Wounded Wings (Cupid Chronicles)

by Allen, Shauna

Ever discerning, Beau cut to the chase. “What did the bastard do? Do I need to string him up by the balls?”

  They paused as the crowd inside tittered.

  “Must be Mr.—Uh, Ben,” Naomi said.

  “Ben?” Delaney asked.

  “The magazine guy,” Naomi clarified.

  “Right. I know. But since when is he ‘Ben?’”

  “Since he came by the bakery and, uh, flirted a little.”

  Elijah paused. The magazine man flirted with Naomi?

  Mine.

  He shoved away the automatic, uncomfortable thought. Maybe it was for the best if she found someone else. Someone she had something in common with. Someone who could love her like she deserved.

  “Well, so what? He wasn’t the one with his hands on your ass and his tongue down your throat less than an hour ago,” Beau tossed out in his no-nonsense way.

  “Yeah. I know,” Naomi said, tears now definitely in her voice.

  Silence reigned for several painful heartbeats. Elijah wished someone would say something. Anything.

  “What did the fucker do?” Beau asked again, anger tinging his words this time.

  “Nothing. Not if you don’t count making me fall for him.” She sucked in a breath as Elijah’s world collapsed around his feet. “Hard.”

  Chapter 26

  “Have you seen Elijah?”

  Michael’s head popped up from beneath the table he was putting together, and he tried to act like he hadn’t been worrying about the exact same thing. He smiled reassuringly at Sharla. “No, ma’am, I sure haven’t. But I’m sure he’ll be along any time now. He promised he’d be here.”

  Her brow crinkled in a frown. “But he should’ve been here hours ago to start the pies for the sale, not to mention the chili. I’m starting to get worried.”

  Michael raised to his full height and dropped the hammer into the toolbox at his feet. “He wasn’t at home?”

  She shook her head, but her hairdo remained steady, thanks to all her hairspray. “No. He didn’t come home last night after the dance.”

  Panic flared to life in Michael’s gut. Had Elijah run away? Could he have failed so miserably? Oh, Father . . .

  He sought Jophiel’s gaze, but the big angel was busy unstacking metal chairs across the room and paid him no mind. He glanced back to Sharla, unsure how to help her. He couldn’t summon Elijah, and he definitely couldn’t cook. That wasn’t one of his angelic gifts.

  But he did have one gift he could use.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miz Sharla.” He pressed past her and made for the relative privacy of his car. To pray.

  Naomi surveyed the area. The benefit for Emma was going wonderfully. Better than anyone could’ve imagined. The generosity of the New Destiny community was overwhelming and Maura and Emma were obviously well loved.

  Naomi knew she should be happy.

  Then why did she feel like she’d been chewed up by a food processor and spit out?

  His absence made it obvious. Eli was avoiding her.

  Well, she’d had it with his on-again-off-again, hot-cold, you’re a sin, no, you’re not, bullshit. She was done with Eli Smith.

  He could take his sexy Calvin Klein, perfect baking, I’m-too-pretty-for-my-own-good ass and stuff it. If he didn’t want her, she could, and would, find someone who did.

  She smiled and nodded once, satisfied with her decision. Screw him.

  At that moment, Sharla rushed up to her. “Have you seen Eli?”

  The satisfied smile slid off her face. Grrr. “No. Why?” She glanced at her watch. He was late.

  Sharla’s face was pink with exertion, matching her velour track suit. “I can’t find him anywhere, and I’m starting to worry. He never came home last night after the dance and he hasn’t prepared any of the desserts for today.” She bit her thumbnail anxiously. “Or the chili for the Frito pie.”

  Naomi’s mind automatically ran through her conversations with Eli about the benefit and the delegation of duties. They were splitting the pies for the pie toss and the bake sale table. He was going to show up early with them to cook the chili, then be prepared to get in the dunk tank when it was his turn.

  Now it looked like he was reneging on all of his promises.

  And how had Sharla caught all this and not her? She was supposed to be handling the benefit. But she’d been too caught up in her stupid emotional issues with him to actually focus. Darn it.

  She smiled at Sharla. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it.” At her disbelieving stare, Naomi patted her arm. “Don’t worry. If I have to, I’ll clear out our cases for the sale. Plus I can throw together some more goodies in no time. As for the chili . . . you think you can call Raul?”

  “Sure. He might be able—”

  “No need.”

  The masculine voice caused Naomi’s heart to leap into her throat. Simultaneously she and Sharla spun around. Naomi stood frozen in place.

  Sharla cocked her hip, obviously pissed. “Where have you been, young man? You’ve had me worried sick.”

  Eli didn’t even have the decency to look sorry. His gaze flicked to Naomi, then back to Sharla. “I had . . . things to attend to.” He cut a sidelong glance, stopping Sharla’s protest before it came out of her mouth. “Personal things.”

  “B-b-but . . .” Sharla sputtered, obviously stunned by this side of Eli.

  Who knew he could be so . . . harsh?

  Though Naomi’s eyes bore into his, he refused to meet her stare. “I apologize for being late. I’ll get started on the chili now.” He pivoted toward the large pots that they’d set up for cooking. He took a few steps and paused before turning back. Now he did meet her gaze, his dark eyes troubled. “I won’t have time to make any of the pies today. You’ll have to take care of that.” He spun away without another word.

  What the hell?

  Naomi flicked a glance to Sharla and shrugged. She’d been right . . . screw him. With absolutely no time to waste, she moved toward the exit. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back with all the pies in no time.”

  She called Vi on the way back, and made it to the bakery in less than ten minutes. She rushed inside, thankful that Vi met her at the door.

  “What’s the emergency?”

  Naomi blew the hair from her eyes. “Eli left me high and dry and I have to come up with all the pies for the benefit. Now.”

  Vi stuttered behind her as Naomi rushed past her and into the back. “All of them?”

  “Yes. But I don’t need you to do much. I—” She yanked open the walk-in freezer door and froze in her tracks, stupefied. “What the heck?”

  Vi shuffled up behind her, her pace slower now that she’d gotten home from the hospital. “What?” She peered over Naomi’s shoulder. “Oh . . .”

  Both of them stared in awe at the neat stack of perfectly baked pie crusts. Easily enough to do what they needed today. And then some.

  Naomi couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “Did . . . did you do this?”

  “No. How could I? I had no idea.”

  “But . . .” Whatever. There wasn’t time to dissect their good fortune. She yanked out a stack of the crusts so they could get to work and spun toward the back table. She glanced at Vi’s face. She seemed rested today. “How are you feeling?”

  Vi waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Now what do you need?”

  “Can you mix up a couple dozen banana creams for the pie toss while I grab what we have in the case and get started on some chocolate mousse and lemon meringue for the sale?”

  “I could do that in my sleep, girl.” Vi winked and started pulling out the cold ingredients and the mixer.

  Thank God! They might actually get it all done and back to the festival in a reasonable amount of time. Thanks to their pie c
rust fairy.

  Chapter 27

  Just add breaking and entering to his list of sins. And baking.

  If you’d told Elijah six months ago that he’d love another woman enough to learn how to pick a lock—thank you, Internet—break into her business, bake six dozen pie crusts in an all-night cooking binge, then turn around and cook chili in the Arizona heat, he’d have said you were flat insane.

  Wait. Who said anything about love?

  What Elijah had felt for Sarah was love. He was perhaps teetering with Naomi. Maybe. But he definitely cared a great deal for her. Wanted the best for her. Because it was ingrained in his ex-angelic heart. And the fact that he knew her feelings only made him want to help her more.

  Maybe he was the psychotic one. One step away from a padded cell.

  He slowly stirred the bubbling pot of chili, its savory scent wafting up. His mouth watered, reminding him he’s skipped breakfast. As his stomach grumbled, he found himself craving one of Naomi’s cinnamon breakfast rolls. His gaze snapped up as realization dawned. Probably a million times in the past months as he settled into his human vessel, he’d longed for the comforts of his Heavenly home, rebelling against the constraints and discomforts of earth and this body. He’d grieved.

  And now . . . yes, he still grieved . . . he could still taste the beauty of his home like the most potent sunrise awakening his soul. And yet, something was settling deep within him. Acceptance, perhaps. He’d had glimpses of peace as he found joy with Dog and Emma’s smile and easy acceptance in whatever her fate. Even the matches he’d helped orchestrate, albeit reluctantly. He’d done some good things. Hadn’t he?

  He drew in a breath.

  Could Father ever forgive him? Could he forgive himself?

  “Smells great over here.”

  He spun around at the unfamiliar man’s voice.

  The blond man in jeans and some kind of rock band T-shirt smiled at him. “Hey.” He held out a hand. “I’m Ben Simon from the Arizona Country Times. I hear you’re quite the chef.”

  Elijah eyed him then accepted his hand. So this was the guy flirting with Naomi? “Eli Smith.”

  “Nice to meet you.” His eyes roamed the chili fixin’s. “So, I hear you were a chef at Le Gavroche in New York?”

  Elijah nodded. “I was.” Strangely, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Mr. Simon smiled again, though it seemed a bit condescending now. “Fantastic place. I did a review when I worked for a magazine up north. Best duck a l’Orange I’ve ever had. Maybe you were there when I was? Back in ’95?”

  “Nope. Don’t think so.” Where was he going with this?

  “Ah. Oh, well.” He glanced around again. “I hear we’re also going to have a fantastic dessert sale today?”

  Elijah tucked his hands in his pockets. He really didn’t like this guy very much. Either his attitude, or because he’d flirted with Naomi. He didn’t know for sure. “We are. But Vi’s Sweet Spot is providing all those, so you won’t be disappointed.”

  The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean you’re not baking any French pastries at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too bad. I was really looking forward to that.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry.” He was not about to get in the way of Naomi and her dreams for the bakery. Not today. He could make it up to Sharla some other way. But today . . . this was Naomi’s day. “I don’t think anything I would prepare could hold a candle to what Vi and Naomi will have for you.” He smiled. “You’ll see.”

  Mr. Simon didn’t seem convinced. “I’m sure. Their brownies were certainly delicious.” He stepped back with a half-shrug. “But . . . nothing beats a good clofouti or crème brulee.”

  And that’s precisely why Elijah had made sure there were no sweets left in the diner to be had unless they had come from Vi’s.

  What he had to do became crystal clear to him right after the dance. Right after he’d heard Naomi confess her feelings to her friends. Right after he’d had to shut down his own heart. He realized he might not be able to give her what she needed and deserved, but he could help her achieve her dreams before moving on. And he knew she wanted to make the bakery a success. So he’d eliminated the competition—even if it was himself—and given her the tools in the award-winning, flaky crust he’d perfected in New York. He only hoped she realized he wasn’t trying to be condescending. He knew she and Vi were perfectly capable on their own. But they were all in a position where time was of the essence, and Mr. Ben Simon was watching—and tasting.

  Elijah smiled tightly at the magazine man and apologized again. “Sorry, Mr. Simon. Maybe we can arrange some soufflés or something next time. But because of the benefit I’m pretty tied up with chili-duty.”

  “Ah, well, I understand. Maybe next time.” He backed away. “See ya around.”

  “Enjoy the festival.”

  Mr. Simon nodded and strode away.

  Probably to find Naomi, Elijah thought snidely. Then he caught himself and got back to his duties. It didn’t matter what they did. It wasn’t his business.

  Eventually, he had a huge batch of simmering, savory chili going, its fragrance filling the air nicely. He smiled. It might not be one of his more elegant dishes, but there was some satisfaction in creating a hearty meal. He hoped Naomi was having luck with her pies and his work on the crusts was helpful. He glanced at his watch. She’d been gone over three hours now. The bake sale would be gearing up soon. He wondered if he should call and offer help.

  A car door slamming in the back lot caught his attention and he glanced to the left. He bit back a grin. He’d worried for nothing. Atta girl.

  Naomi brushed her long, blond ponytail off her shoulder haphazardly then popped open the hatch while Vi came around the back, and both women loaded their arms with pies and started toward the food tent. She’d done it.

  He set down his spoon, set the chili on ‘low’ to keep it warm, then rushed out as she came back for her second load.

  She eyed him with her cool, green gaze, but didn’t say a word as she picked up a second armful. He did likewise and followed her inside, where they passed Vi on her way out.

  “Well, hey, good-lookin’.” Vi smiled at him.

  “Mornin’, ma’am.”

  “What happened to you that we had to do all this hard work by ourselves?” She shot him a playfully sharp glare.

  He swallowed. Nothing like trying to keep your cool under the wizened eyes of an elder. Earth or Heaven. “Well, ma’am, I ran into a personal issue I had to take care of. I’m sorry.”

  She studied his face a moment and he pasted on his most contrite expression. He’d done it for them, after all. “Okay. Then you won’t mind carrying in the rest of our hard work, will you?”

  He smiled. “No, ma’am.”

  He moved as quickly as he could and lugged in the rest of their pies—they looked and smelled fantastic . . . he was so proud—then he stood waiting for Naomi to acknowledge him. She didn’t. She just kept setting out the pies neatly, labeling and pricing them, and setting aside the ones for the pie toss.

  He finally cleared his throat. “Naomi?”

  “Yes?”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.” She kept her back rigid, continuing to ignore him other than her one-word replies.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Why would there be?”

  He paused, glanced at Vi, who had wandered over to chat with another vendor, then swung his gaze back to Naomi. “I don’t know. Because you’re acting like you’re angry with me.”

  Now she did look at him. Well, pierced him with green daggers, was more like it. “Now what could I possibly have to be angry about, Eli? Hmm?”

  His mind pulsed with possibilities, but nothing fit. He’d done e
verything he could to help her, protect her. She had nothing to be mad about. He’d not done anything to hurt her . . . not any more than he’d hurt himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  She tilted her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just go.”

  He studied her back as she spun around to continue organizing her desserts trying to decide what she meant by ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ He opened his mouth to ask her, but she beat him to it.

  “Don’t you have to get to the dunking booth about now?”

  He snapped his mouth closed. He’d totally forgotten about that. And he regretted committing to it with every fiber of his being, but it was too late to back out now.

  “Naomi,” he pleaded.

  “I said, Never mind.” She glanced at him again, giving him just a peek at the pain shimmering in her eyes. “Go.”

  He finally nodded, respecting her wishes, then spun away. What more could he say?

  He checked on his chili again, making sure Sharla would keep an eye on it, then headed over to the dreaded dunking booth with a heavy heart and leaden feet.

  Mr. Boyles, an old Shriner, was running the booth, and sat perched on a stool with his bright red fez. He glanced at Elijah with watery, nearly colorless eyes, and his lined face split into a smile showing unnaturally white false teeth. “Well, howdy, Chef Eli. It’s mighty fine to see you, my friend.”

  Elijah’s first thought, for some crazy reason, was of Mr. Boyles’ regular order—eggs over easy, a side of plain yogurt, fruit, and oatmeal. Morning, noon, or night.

  “So, you’re up after the Mayor, huh?” Mr. Boyles cackled.

  Elijah glanced over at the Mayor hovering just above the small tank of water, his feet swinging wildly, grinning like a fool. A young girl stood about ten feet away with a ball in her hand, poised and ready to toss it at the target and send the man into the water below.

  She threw and missed widely. But her father grabbed her next ball and hit the target with a resounding smack and the good Mayor plunged into the water. He came up sputtering with a grin.