Page 192 of Secret Shifters Next Door

Celina stepped around the kitchen island. “Food’s ready. Oh.” She gasped and put a hand to her mouth, seeing the book in my hand.

I put it down and stood, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “Sorry. I was browsing a little. Did…did you write that one?”

Her eyes went so wide I almost laughed, but held it back. Her face went red, and she nodded. “I…um, wrote all of those.”

I spun and looked at the table again. There had to be a dozen books there, but they all had different authors. “Wait, what? All these? I don’t see your name anywhere.”

“All pen names. I use my real name for my more literary fiction stuff. I don’t like writing in one genre. So, I use a pen name for other stuff. P.M. Douglas for my scary books, Jessica Allmon for historical romance, Allen Brightworth for science fiction and fantasy, and…oh god.” Her face went bright red. “I use the name Chastity Carmichael for…the…erotica stuff.” She nodded at the book I’d been reading.

I raised my eyebrows again. “Chastity?”

“Yeah, I know.” She grimaced and looked at the floor. “I was nineteen when I picked that name. It stuck, and once the readers know it…” She shrugged. “My agent said it would be a bad business decision to change it or start writing under a different name. So, here we are.”

I grinned at her and gestured at the book again. “Why do you seem so uncomfortable talking about that book?”

If her face had been red before, now it was the color of a tomato, and her hands started doing that anxious twisting thing again. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Why?”

She gave me a look like I should know. “It’s full of smut.”

I smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “Like what? Do you want to elaborate?” She went bug-eyed, and I chuckled. “I’m joking. I think I get the picture.”

Celina sighed with relief. “Oh, thank God,” she murmured.

“I think it’s awesome. I could never write this many books. Or even one book. How many have you done?”

My compliment seemed to ease her anxiety, and she was able to glance up and meet my eyes for a second. “I first got published when I was seventeen. So in eleven years I’ve published…um,” Celina looked up at the ceiling and counted silently. “About thirty books.”

I gaped at her. “Thirty books? That’s almost three books a year.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t do a lot. I usually spend ten or twelve hours a day writing. I can usually smash out a book every three months. Then it takes another month or so for edits and rewrites.”

“You are impressive as hell,” I said, hoping she heard the admiration in my voice.

She smiled, and I could see how my compliment pleased her. “Um, if you want to sit at the table, I’ll bring you your food.”

I took a seat, and put a hand to my stomach as it growled. Not knowing what kind of cook Celina was, I’d fasted the entire day. That way, even if she was terrible, I’d still eat what she’d made and not make her feel bad. If the smell were any sign, though, dinner was going to be great. She brought out a big stew pot with something that looked fantastic in it and set it on the table between us. She then went back and brought out a salad and what looked like fried bananas.

She pointed out each item as she listed them off. “Brazilian salad with hearts of palm, fried sweet plantains, and feijoada. It’s a Brazilian stew with black beans and pork.” She grimaced slightly. “I hope you like it.”

I smiled and took a breath, inhaling the delicious scent. “There’s no way I won’t like this.”

She responded with a happy grin, and my wolf gave a mental tail wag. She went to grab the red wine off the counter and two glasses. She set them down in front of me, along with a winekey. “Mind opening it? I’ve never been very good at popping the cork.”

I took the bottle and started twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle. “I’m sure you can pop the cork just fine when you want to,” I said, giving her a sidelong look.

Celina pressed her lips into a tight line and flushed at the double-entendre. I poured us both a full glass, then set about devouring the meal before me. The first bite of the stew made me groan with pleasure. Even if I hadn’t been starving, I would have loved it. The salad was great with a citrusy dressing that perfectly contrasted the richness of the main dish. The plantains were sweet with a crispy caramelized exterior. The entire meal made me think Celina could have been a chef had she not decided to write books.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

I nodded, my mouth full. I swallowed and wiped my lips with a napkin. “It’s fantastic. Where did you learn to cook this? I’ve never had it before.”

She shrugged. “I was in foster care from a really young age. Once I was old enough, I did some research and found out my mom was Brazilian. It got me into trying to cook dishes from her homeland.”

I knew her background, but it would have been really suspicious if I didn’t get her to elaborate. I asked more questions, and she filled me in on everything she’d gone through. As we ate and talked, I refilled my bowl two more times. Each time I did, Celina looked happier that I truly did like her food. It made me feel equally as good that she was opening up to me and talking about herself. Her awkward, stilted way of speaking seemed to vanish the more she relaxed. I hoped that meant she was getting comfortable with me. She was even looking me in the eyes more often as we talked. Her stunningbeauty made me want to kill whoever had beaten her down and made her so timid and skittish.

“Have you ever thought of trying to find your mom? You know, reach out?” I asked.

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