Fairly Human

by Holly Fuhrmann

  "How can you not like my Chicken Creole? It's perfect,” she said as he set down the bowl and took a drink of water as if he had to clear the taste from his palate.

  Not that the man had a palette if he didn't like her chicken.

  It was perfect.

  It was exquisite.

  "It just isn't to my taste. And I didn't say I don't like it, I just said it's too spicy for me,” he said with a shrug of his well-sculpted shoulders. “I'm sure that some of our customers will eat it."

  Eat it.

  Not enjoy it.

  Not rave about it.

  Eat it.

  Eating made Fern think of biting, which made her think of a phrase she'd heard Joy's daughter, Sophie, use. Bite me.

  Bite me.

  She let the phrase rattled around in her head.

  Nico Starson could bite her.

  The man had no taste if he was criticizing her dish.

  "Anyway, I'm opening the doors soon. We've got some reservations, so I know we'll have some guinea pigs for you to try your chicken on."

  "And they'll love it,” she promised.

  "We'll see,” he said, shrugging again.

  She'd like to stick some weights on those shoulders. They were broad enough to put any number of weights to keep them down. Oh, some women might enjoy his broad-shouldered good looks, but not her. As a matter of fact, if he shrugged at her again, she'd ... she'd...

  She couldn't think of anything vile enough to do to the man. Oh, if she still had her fairy powers, she was sure she could think of something, but she didn't and she couldn't, and so she simply stomped her foot.

  If she was still a fairy, she'd have at least made a hefty thump. She'd given her older persona sturdy, thwamp-producing feet. But her real feet were tiny and slender and barely made a small thwap.

  She wished she had big, hefty feet to kick his shoulder shrugging, tasteless body.

  He was—

  "He liked it,” Puffy said in a soft, happy little voice.

  "Pardon?"

  "I said he liked it. Only the boss never comes out and says he likes something. He likes to believe he's ornery, but he's really not. And he really did like it. If he didn't he wouldn't let you serve it."

  "Oh, yes, he would. He'd just hope that all the customers sent it back and complained. He'd like to have a reason to fire me."

  "No, no. Les Magik is his baby. It's new. He's proud. No. He wouldn't let you serve it if he didn't like it. I know him. He wouldn't."

  "How well do you know him?” Fern asked.

  She'd almost finished out her first week at the restaurant and was still no closer to understanding her enigmatic boss.

  "Oh, I've known him for centuries. Since we was boys."

  Fern laughed. “Yes, I imagine if you've been around him that long it could feel like centuries."

  "He's here because of me. Because—” The blond man stopped short. “Never mind."

  "No, please, tell me,” Fern asked softly.

  Soft was the way to go around Puffy. He seemed to be a little out of sync with the rest of the world and startled easily. His speech was a little different, as if English wasn't his first language, but when she occasionally dropped a phrase in another language, he didn't respond. Puffy was almost as much of a mystery as his boss.

  Just a more likeable mystery.

  "My family...” He hesitated. “Well, they didn't know what to do with me, not since I was little. But then something happened and I had to leave home, leave for a long time. And I would be all alone. No home. No friends. No family. But Nico, he said, if I go, he goes. And he did. Just packed up his stuff and came with me. He started the restaurant, gave me a job, found me a house. He teaches me."

  "And yells at you,” Fern pointed out.

  "No, no, you don't understand. Yelling from Nico, well, that's just his way."

  "It's not a very nice way."

  "If you knew, you'd know. Nico is—"

  Whatever Nico was would have to wait until later because at the moment, the man in question opened the door and scowled. “Puffy, you're supposed to be waiting on tables. I just seated three. You're already behind."

  Puffy waved at Fern and dashed through the door.

  Nico studied her a moment, and then said, “Don't grill Puffy."

  "Pardon?"

  "If you want to ask me something, ask me, not him. He gets confused and frightened easily."

  Did Nico think she could have worked here more than a few hours without noticing that? She wasn't like him and didn't get her jollies by intimidating others. “Did he look confused or frightened?"

  "That's not the point."

  "What is the point?"

  "Leave him be.” Nico advanced and stood just inches away, looking down at her. Rather than his normal ear splitting decibels, his voice was soft as he added, “He's had it hard and doesn't need any more grief from you."

  Fern refused to let his height intimidate her. She stood as straight as possible, looked him in the eye and said, “The only one who's given that man grief is you."

  Nico's voice rose. “Me?"

  "That first day when I came in you were bellowing at him,” she reminded him.

  "Puffy knows I don't mean anything by it."

  "Maybe, or maybe not. But even if he does know, your words can still hurt him. He seems like a sensitive soul."

  "He is, which is why I'm saying don't grill him."

  "Fine. I'll come to you with my questions. But if I'm not grilling him, you have to promise not to bellow at him."

  "Like I said,” he said, his voice rising, “bellowing is what I do."

  "Not to Puffy. He doesn't like it."

  "He doesn't like it?"

  Fern would have testified in court—in front of Bernie—that the dishes were rattling with the intensity of Nico's voice.

  "I don't like it, either, to be honest. But if it makes you feel better, bellow at me to your heart's content. It doesn't intimidate me at all. But if Puffy's off limits to my grilling, he's off limits to your yelling."

  "Do you remember who the boss is here?” Nico asked.

  "Yes. Do you remember my rule about when I'm cooking?"

  "What rule?"

  She extended her hands, as if she was going to push him, but stopped short of actually touching him and simply made a shooing motion instead. “I like to cook in privacy. Out."

  "Are you kicking me out of my own kitchen, again?"

  "It appears that I am. When you scowl like that, you curdle the food. So go on, find something to do with your patrons."

  Since shooing didn't work, she gave him a gentle little push toward the door, opened it with her foot and guided him through it. “Oh, and Nico?"

  He was sputtering something, something she couldn't quite make out, and didn't want to make out.

  "I'm going to assume that long string of syllables was you asking what, so I'll tell you what. I have some experience in the restaurant business, and I can tell you bellowing isn't good for business. It tends to give people acid indigestion, and people with sour stomachs don't come back to eat. So I'd keep the hollering to a minimum out on the floor."

  "Fern,” he said.

  Just that. Her name. Nothing else. It was soft. Definitely not a bellow. But it was even more dangerous sounding.

  At least it would be dangerous sounding if Nico intimidated Fern, but he didn't, so she just laughed and said, “Yes, Nico?"

  "Don't push me."

  "Ah, but Nico, I've discovered that I do enjoy pushing you, almost as much as you enjoy bellowing."

  "I'll see you after the lunch crowd."

  "They'll love my Chicken Creole, you'll see."

  * * * *

  "Say it,” Fern prompted at three-thirty, after the lunch crowd had died down.

  Nico scowled. “No."

  "Come on, Nico, say it."

  "I'll say it,” Puffy said, a breathless quality to his voice. “Nico doesn't need to, I will. They loved your chicken. R
aved about it even. I had a bowl before it was all gone, and it was the best I ever had."

  "Thank you, Puffy. You're truly a gentleman.” Fern smiled at the small man, then turned to look at his boss, frowning as she added, “Unlike some people."

  "You're pushing again,” Nico said in a low voice.

  "Why, Nico, I haven't laid a hand on you.” She held up her hands, palms out, to emphasize the point.

  "You can lay a hand on me any time you like, lady, but you know what kind of pushing I'm talking about, and I don't like it."

  "What do you like?” she countered.

  "What?"

  "What do you like? Granted, I haven't even known you quite a week, but I've yet to find anything that you like. Even my chicken that everyone else raved about, you didn't like. So what is it you do like?"

  Nico was silent.

  After an awkward couple of seconds, Puffy said, “Oh, Nico likes many, many things. He picked here for the restaurant because he can see the water. Nico likes the water. His family likes the trees and forests, but not Nico. He likes the water. The waves. He says we'll get a boat soon and sail all over the water."

  "You like the lake?” Fern asked.

  Nico scowled at Puffy and said, “That's enough."

  "Oh, no,” the little man said, “there's more. He likes sunsets and women. Oh he likes women. Lots and lots of women. He likes to—"

  "Puffy,” Nico said, his voice sounding strained, “I think you should set the dining room up for dinner, okay?"

  "Sure thing, Boss,” Puffy said with a smile.

  The little man practically skipped out of the kitchen.

  "You didn't bellow at him,” Fern said, allowing Nico a smile.

  It was just a small smile, as not yelling once didn't deserve too many accolades. But it did deserve some acknowledgment, and a small smile was sufficient.

  "But you did push me,” Nico said. “I said if you have questions ask me."

  "I did. You didn't answer, so Puffy did. Water, sunsets and women. The last one I might have guessed, but the first two ... Well, they do show a depth of character I might not have anticipated."

  "I like trying new things, too,” Nico said softly as he advanced a step toward her.

  The dark, wild haired man hadn't intimidated Fern before, as he ranted and raved, but suddenly, his voice, all low and almost seductive ... Well she was more than slightly intimidated.

  "Why, that's nice. So do I,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage.

  "That's good because there's something new I've been dying to try, but it requires you to try something new as well."

  "What's that?” she asked, though forcing the words out took effort. A lot of effort.

  Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her palms were wet. She felt breathless and her heart was racing.

  She hadn't been human for long, but she didn't think any of those symptoms were good. Maybe she had a disease? That would be just like Bernie to make her human and give her some horrible mouth-drying, hand-wetting disease.

  Speaking of horrible, Nico had eased his way right in front of her. So close that if she leaned even a hand's span forward, she'd touch him.

  He was huge. A giant of a man. She hadn't fully appreciated that before. Oh, she'd noticed it, but now? Here? With him right in front of her, she not only appreciated but she also felt a bit apprehensive.

  "Fern?” he asked.

  There was no bellowing this time. As a matter of fact, his voice was just the barest of whispers. Soft. Seductive, even.

  "Yes?” she asked, surprised by how soft her own voice was.

  "Are you ready to try something new?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like this..."

  If someone had asked her what Nico had in mind, Fern wouldn't have had a clue, but in her wildest imaginations, his lips meeting hers wasn't even a glimmer of a thought.

  He leaned down, and his lips, firm yet gentle, grazed hers. A taunting, tantalizing introduction. He pulled back and studied her for a moment.

  Fern wondered what he saw as his dark eyes locked with hers. She felt captured by his gaze. And the longer they stood, locked, the shorter her breath became. She felt as if she'd been dancing the cancan for hours, as she practically panted, trying to draw in enough air to keep breathing.

  Then she noticed that his eyes, which were such a dark brown they almost looked black, had tiny green flecks in them. So tiny in fact, that she doubted many people had ever noticed the green, but it was there.

  It was a secret discovery that was all her own.

  "Fern?” he said, breaking the silence.

  He didn't need to say more. She knew what he was asking, and she gave a small nod.

  This time his lips pressed to hers with a sense of urgency, a sense of raw, hot hunger. He didn't merely kiss her, he devoured her. And she clung to him, needing the support because she seemed to have lost all power in her legs.

  With amazing gentleness, he parted her lips and continued the kiss, only deeper and more intimately.

  Fern wasn't just clinging to him any longer, she was pressing against him, wanting, no needing, to be closer to him, to be a part of him, to—

  Suddenly, he pulled back, breaking their connection.

  "Don't do that again,” he said.

  "Me? You don't want me to kiss you again?” She wished again for bigger feet, nice big hefty feet that could kick the arrogant man right in the butt. “You kissed me."

  "Well, you let me, and you shouldn't have. Don't let it happen again."

  "Like I'd want to kiss you again. Ha! I'd rather kiss a toad. Any toad would have more of a chance of becoming a prince than you. You're totally prince-proof."

  "I'm sure you'd make a good match with whichever toad you choose. Just leave me totally out of the picture."

  "Oh, you're so out that...” She couldn't think of anything particularly brilliant to say, so she simply said, “Get out of here, I've got work to do."

  Nico didn't say another word. He just turned and left without an argument.

  Fern watched him go and wished he'd fought. Because if he'd fought she could have fought back. And she was angry enough that she knew he didn't stand a chance. She'd have won hands down.

  "Men,” she muttered as she turned back to the counter. She needed to finish her marinade for tomorrow.

  Men.

  She'd never realized how hard her goddaughters had had it.

  Men were totally incompressible, fickle, annoying creatures that no woman—human or fairy—should have to deal with.

  Ever.

  Well, Nico Starson didn't have to worry. She wouldn't let him kiss her again even if it turned out he was a prince instead of a toad.

  She'd prefer the toad.

  Chapter Seven

  Myrtle

  It was Sunday morning. Myrtle had been a human for seven full days and was starting on her eighth.

  Eight days, she thought as she walked through the quiet city. Sunday mornings were obviously the quiet time in downtown Erie. Hardly any cars were on the road. The businesses were mainly closed. Normally, Myrtle might enjoy the solitude.

  But it seemed she'd had way too much solitude lately.

  Eight days worth.

  Eight days and still she'd found nothing useful to fill up her time.

  Fern was bubbling over with enthusiasm about her new job, going through cookbooks, pulling out old recipes to use. She practically radiated satisfaction all week long. She was off today and sleeping late.

  Myrtle wished she could sleep. She tossed and turned every night worrying about Fern and Blossom.

  And Blossom?

  Blossom left every day at varying times to go do who knew what.

  Oh, Fiona knew, but she wasn't telling.

  When Myrtle asked—and she'd asked numerous times—all Fiona would say was, “She'll tell you in her own time. But she's okay, Myrtle. She's doing fine. You don't have to worry."

  Don't have to worry?

  Why o
f course she had to worry.

  She'd spent centuries worrying about her sisters, worrying about godchildren. Worry about ... Well, just worrying.

  She was good at worrying.

  As good at worrying as Fern was at cooking.

  Everyone encouraged Fern to cook, but no one was encouraging Myrtle to worry. No. Don't worry, they said.

  "Well, worrying is what I do,” she muttered.

  "Oh, Myrtle, I'm sorry this is so hard on you,” Fiona said.

  Myrtle wasn't surprised to see Fiona. If she wasn't flittering about, then Joy or Grace or Glory was. Yes, the four of them were always underfoot. But her own sisters? They didn't flitter around at all.

  The flittered away.

  "Myrtle,” Fiona said sadly.

  "Don't go snooping in my mind. I won't have it. You may be my fairy godmother, but you're making a muck of it, because I'm not happy. Not happy at all. Maybe I should sue you this time?"

  "Would that make you happy?” Fiona asked softly.

  Myrtle sighed. “No. Getting back to myself. Being a fairy again. A fairy godmother again. Having a case, having my sisters at my side, and finding a couple their happily-ever-after, that would make me happy."

  "But things have changed."

  "Only for six months. After that, why Fern will forget about her cooking, Blossom will forget about doing whatever it is she's doing, and we'll all go back to living our lives as fairy godmothers. We'll be happy again."

  We'll be happy. That's what she said, but Myrtle was honest enough with herself to realize she meant, I'll be happy.

  She needed to be needed.

  And right now, she wasn't.

  "Myrtle, what if things don't go back to the way they were?” Fiona asked gently.

  Myrtle didn't say anything, didn't want to acknowledge that this was her secret fear. That maybe, just maybe, Fern and Blossom would learn to like being on their own. Maybe they'd realize that they didn't need her.

  She'd be useless and obsolete forever, rather than temporarily.

  "Myrtle?” Fiona prompted.

  "That won't happen. Blossom and Fern will come to their senses and realize that no matter what they're doing now, there's nothing that can fulfill them like godmothering can."

  "And in the meantime? Until you're all fairies again, what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. It's been a week, and I still don't know."