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

by Cassie Wright

  Contents

  Den & Breakfast

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Other Works by Cassie Wright

  Copyright

  Den & Breakfast

  Honeycomb Falls Series, Book 1

  By Cassie Wright

  Chapter One

  The shock hits me like a punch to the stomach. I see Paul stumble toward me, towel wrapped around his waist, eyes wide with alarm and guilt, but my brain just can't process what's going on. His sinfully hot, tattooed body is slicked with sweat. Behind him, sitting up in our bed, is some crazy slip of a girl. I catch a flash of blonde hair, confusion, big pouty lips and plenty of skin.

  Paul. As if this wasn't already turning into the day from hell. My Paul, who just proposed to me last month, who went down on bended knee on the deck of the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, telling me he wanted us to grow old together, wanted to have kids with me, wanted to take care of me. Forever.

  I back away from him, feeling sick. I know I should be feeling furious. Should be taking off my shoe and pounding his gorgeous face into all sorts of crazy new angles, but this day has already been just too much, and I'm fresh out of anger and rage. All I've got is shock, and the horrible sensation of my entire future being ripped out like a carpet from under my feet.

  "Rachel," he says, trying to grab my hand. "Cutie. Let me explain."

  I shake my head, backing away. "How could you?" My voice is a strangled whisper.

  "Cutie baby, listen to me. It's not what it looks like. Jessie - Jessie's an old friend, she was upset -"

  I cover both my ears and run for the front door. I feel like I'm drowning, and I don't want to hear his lies. God, Paul can lie like you wouldn't believe. He'd have made a better lawyer than a musician, but right now I don't want to hear one more word.

  But he grabs my elbow just as I reach the front door and spins me around. I smack his hand away, and suddenly the shock shatters like a wall of ice before my fiery rage. Is he really going to try to lie his way out of this one? Let me tell you, it feels good to finally get my anger going.

  "Don't you touch me." I get right in his face. "You lying piece of shit!"

  "Listen, honey, just listen." Paul tugs at his ear. It's a tic of his, something he always does when he's under pressure. I've seen him do it at poker nights, and when he's facing angry clients, but never ever did I think I'd see him do it with me. He's about to make up a lie on the spot. "This was going to be a surprise for you, a - a present. I was going to invite Jessie to join us -"

  I can't believe it. "A present? Another woman in our bed?"

  He nods eagerly, smiling like a fool. "You totally need to expand your horizons, cutie. I mean, c'mon. You've never had a threesome, right?" He pauses, his smile turning apologetic. "I mean, maybe I shouldn't have tried her out for size myself first, but I wanted to make sure she could -"

  WHAM. I punch him right in the face. Now, I'm a big girl. While I've never thrown a punch before, I put my whole body behind my fist, wind up like a baseball pitcher at the mound, and plaster his nose right across his face.

  Paul lets out a high-pitched yell and stumbles back, both hands going to his face. He drops his towel as he does so, and I see his erect dick go from being an outie to an innie. "My nose! You fucking bitch! You broke my nose!"

  "Paul?" The blonde girl appears at our bedroom door, a sheet wrapped around her body, eyes wide. "Hey! What the hell?"

  Tears are threatening to spill. But I'm not going to lose it here in our apartment. No, not ours. My apartment. Paul's been crashing here for so long I've almost forgotten that it's me who pays all the rent.

  I glare at him. "Grab your records and your dirty band shirts and your guitar and get the hell out of my apartment. If you're here when I get back, I'm calling the police. Got it?"

  I want to say more, really tear him apart, but I can't. My anger is evaporating under my pain. Paul lowers his bloody hands and glares venomously at me. "Fine. I'm gone. I was an idiot to think a fat bitch like you would be open minded and cool about anything other than cake."

  I see red. Something in my face makes Paul shrink back with a whimper and throw up his hands to protect his face again. But just as quickly, my anger gutters and dies, leaving me empty, desolate, and depressed. Seeing the man I thought I'd love forever cower naked with blood running down his chin makes all my dreams turn to ash.

  "Goodbye, Paul," I choke out, and then turn and walk out the door. Tears spill hot and heavy down my cheeks. How could he? How could he say such a thing? I love who I am. It's taken me years to gain the confidence I now have in my body, to love my curves and recognize my own beauty. But I'd told Paul in the quiet midnight hours about the teasing I used to suffer in high school. I'd shared the pain, the old insecurities. For him to say that, with such naked spite in his voice, makes me nauseated. How have I been so blind this past year with him? How did I fail to see what an asshole he is?

  Somehow I make it down to the lobby and out into the Manhattan street. Oh god. The world's spinning. I feel sick. First I learn that my grandma has died. Then I get fired. Now this. How can life go from perfect to train wreck in just an hour?

  I dig out my phone and do what I always do in times of crisis: I call my best friend, Maria.

  "Oh my god, chica." Maria's voice is full of laughter. "You can start thanking me now. Guess who just got us tickets to your favorite show?"

  "Maria?" My voice says it all.

  "Rach?" Her voice gets all serious and business-like. "What happened? What's wrong?"

  It's too much. I step out of the foot traffic to the side of a building and lean against it so that I won't fall over. "Everything. Everything's wrong."

  "Shit. It's Paul, isn't it? What did he do?" Saying Maria has never liked him is like saying vampires aren't particularly fond of sunlight. A surefire warning if ever there was one, but guess who ignored her best friend's warnings? Before I can answer, she cuts back in. "Grab a cab and meet me at my place. I'm going to tell my boss I'm sick and be home in ten. The spare keys are in the usual place."

  "OK." I wipe at my tears.

  "Hang in there, chica. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. You and me, got it?"

  "OK," I say again, but I don't believe her. What is there to figure out? My new and dismal future stretches out before me, filled with unemployment, a broken heart, and lots and lots of tubs of ice cream as I sit alone for the rest of my life watching reruns of my favorite shows.

  Still, fifteen minutes later I'm in Maria's living room, an amaretto sour in one hand, a box of tissues in the other. Maria is a gorgeous Latina, as curvy as I am and with even more sass. Her place is a tiny little apartment high in the East Village, small but bursting with color and her personality.

  "Start from the beginning," Maria says, sitting across from me. "Or shall we just skip to the part where I go cut off Paul's balls?"

  I laugh weakly and shake my head, then blow my nose noisily. "I don't even know where to begin."

  Maria pulls her gorgeous black hair back into a business-like ponytail. "Start at the beginning. Go until you reach the end. Then stop."

  I nod. "The beginning, then. I was at work when I got a phone call. From a
lawyer. A really nice man. He told me that Mama B had passed away."

  "Mama B?" Maria scrunches up her face. "Your grandma? From your mother's side?"

  I nod. "I haven't seen her since I was a kid." I sip the amaretto. "She and my mother had a falling out when I was really little. It's why we moved to New York. We weren't even allowed to call her or visit or anything. Mom tried to convince me Mama B was dangerous, but I never believed it. Even though I don't remember much about her, I know she was amazing. She had this big mansion just outside the cutest little town. Full of secret rooms and with this huge attic and..." I trail off. "I haven't even thought of Mama B in years. Haven't seen her since I was like six. But now she's gone. I always meant to go back, ever since Mom passed. Finally get to know her. But I never did. And now I never will."

  The tears spill again. I grab a tissue and blot at my eyes. Maria leans in and hugs me tight. "But I thought something happened with Paul?"

  I laugh bitterly. "Oh, chica, just wait. My day gets better. I go tell Marco that I want the rest of the day off, right? And he blows up at me and tells me I need to prioritize tonight's event that we're running at the hotel. So I tell him my grandma just passed, and you know what he says?" Maria shakes her head. "He says, 'Grandmas die all the time. That's what they do. Get over it, and get back to work.'"

  "No he didn't." Maria's eyes go wide with shock. "No way. He did not say that."

  "He did." I gulp my amaretto.

  "OK. Marco's balls? Added to the hit list. So what did you do?"

  "I quit. After shoving him into the ornamental fish pond in the lobby."

  Maria hoots. "You did that? Oh my god, good for you!"

  "Yeah." My smile dies. "Good for me, not for my career. He was yelling that I'll never work in another hotel in New York ever again. That's when I went home." The pain rises up within me again like a tornado of misery. "And caught Paul in our bed with another woman." I bury my face in my hands. "Just kill me now. I mean, what else could go wrong with my life?"

  Maria sets her glass down and squeezes my shoulder. "Oh, Rach. Hang in there. You'll see. Maybe this is all for the best."

  I pull back. "For the best?"

  Maria nods. "Yeah. Honey, Paul was no good for you. Dragging you to those awful shows, getting you to pay for everything, acting like he was doing you a favor by hanging out with you. You're so much better off without him. And that job at the hotel? You've been miserable there ever since you started. Maybe this is a chance to start fresh."

  I stare down at my hands. "Maybe." But I don't believe her. "I don't want to start fresh. I'm getting too old to start all over again."

  "Too old? Chica, you're barely past thirty!"

  "Thirty-three. And all alone. Nobody's ever going to love me for who I really am. The real me, not the me they want me to be." I stare down at my hands, feeling dejected and bitter. I normally love my curves and my unruly curly hair, and I've always believed that my somewhat bitchy personality was a must for NYC. But now I just feel tired. And frumpy. And unloved and old and ready to start becoming a full-time cat lady.

  Maria takes a deep breath, ready to chew my head off. Then there's a knock at the door. She looks over my shoulder and frowns. "Who the hell?"

  "Don't open it," I say, grabbing her arm. "With the luck I've been having today, it can only be bad news. Like a serial killer or something."

  "Tsch," says Maria in mock annoyance. "Don't be getting all superstitious on me. One second." She gets up and opens the door. A postman stands in the hallway, looking so confused I almost laugh.

  "Ms. Wilder?"

  That's my last name. Maria looks sharply at me, then back to the postman. "No, this is Maria Canteros's apartment."

  The man pulls off his cap and scratches his balding head while looking at an envelope in his hand. "Well, I got this letter addressed to Ms. Wilder. Though for the life of me I can't understand what I'm doing here. There's no address. Why aren't I down in the mail room?"

  "No address?" I step up next to Maria. "I'm Ms. Wilder."

  "Well, then, I guess this is for you?" He hands me the letter, and immediately looks relieved, as if a huge weight has dropped from his shoulders. It's large, the envelope rich and creamy. My name is written in elegant script across the front, the letters black and sharp and strangely old school. "Well, I'll be going," says the postman, and walks away.

  "Wait!" Maria looks from the departing man to me. "What the hell?"

  There's no address. No return address, either. I walk back to the couch. The letter seems familiar, but I can't place it.

  "How on earth did he know you were here?" Maria closes the door and sits back down, looking angry. She doesn't like things she can't understand.

  "I don't know," I say. The letter feels heavy. I'm not sure I want to know what it says. It seems like one of those letters that changes your life forever after you read it. No going back.

  "Well? You going to open it?" Maria scoots to the edge of her seat. "Or just stare at it all day long?"

  I tear open the rich envelope, and pull out a single sheet of paper. It's just as gorgeous and creamy as the envelope, and covered in an elegant script. My heart's racing. Where do I know that handwriting from?

  "'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 he
r 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.