaurant. Some silly notion that he’d be taken less seriously. I understood. He wanted his success to be his own, and I respected that about him more than anything. It would never stand in the way of me helping him every way I could, however.
I eyed Gaston over Adam’s shoulder. The old werewolf grinned and flashed me a thumbs up. My maître d' certainly deserved a raise for the part he played in bringing Adam and I together.
Adam suddenly pulled back, sniffling. “Oh God. There’s so much to do. We have to find a venue, and plan the menu and… We’ll need a wedding planner, and I’ll have to call my family. Who’s going to make the cake, Inzo? I can’t decorate a wedding cake to save my life!”
I laughed and took his face in my hands, smiling down at my beloved human. My chef. My heart. My life and soul. “Don’t you worry about a thing, polpetto. I’ll take care of everything.”
Beefcakes
A Culinary Creatures Novella
L Eveland
Please be advised that one of the main characters struggles with anxiety and agoraphobia. Reader discretion is advised.
“Of course it has to be mauve,” I spat into the phone as I exited the car, a plethora of shopping bags hanging from my arms. “I’ve told you a thousand times if I’ve told you once. Not magenta, mauve!”
“They discontinued the mauve.” Keys clattered in the background as my assistant’s tentacles raced across the keyboard.
I lowered my sunglasses with a finger and frowned. The muppet of a Lyft driver had dropped me off on the wrong side of La Brea Avenue, which meant I’d have to fight mid-morning traffic to get to the bakery.
Feckin’ useless. I pushed my sunglasses up. “What do you mean they’re discontinued? They can’t be discontinued!”
“I’m just telling you what they tell me, boss.”
I huffed and shifted the phone between my ear and my shoulder, eying a gap in the traffic. If I legged it, I could probably make it, but I might also scuff my brand-new designer dress shoes, and that wouldn’t do. They were, after all, Italian leather. A glance down at my watch told me I didn’t have time. My meeting with the baker was in three minutes and I absolutely, positively, could not be late. It wasn’t professional.
“Listen Gary, I don’t give a nun’s arse if we have to order them white and dye the roses ourselves. Chef Northstar asked for mauve, so he’s bloody getting mauve! Make it happen or—”
A candy apple red sports car came careening down the street well above the speed limit just as I made it to the center of the road. The driver—a minotaur—blared his horn when he came close, startling me. I flinched and the phone practically jumped out of my grip. I tried desperately to recover, but it was a pointless endeavor. My phone crashed to the pavement and bounced right into more oncoming traffic.
I would have rather the whitewall tires run over me than my phone, but I stood frozen in horror as my life—contained in pixels and fragile glass—shattered beneath the crushing weight of the American automobile.
To add insult to injury, the driver leaned out his window and flashed a rather rude gesture. “Watch where you’re going, human!”
I reached the opposite curb and fought the urge to curl up and cry. The sight of my phone on the pavement made my chest tighten uncontrollably. My entire life was on that phone! My business, my livelihood! How was I ever supposed to plan the Amoretti-Northstar wedding without my phone?
Deep breaths, Ezra. Remember what Doctor Federi said. Close your eyes and take ten deep breaths. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on taking slower, deeper breaths, but the heavy stink of exhaust in the air didn’t make it easy. That’s it. Now open your eyes and count everything blue you see. One, two…
By the time I made it to five, I could almost think clearly again. Another deep breath and I let myself check my watch, silently wondering what else could go wrong. At least I’d made it to my next appointment in time.
I shifted the bags on my wrist, turned, and pushed my way through the door into the bakery.
Beefcakes was a quaint little downtown bakery. It wasn’t one of my normal vendors. I liked to work with human providers whenever I could. There were too few of us, and I’d made it my mission to support minority-owned businesses wherever possible. My clients, however, had insisted I use the monster-owned bakery and since said clients were world famous billionaire chefs, they got what they wanted.
The first thing that hit me was an assault of Latin dance music playing far too loud on the speakers. I paused just inside the door, wondering if I’d walked into the wrong place. As I turned a full circle, taking in all the tacky neon lighting the displays of baked goods for sale, I realized the music was just a symptom of a larger problem. Whoever was in charge of this place had absolutely no taste.
With a frown, I removed my sunglasses, hooking them on the collar of my shirt. “I hope his cakes are better than the décor.”
“What’s wrong with the décor?” came a booming voice from behind me.
The voice was so deep, so sensual, that I fought an involuntary shudder. What the hell, Ezra? Get it together!
I turned around and my eyes settled on a beefy forearm as big around as my head resting on the counter. Slowly, my eyes traced up the arm, over broad shoulders, a thick neck covered in equally thick brown fur… And up to the face of a minotaur sporting spiked lavender tipped hair and a nose ring. More rings hung from one of his big ears and he’d wrapped a lilac-colored ribbon around his curved horns. Even leaning on the counter, he was tall enough I had to tilt my head back to take in all of him at once.
My heart pounded, threatening to jump up through my throat. My, he’s a big one. I wonder if he’s proportional?
What the fuck? Where did that come from?
I took a brave step forward. “Nothing if this was a late nineties rave and not a bakery.” I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Ezra Higgins, Enchanted Moments Inc. Is Mr. Reyes available? I have an appointment with the owner.”
The minotaur scanned me from head to toe but didn’t move to take my hand. His ear flicked in irritation. “He’s around.”
Rude, I thought, lowering my hand. “Well, could you tell him I’m here? I have another appointment across town and I can’t afford to be late.”
“Oh, of course. I’ll hurry and get him for you.”
Finally, I thought as the minotaur pushed away from the counter. I glanced around impatiently as he slid into the back room.
The bakery wasn’t large, but it was decent looking, I supposed, if they meant to cater to the younger, hipper demographic of monster, especially a more internationally conscious crowd. Aside from the usual offerings of cookies, cakes, and pies any bakery would have on display, they offered several sweet breads, some rustic Italian breads, and a few more exotic items. In a display case near the counter, there was a delicious looking tres leches cake alongside a perfect pumpkin spice sopapilla. I suppose I could excuse the gaudy neon if the cakes were as good as they looked.
The beaded curtain separating the front of the store from the back jingled, and I looked up to see the same minotaur coming back out, this time fiddling with a plastic nametag he was working to attach to his God-awful Hawaiian shirt. I stood back up straight, frowning. How rude! I’d shown up on time and here the bakery owner was sending out his cashier minion to…
My thoughts trailed off, brain short circuiting as I scanned the nametag once…twice… On the third read, it finally hit me. “You’re Matteo Reyes?” I sputtered.
The minotaur’s mouth spread into a wide smile, amusement sparkling in his caramel eyes. “I know, right? Imagine my surprise when I went back to find the owner and then I remembered it’s me. How embarrassing.”
My ears grew hot, and I shifted to touch them, but the weight of the bags on my arms stopped me. “Oh, I see. Havin’ a laugh, are you? You could’ve just said so, you know.”
“That wouldn’t have been nearly as entertaining,” he said with a wink.
An entirely new feeling fluttered low in my chest and I gave him a second look, trying to decide if I should just turn around and walk out. Maybe Chefs Amoretti and Northstar would be open to a change in plans.
Not six weeks before the big day, I thought. It’s your fault for not meeting him sooner, Ezra. You’d know if you’d actually go places in person instead of living on your phone. If not for the lovely little blue pills Doctor Federi had prescribed, I might still be sitting in my living room, pissing myself at the idea of speaking to someone new.
“Step into my office, Sugar, and we’ll get it all sorted,” he said, pulling back the beaded curtain.
I bit my lip, enjoying that nickname far too much.
I stepped behind the counter and into another world. Gone were the gaudy neon lights, replaced by flour coated surfaces, piles of icing-slicked metal mixing bowls, plastic cake stands, and rolling pins. I pulled my shopping bags in tight against my body to keep from getting flour all over the samples I’d bought to take to my clients later in the day.
“You can just put those anywhere,” Matteo said, following me through the door and gesturing vaguely to the flour-coated kitchen.
I didn’t want to put them down, but my arms really could use the break, so I walked over to a mostly flour free section near a metal folding chair and carefully set them down. Behind me, metal bowls clanged as Matteo cleared a space.
I cleared my throat. “So, I’m here about the Amoretti-Northstar cake. As I said on the phone—”
“Is that Irish?” he cut in so suddenly I almost flinched.
I stood, adjusting the cuffs on my jacket. “Pardon?”
“Your accent,” he said, dumping the bowls into a huge double sink and rolling up his sleeves. “Is it Irish? I couldn’t tell on the phone. It’s sexier in person.”
My jaw fell open, and I froze in place, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t the first time some American had commented on my accent. In fact, I got it all the damn time, but they were usually polite about it. The really annoying ones would ask me to repeat words or phrases like some sort of trained dog. Of all the comments I’d gotten about it, no one had ever said exactly that to me.
“I…I…About the cake.” I cleared my throat again.
“I used to watch this Irish TV show on the BBC,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard me, bending over the sink to start the water.
I couldn’t stop my eyes from trailing over his ample backside. Looking didn’t hurt, right?
“Didn’t understand half of what they were saying, but I liked the aesthetic,” Mateo continued. “Plus, the guy playing the priest was, like, super hot.”
Sweat formed on my forehead and my stomach did something funny, mimicking the feeling of going down hill really, really fast. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. “About the cake.”
He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “You kind of remind me of him. I guess like a West Hollywood version of him, I suppose. Dude was rustic as fuck, but a total twink. Is that a thing? Like a daddy sort of twink?”
“How the fuck should I know?” I erupted and crossed my arms. “I didn’t come here to gob about the bloody telly! I’m here about a cake! The most important cake! Can you focus for five seconds or should I just go?”
“Chill, man. I’m just fucking with you.” He grabbed the sprayer and ran it over the bowl, glancing my way. “You seem a little tense. How’s your blood sugar, hon? You need a hit of something sweet?”
“No,” I said, more flustered than ever. “I’m fine. I just need to talk to you about this cake, so if I could please have your undivided attention…”
He let go of the sprayer and turned to face me. “You got it, Sugar. How can I help?”
The way he said it sounded so sincere, and his soft brown eyes were so warm and deep, like a vat of salted caramel.
With all that soft fur, I bet he’s an amazing cuddler. Suddenly, all I could think about was licking icing off his fingers.
Oh my god. STOP. I turned away, fanning myself. It’s just a stress reaction. You’re stressed and orgasms are good for stress, so of course you’re craving one right now. But hold yourself together and DO NOT get hard in the middle of a fucking bakery!
I took a deep breath, inhaling the warm, yeasty-sugar scent of the bakery, and let it out slowly, trying to think about crushed cell phones and missed appointments. “I came here to schedule a tasting for my clients. My clients are on a rather tight timeline, so sooner is better.”
