by Amy Lane
Table of Contents
Blurb
Sneak Peak
Dedication
Shortbread and Shadows
Heart of Living Wood
What Price Shortbread?
Help Me If You Can
Letting In
Awakenings
Random Ingredients
Making Magic
Looking Glass Spells
Commit to the Recipe
Dreams of Lovers Lost
Crows of Another Sort
The Remains of the Day
Bonus Story—
Meeting the Folks
Now Available
About the Author | By Amy Lane
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Shortbread and Shadows
By Amy Lane
Hedge Witches Lonely Hearts Club: Book One
When a coven of hedge witches casts a spell for their hearts’ desires, the world turns upside down.
Bartholomew Baker is afraid to hope for his heart’s true desire—the gregarious woodworker who sells his wares next to Bartholomew at the local craft fairs—so he writes the spell for his baking business to thrive and allow him to quit his office job. He’d rather pour his energy into emotionally gratifying pastry! But the magic won’t allow him to lie, even to himself, and the spellcasting has unexpected consequences.
For two years Lachlan has been flirting with Bartholomew, but the shy baker with the beautiful gray eyes runs away whenever their conversation turns personal. He’s about to give up hope… and then Bartholomew rushes into a convention in the midst of a spellcasting disaster of epic proportions.
Suddenly everybody wants a taste of Bartholomew’s baked goods—and Bartholomew himself. Lachlan gladly jumps on for the ride, enduring rioting crowds and supernatural birds for a chance with Bartholomew. Can Bartholomew overcome the shyness that has kept him from giving his heart to Lachlan?
Lachlan tilted his head. That’s all. Just tilted his head, and Bartholomew felt the pull to confess everything to him—from what he’d said he’d wish for to what he’d actually wished for, to the weird way his friends were acting, to the starlings and the squirrels and oh my God the homicidal cats!
Mary—always. Sue—thank you for the story talk, and the kickass editing, and putting up with my shit. Elizabeth—still holding your hand, honey, we’ll find that rainbow. Damon—faith in you is never misplaced. Mate—because.
Shortbread and Shadows
BARTHOLOMEW and his two best friends moved about his giant refurbished kitchen seamlessly, even though their minds were racing. The thing they’d just done had seemed so harmless—their coven cast spells all the time, right? Small spells, big spells, and yeah, they’d seen one backfire, but that had been a special case, right? The guy had asked them, and then he’d intervened, and it turned out he’d been asking for a super-vindictive reason, and it hadn’t been the coven’s fault the guy’s theater had been mobbed by crapping turkeys that had ruined his roof and driven him out of town.
But most of the time, the magic was good—helped them find jobs, helped them find their glasses, helped them not make stupid decisions about their love lives, and generally helped them.
Until this time, when it had knocked the entire seven-person coven on their asses, and the carefully constructed spells everybody had been planning to recite had burned to ash as they watched, and each member of the coven had blurted the one desire they’d tried to hide the hardest.
Bartholomew had no idea what his friends had blurted—although they all seemed to know and be embarrassed—but he knew what he’d shouted into their magic cone of power and it was….
Oh God, so embarrassing.
Six foot, three inches of auburn-haired, luminous hazel-eyed, broad-chested, joke-cracking, gregarious, kind, clever embarrassment, and Bartholomew was too embarrassed to even finish a conversation.
He swallowed against his want for Lachlan Stephens and tried to concentrate on his business, but Jordan, their default leader and the friend who’d brought them all together, was at his elbow.
“Don’t worry too much about it, Barty,” he said softly. “We all screwed up the spell.”
Bartholomew just shook his head, unable to even voice what he was thinking to Jordan, not now, not in the heat of the moment.
“Barty,” Alex murmured, walking into the kitchen with flour from the storage shelves in the garage, “you’ve got to snap out of it, man. This product list is huge. We’re going to be up until God knows when!”
“On it,” Bartholomew said smartly, but Jordan stopped him.
“Barty, I know it’s not easy for you to talk to people—I mean, besides us. But… but what would it hurt? Just to say hi to him? Ask him to coffee?” Jordan grimaced. “I mean, if nothing else, the magic was trying to tell us something about lying to ourselves.”
“You know me,” Bartholomew said briskly. “The only lie I tell myself is that Lachlan Stephens could be so much as interested. But Alex is right. I know the others are still cleaning up the mess, but we need to get a move on.”
Jordan sighed. “Magic isn’t the only thing that solves things for us, Barty. Sometimes it’s just stepping up a little.”
“I’ll step up after we’re done baking,” Bartholomew said, forcing a smile. “Sometime around 3:00 a.m.”
Jordan gave a groan, and the others from the coven got there, filling Alex and Bartholomew’s house with willing helpers—none of whom wanted to talk about the spell gone wrong.
Which was fine with Bartholomew. He could spend his time mooning over Lachlan Stephens, knowing he was out of reach.
The truth was, Lachlan Stephens was a giant broad-shouldered unrequited ache in Bartholomew’s heart, and in spite of the spectacular moment of failed spellcasting, Bartholomew didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do about it.
He would just have to keep this burning need to talk to Lachlan, see his smile, hear his deep voice, stroke those beautiful wooden creations of his, sanded to a sheen…
Brush Lachlan’s hand with his own.
Get close enough to smell the combination of cedar and sweat and kindness.
Oh God. All of that. He was going to have to keep all of that in his heart, and not bother the rest of the world with it at all.
As Bartholomew broke out his recipes and his supplies and directed everybody to a different section of the kitchen and gave them their own duties, he managed to keep them all in his heart.
But as he was moving from station to station, adding a hint of vanilla here, a dash of cinnamon there, some chocolate, some white chocolate, some brown sugar everywhere, that yearning, that desire for Lachlan to love him wept from his fingers in every recipe.
It must have.
That was the only way to explain what happened next.
Heart of Living Wood
“MORTY?” Lachlan stage-whispered. “Are you sure you put him in the right place?”
Morty Chambers, Lachlan’s second cousin, looked up from his computer at the registration desk of the Sacramento Convention Center and rolled his eyes. “You say that like we haven’t done this dance for over a year and a half,” Morty said dryly. “Yes—see? Here’s the floor plan.”
“But he’s not here yet!” Lachlan was starting to get worried. Everybody else on the vendors’ floor was already set up.
“Look, Lock—same as I always do, at your request. His booth is right next to you, where he will continue to ignore you because he isn’t that excited about you, no matter what you think.”
Lachlan let out a grunt. “No, no, that’s not it.”
“Face it, Lachlan. He’s just not that into you or he would have said more than boo to a mouse over the last tw
o years!”
Lachlan let out a sigh of frustration. Morty did have a point, but then, Morty wasn’t on the receiving end of a big pair of gray eyes and a mouth full enough to promise all the delights of Sodom.
Or maybe shortbread, since that was the guy’s specialty.
“No,” Lachlan said, confidence in his voice that he was far from feeling. “I really don’t think that’s it.” Lachlan didn’t elicit that response from people, dammit. He… he was cute! He knew it! He was smart, he was funny—he’d worked hard at that! Taken improv classes, taken drama, done college standup. He’d been shy as a kid. Who wasn’t? But people liked Lachlan. He could usually walk into a place and gauge which girl or guy, as in this case, would be his for the taking.
He’d gotten that vibe from Bartholomew Baker; dammit, he knew he had. But a year and a half of dedicated pursuit, and nada.
“Then what?” Morty demanded. “This kid—I’ve seen him. You talk to him, and he gets all cow-eyed and quiet. You think that means he likes you?”
“Well, yeah,” Lachlan said. “He’s shy.” It had been a while, but Lachlan recognized the signs. Bartholomew Baker, who didn’t even laugh at the pun that was his last name, was perhaps the quietest man Lachlan had ever met. But Lachlan, who actually worked on his funny stories with his sister at home, had seen Bartholomew cast sly glances and small smiles his way when Lachlan had been engaged with his own customers, and whenever they were both quiet, he’d seen, and appreciated, Bartholomew’s wide-eyed silences as Lachlan tried to entertain him.
He’d also seen Bartholomew get into the conversation, grow somewhat animated, and then stop himself, as though hearing an unkind voice.
Those were the times he bolted for the bathroom, leaving Lachlan in charge of his bakery booth, as Lachlan was obviously not to be trusted with his words.
Whatever voice Bartholomew heard that made him do that weird bathroom thing, Lachlan would like to give it a good talking-to. For a while he’d been able to do his own thing, date around, sleep with the occasional offer, but rarely twice. Lately, though, there’d been nobody. Lately, he’d been dreaming about that kid—big gray eyes, sand-colored eyebrows arching expressively. At first glance Bartholomew appeared pale with just the slightest tan on his face and wrists, with perfect skin.
A little closer and Lachlan could make out freckles on his nose and a teeny brown mole in the corner of his mouth.
And his smile was crooked—almost physically so, because he bit his lower lip on the right side every time he let his lips quirk up too far.
Lachlan pulled his attention back to Morty with an actual groan of frustration. “Morty, I swear by all that’s holy and unholy, Bartholomew Baker is crushing on me as bad as I’m crushing on him. He’s just too shy to so much as have a conversation.”
Morty scraped back his thinning hair from his shiny scalp and blinked at Lachlan through little teeny rodent eyes. Lachlan wasn’t sure which branch of the family Morty was really from, but his mother had always told Lachlan to be nice to Cousin Morty because he was blood.
Lachlan had sometimes suspected she meant “He gave blood,” but that was immaterial.
“Well, that’s a laugh riot in a relationship,” Morty muttered. “The actual hell, Lock! How are you supposed to have a good time with someone who looks panicked and bolts every time you say ‘Good morning’!”
Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Meditation. And Morty might live to set Lachlan’s schedule for yet another week.
“Haven’t you ever looked out across a calm lake? It’s beautiful at first. Everything’s reflected in the surface—the sky, the mountains, the trees.” Like Bartholomew’s eyes, he mooned, but he wasn’t going to say that to Morty. “But underneath that pretty surface, there are some really awesome things going on. Fish are fighting the good fight, downed airplanes, hidden treasures, and the pureness of water itself. Don’t you want to dive right in?”
“To where some mutant fish just swam out of a skeleton to nibble on my toes? No!”
“Oh my God, you’re missing the point!” No wonder the guy had two ex-wives.
“Yeah, probably,” Morty admitted, rolling his eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the floor is open in fifteen minutes, and you need to finish setting up, and Mr. Wonderful still isn’t here!”
Lachlan had to check the vendors’ floor again to be sure, because Bartholomew was always at least half an hour early. He had to be. He had too much to do, including set up luscious draperies in teal green and turquoise blue with his logo in the center that he used as tablecloths, and a wooden rack that was somewhat substandard in workmanship but very clever in design in that it showcased row upon row of tidy loaves of different kinds of sweet bread without ever once allowing the soft little bricks to squash each other. He also had a rack—again, the workmanship was substandard, but the purpose was perfect—for row upon row of large wrapped cookies and blocks of shortbread, all with a sticker showcasing his business logo and a website and phone number for Shortbread and Shadows baked goods and catering.
And that alone would be a complex setup, but Bartholomew wasn’t a one-man show.
He had a smaller rack that advertised soaps and essential oils that his friends made—Jordan’s Oils and Kate’s Boudoir—and another rack that sold bright pot holders and hanging kitchen towels made by another friend—Pincushion Products. And of course, he needed to bring in his back stock, because nobody could bake like Bartholomew, and it didn’t matter how shy he was, those tiny loaves sold big.
In one of his rare moments of volubility, Bartholomew had professed that he’d thought of selling those giant jelly jars with the dry ingredients of a recipe mixed inside and the list of wet ingredients that needed to be added on the lid.
“Why don’t you?” Lachlan had asked, enchanted. When he did speak, Bartholomew’s gray eyes grew wide and luminous, and his cheeks got this excited little crescent of pink along the cheekbone.
And his voice was so much deeper than anyone expected, every single time he talked.
“Because I don’t know if it will turn out the same,” he confessed, his face going blotchy and scarlet. “When I bake, it feels like magic, right? And sometimes I throw in ingredients that I never would have thought of and call it my Magic Cookie or Magic Loaf for the day, and make that part of my recipe. I wouldn’t really have a chance to… you know, touch my work, if I didn’t see it through to the end.”
“It’s a calling,” Lachlan replied, looking at his own shelves full of cunningly made little toys, plant racks, walking sticks, bookends, and wall plaques. “It’s like, when you’re doing your thing, that craft understands you. Your fingers, your hands, your heart—they all take you to the right place.”
“Yeah,” Bartholomew had said, and Lachlan realized they were gazing stupidly into each other’s eyes. At that exact moment he’d thought, Yes! Bartholomew is going to kiss me! Or ask me out! Or say “Marry me and let’s adopt!” and Bartholomew had leaned forward on his little stool and his eyes had fluttered, and Lachlan had leaned forward in return and….
Bartholomew zoomed up from his chair and bolted for the booth’s exit in the back, calling, “’Scuse me, I’ve gotta pee!”
Lachlan had almost cried.
And he didn’t feel so great right now, looking at the empty booth where Bartholomew was supposed to be.
Fretting, he started to put the finishing touches on his own booth, with his bold, plain logo in black and white. Since it was an alternative-universe fiction con of some sort, he made sure his wooden swords with the intricately carved handles as well as the magic wands with their intricately carved handles were all prominently on display. He also made sure his cashbox and Square were exactly where they were supposed to be, and his business cards—designed by his sister, so they looked better than his tablecloth—were easy to spot.
He saw the first few customers wander onto the floor and had a shock. What convention was this again? He pulled out his pr
ogram and raised his eyebrows.
Para-Fantasma-Con.
Oh. So paranormal, science fiction, urban fantasy, and probably epic fantasy as well. That would explain what the cosplayers in Lord of the Rings regalia were doing side by side with the entire complement of Voltron.
And trailing behind them was practically all of Hogwarts.
Wow. Just… wow.
That was some eclectic fanbase. He summoned a grin, because he really did love seeing everybody all dressed up and in character, and then his eyes drifted to Bartholomew’s booth and the grin fell away a little.
He should have been there by now.
All of a sudden there was a kerfuffle by the entrance, and Lachlan looked up in time to see Bartholomew and four other people Lachlan vaguely recognized, loaded with boxes and hauling ass through the beginning throngs.
“Bartholomew?” Lachlan asked, surprised.
“Sorry,” Bartholomew muttered, dodging around half of Hogwarts. “So sorry.” He smiled greenly at Lance from Voltron, his gaze so faraway he didn’t even notice the guy was decked, hot, and appreciative of Bartholomew’s gray-eyed beauty. “So sorry.” He hustled to the booth and looked around with a little moan.
“Oh, guys. I… I’m seriously… I don’t know where to….”
“Here,” said the wide-shouldered, no-necked guy that Lachlan recognized as Josh Hernandez. “Kate’ll stay here and help you set up, and we’ll go get the rest of your stock, deal?”
Bartholomew nodded, eyes losing some of their glaze. “Yeah. Thanks, Josh. Guys. I don’t even know….”
Alex Kennedy was a compact person with rusty hair and the scalpel-sharp gaze of an analyst. Any kind of analyst—Lachlan wasn’t picky.
And today he looked like he got dressed in a hurricane.
“None of us could have anticipated….” Alex threw his hands in the air.
“God,” Kate said. “Seriously. None of us.” She was a voluptuous girl with brown-blond hair, green eyes, and the most adorably pointed chin Lachlan had ever seen.
