Fairly Human

by Holly Fuhrmann

She fell into the magic of creating food. Pretty soon she was laughing with Puffy, joking and carrying on as if Nico Starson hadn't kissed her, as if he didn't even exist.

  But his nonexistence was too good to be true, she thought as he walked in and shot her a glare.

  As if he was put out.

  As if he was the injured party.

  Fern pasted a smile on her face.

  "Well, good morning to you, too,” she said in her brightest, most chipper voice.

  Nico grunted his response as he walked past her toward the coffee maker.

  "Where's my coffee?” he asked. His tone was brisk and hard.

  "I suppose you'll have to make some,” Fern said, the smile still pasted on and feeling a bit brittle.

  "I don't want to make it. I want you to make it.” He walked up to her and peered down at her from his higher vantage point. “Let's clear up a little misconception of yours. I'm the boss, you're the employee. And as your boss, I'm telling you to make some coffee for me."

  "Well, I'm busy making a new dessert, so looks like you're on your own."

  "I'll make it,” Puffy offered, his soft voice sounding nervous.

  "No, I need you to whip those egg whites. Nico is more than capable of making his own coffee. Aren't you, Nico? Goodness knows there must be hundreds of things you're capable of, and I suspect coffee making falls into that category."

  His expression was dark, as dark as his tone as he said, “Fern, I'm warning you. You don't want to start with me today."

  "Oh, you're warning me. Well, I'm practically quaking in my shoes,” she said, uncharacteristic sarcasm dripping from her words. Who did he think he was, ordering her around like that?

  "Fine, whatever,” he grunted and headed toward the refrigerator where Fern kept the coffee.

  She knew she should just let it go. He'd capitulated. She'd won this round. But rather than accepting her small victory quietly, Fern continued to goad him. “Hm, what other things is Nico capable of?” she mused as she whipped some cream. “Making an ass of himself. Yep, that falls into your list quite nicely, Nico."

  His back was towards her as he measured coffee into the filter. But she didn't need to see his expression, she could hear his annoyance in her name, “Fern."

  Not just annoyance. Maybe a warning as well.

  "Yes, Nico?” she asked sweetly.

  "Don't push me. At least not until I've had my first cup of coffee."

  "Why, Nico, I would never dream of pushing you. Why, someone with your world-renowned temper just might go into a tizzy, if I pushed you too far, and burst a blood vessel or something. I'd hate to have something like that on my conscience."

  "Puffy, go set the tables,” Nico practically bellowed.

  "But I—"

  Nico turned around and faced the small man. “Go."

  Puffy scrambled out of the kitchen.

  The traitor.

  Running from the soon-to-be-battle. Fern wasn't quite sure what she and Nico were fighting about, but she was sure they were fighting. She may have won the coffee battle, but she hadn't won the war.

  Nico advanced.

  Fern felt an overwhelming urge to take a step backward, but she held her ground.

  "Now, you had something you wanted to say?” he asked softly.

  She would have preferred that he bellow. Somehow his practically whispered words were much more intimidating than a good yell.

  "Not particularly,” she said, trying to appear unintimidated. “But it appears you might have something you want to say."

  "No,” was his monosyllabic response.

  "Well, then we're both fine, right?” she said, even though she felt anything but fine.

  She felt nervous. Not that she feared Nico would ever do anything to hurt her. No, her fear came from an entirely different direction. It came from the fact she was staring at his lips and wondering just what he'd do if she kissed him right now. Just took a small step forward, stretched up and placed her lips on his.

  As if he could read her mind he said, “I'm totally fine as long as you keep your distance."

  "Me?” Fern said. “Me? You're going to blame last week on me?"

  "Ha! I knew you were upset about kissing me. Believe me, I was upset, too. It's not just employees who can be sexually harassed, its employers. And I think your kissing me could be construed as a form of harassment."

  "You're blaming me? You kissed me. I most certainly did not kiss you."

  He had kissed her.

  She hadn't kissed him.

  She might not be sure of any number of things, but of that she was positive.

  "But you didn't fight me off,” he said. “You should have pushed me away."

  "You're right, I should have pushed you away. More than that I should have fought you off. I would have, if I'd had anything handy to fight you off with.” She pictured giant tanks chasing this maddening man down and smooshing him.

  Smooshed Nico.

  She liked the mental image.

  "So, you're saying if I was to kiss you again, you wouldn't allow it?” he asked, his voice was even softer than before. Almost a purr. Not a kitten's purr, but a great big tiger's purr. Deep, rumbling and dangerous.

  "Are you kidding? If you try to kiss me again I'll.... I'll..."

  "You'll what?” he asked.

  She pivoted, grabbed the bowl of whipped cream off the counter, and took a spoonful and tossed it at Nico. It landed with a satisfying splat on his shirt. “That's what I'd do.

  He stared at the whipped cream that sort of oozed down his shirt.

  "You just threw food at me,” he said incredulously and took a half a step toward her rather than away from her.

  "Yes, I did. And I'll throw more than whipped cream at you if you try to kiss me again."

  Nico turned around, and Fern thought he was going to walk out of the kitchen. Instead, he walked to the counter and took a bowl of meringue, then moved back toward her.

  "You wouldn't,” she said, staring at the bowl.

  "Oh, wouldn't I?"

  "Nico, don't you dare."

  "You started this. And it would be wise of you to remember not to start something you can't finish. That goes for both kissing and food fights."

  "You started the kissing,” she pointed out, taking a step backward in retreat.

  "But you certainly participated. So when you start a food fight, it's only fair I participate as well."

  There was some logic in his statement, not that she was going to admit it to him. No, she wasn't admitting anything. If she started telling him her secrets, she'd have to tell him that she'd almost liked the kiss. And hadn't liked that she'd liked it.

  "Well, you're wearing the whipped cream, don't you think that's enough participation?” she asked, watching the white foam ooze down his chest.

  "No."

  "But—"

  THWACK.

  A huge glob of meringue stuck to her hair.

  She reached up and scooped off the worst of it and said, “Nico, you know, what this means..."

  "What?” he asked, looking as if he might laugh.

  Nico laughing? The thought was absurd. No way would Mister Bossy-and-Controlling see the humor in a food fight.

  "What?” he asked again.

  "This means war."

  Fern took cover behind a counter and lobbed the handful of meringue she's scooped out of her hair at him, and followed it immediately with another spoonful of whipped cream. Nico countered with another bunch of meringue.

  The fight was on.

  Fern was laughing as she took a direct hit to the head. And she heard something ... something foreign. Something that sounded distinctly as if Nico was laughing, too.

  She peeked from her hiding place and caught a glimpse of his face.

  Sure enough he was laughing.

  She lobbed a spoonful of cream at him and took another hit.

  But as she ducked back down, she knew the mess was worth it. For some strange reason seeing Nico no
t just smile, but out and out laugh ... Well, it was worth a lot more than the inconvenience of being covered with meringue.

  "Do you want to call a truce?” he finally hollered.

  "I do if you do,” she countered.

  "If I were to call truce it wouldn't be that I was admitting defeat, it would just mean I'm the boss and realize we don't have time for this. We have a lunch to prepare."

  "I agree,” Fern said, looking at her shambled kitchen. She didn't just have a lunch to prepare, but a kitchen to clean as well.

  "Fine then, truce.” He stood and set the bowl on the food splattered counter.

  Fern stood as well. She noted there was still a smile playing on Nico's lips.

  "You know what this means, don't you?” she asked.

  "What?” His voice was soft again, but not with anger. No it was something else all together that made him speak in such a hushed tone. Something that was even more dangerous than his anger.

  Something that sounded very much like desire.

  Fern moved closer. “A truce requires that we offer up a gesture of peace."

  "What do you suggest?” he asked, closing the remaining space that separated them.

  "Well, there's one age-old custom,” she said, unwilling to be the one to say it, to initiate it.

  "A handshake?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "This?"

  His lips met hers. They tasted sweet, and Fern suspected it didn't have a thing to do with the whipped cream and meringue they'd been tossing about. As she pressed her body to his, there was a warm feeling of rightness that encompassed her. She hungered for his touch, for more, for it to never end. Her lips felt as if they'd always been a part of his, as if she knew his every curve, every inch of his flesh.

  She wanted more. Wanted the kiss to go on forever.

  And suddenly, it was over.

  Nico stepped back and glowered at her. “I've got to go. And you'd better figure out what you're serving for a dessert today. It appears whatever you planned is being worn."

  He turned and left the kitchen.

  Fern looked at the mess and realized the kitchen was the least of her worries.

  What was happening between her and Nico? That was the biggest question at the moment.

  What was she going to do about Nico Starson?

  Chapter Ten

  Myrtle

  Two weeks.

  They'd been human for more than two weeks. Sixteen days actually, but who was counting?

  Myrtle was.

  She resisted the urge to sigh. If she sighed Fiona might sense it and come see her, come to see what was wrong.

  What was wrong?

  That was a laugh.

  If Fiona asked, Myrtle would have to confess that everything was wrong.

  For centuries she'd thought she was important, that her sisters needed her. Now, in just sixteen days she'd learned the awful truth. They didn't need her nearly as much as she needed them.

  They both were getting on with their lives.

  Blossom still went, wherever it was she went, doing whatever it was she was doing. She was still holding onto that particular secret.

  And Fern?

  Well, she was working at the restaurant. And though she claimed she loved it, there was something bothering her. It didn't take fairy magic to sense it. She was holding something back. Why, she wouldn't even let Myrtle and Blossom or any of the Aaronsons come to eat at Les Magik. She insisted she wanted to settle in and perfect her craft before she had family and friends come.

  Myrtle kicked a stone down the park's sidewalk. It bounced a few cement squares ahead of her.

  She'd like to kick Bernie, that's who she'd like to kick. This was all his fault. If he hadn't been so mean and so vindictive she would still be a fairy, working her magic on humans, helping them find their happily-ever-afters. As it stood right now, she hadn't made any human happy in weeks, and she sure wasn't happy herself.

  She reached the rock and kicked it again, her foot made a satisfying thwack noise against it and it flew forward and landed in a bush.

  "Ow."

  Now, bushes could occasionally talk in Fairyland, but as a rule they were silent in the human world.

  Curious, Myrtle pushed aside the small branches and peered into the bush.

  A small grubby face smiled at her.

  "Aw, you found me."

  Brilliant blues eyes, inky black hair, and dirt stained cheeks. The small boy was a mess. He smiled and she noticed two front teeth were missing.

  "Sorry. I didn't realize someone was hiding in here. I only found you because you said ow. I wouldn't have kicked the rock in the bush if I'd known you were here. Did I hurt you?"

  "Nah. I'm tough."

  Myrtle smiled, despite her rather dark mood.

  She realized she hadn't smiled much since becoming human.

  It felt good.

  "I can see you're tough,” she said as she sank down, eye-level with the small face. “But did I hurt you?"

  "The rock bounced off my shin. But it's okay."

  The branches rustled, making her think he was rubbing the injured area.

  "Why don't you come out and let me take a look."

  "Okay."

  Myrtle backed up, and the bush rattled as a small figure emerged. The boy wore dirty jeans and a ripped t-shirt. He thrust out a muck-covered hand. “I'm Zak."

  Despite the fact his hands were as dirty as the rest of his small person, Myrtle took his hand with no hesitation and shook it. “I'm Myrtle."

  "Dad says I should call old ladies Miss and their last names. So what's your last name?"

  She shrugged. “I don't have a last name."

  "Everyone has a last name."

  She hadn't given it any thought, but the boy was right, humans did have last names. She was simply Myrtle. One name that encompassed her identity. Actually, for a very long time she'd been simply a part of Myrtle, Fern and Blossom, a fairy trio. Now she was just Myrtle. No last name, no trio.

  After the other night, she didn't doubt that her sisters still loved her, but she did doubt that their trio was going to exist again soon, even once they were back to being fairies.

  The boy was looking at her, waiting for a last name, she realized. So she smiled and shrugged again. “No last name for me."

  "I'm Zak Martinelli,” he said, as if to emphasize that everyone had a last name.

  "Well, Zak Martinelli, I'm just plain old Myrtle. Sorry to disappoint you."

  "Then I'll just call you Miss Myrtle,” he said, obviously having resolved the conflict in his mind.

  "That's fine,” she said, wishing all her problems were so easy to work out. “Why don't you show me your shin."

  He pulled up his pant leg and looked along with her. “See, it's just a little red."

  She ran her finger lightly along the mark, but it didn't feel swollen. “I don't think it will even bruise, but I'm sorry that I hit you."

  "It's okay. I'm tough, remember?"

  She grinned. “How could I forget. Do you live around here?"

  Suddenly the boy looked suspicious. “Why?"

  "I just thought I better explain and apologize to your parents."

  The boy's face shut down and was as blank as his voice as he said, “I don't got parents."

  "Everyone has parents."

  He shook his head. “No. You don't got a last name, I don't got parents."

  "You just told me your dad said to call old people Miss."

  She wasn't going to point out that she found the word old amusing. After so many years of looking old, this body looked young. Much younger than she felt.

  He didn't reply to her logic.

  "Zak, are you in trouble?” she asked.

  He shook his head, but he didn't look convinced.

  She led him toward a bench. He followed docilely and sat next to her. She studied his small face. “Want to tell me what's the matter."

  He shook his head, but before she could
prod and try to persuade him he said in a rush, “I ran away from home."

  "Oh, that's a serious thing, running away from home."

  She remembered when Sophie ran away, how scared Joy and Gabriel had been. Well, Sophie hadn't exactly run away, she'd run back to a place where the three of them had been happy.

  Maybe Zak was trying to do something similar.

  "That's why I was hiding,” he said. “I didn't want my dad to find me."

  "Why don't you tell me why you're hiding from someone who obviously cares enough to come looking for you."

  The boy folded his arms across his chest and looked angry as he said, “He made my mom go away."

  "He did?"

  "She used to live here, but she's moved far away. And now I don't get to see her anymore because Dad's so mean. That's why I ran away."

  "Because he's mean to you?” Myrtle asked.

  The boy didn't reply.

  "Does he hit you?"

  Surprise lit those blue eyes. “Nah. He don't hit."

  "Does he holler?” she asked.

  She didn't like to think about Zak being yelled at any more than she liked the thoughts of him being struck.

  "Only when I do something bad. He's not mean to me, he's mean to Mom. He likes me."

  "And you ran away because your dad likes you and doesn't hit you and is probably out looking for you right now?"

  Silence.

  Myrtle reached over and touched his shoulder. “I'll tell you what, Zak, if I was missing a boy like you, I'd be crazy with worry. I'd be crying and hurting. Do you want your dad to worry?"

  "No,” came his soft response. “But I want him to make my mom come back."

  "Zak, your mother is a grown woman who obviously makes her own decisions. Your dad can't make her do anything."

  Myrtle felt a surge of camaraderie with Zak's unknown father. She knew all about not being able to get others to do what you wanted.

  "He can. He can do anything he wants. He just doesn't like her."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "'Cause she's not here. If he liked her, he'd have made her stay.” He hiccupped a small sob.

  "I'm so sorry, honey."

  Before the words had cleared her throat, the boy was in her arms. “I miss her."

  "I know you do."

  He cried for a few minutes against her shoulder, and Myrtle simply let him rid himself of some of his pain. When he'd run out of tears, he raised his head and looked at her as he asked, “Do you really think my dad is worried?"