Page 19 of Faking with the Fae King

“You’ve forgotten what cat sith can do.” His claws retract with a snick, and he takes a step to the left and disappears, only to reappear immediately on the other side of the clearing. “We alone walk the hidden shadow roads. In only a handful of hours, I can cross distances that would take others days. I’m as fast as you, if not faster.”

“I’ve heard the stories.” I considered them exaggerations, but perhaps not. “Fine. I will pay for your services.”

He shifts back into his fae form, and his green eyes gleam as he extends a hand. “Two gold coins a day.”

“That’s outrageous.” Or at least I assume it is, having no real feel for what the currency is worth. “Besides, paying you in that fashion rewards sloth, since you’ll make more if you dally. I require speed. Instead of a daily rate, I’ll pay you a coin for every business lead you bring me.”

“Two for each lead.”

“One gold piece for each lead when you bring them to me and a second for each that creates a viable business in Ferndale Falls.”

“Agreed.”

The werepanther’s wide grin tells me I’m overpaying, but I don’t care. After a rather dismal porridge for breakfast, I’ll give almost anything to get a proper bakery up and running. Once you’ve had the perfection that is bread baked by a brownie, nothing less will do. None of the diminutive fae will agree to work for me directly, but if I acquire a baker for the town, they’ll have to sell me their goods. If not, I’ll bribe someone to buy bread for me.

Speaking of bribery, I say, “Get me a brownie baker, and I’ll triple your fee.” It feels wrong to pay for the things I usedto force people to do, but I suppose I’ll have to get used to it now that I’m “good.”

As Shadow disappears back through the door to Faerie, I remember all of this has an additional reward. I picture the expression on Hannah’s face when I bring these new businesses to her town. She’ll smile at me, her eyes warm with approval.

I find myself as greedy for her look of appreciation as I am for excellent bread.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hannah

Armed with a ginormous travel mug of coffee, I hurry down Main Street the next morning, squinting against the bright colors of all the shop fronts. I’m notcompletelyhung over—Autumn’s cocktails are purposefully lighter on liquor and heavier on cereal milk than traditional drinks—but I’m bleary enough to wish I could have pounded the alarm quiet and burrowed back into my snuggly bed.

No such luck. Instead, I went to the office early and finished up a bunch of paperwork so that I’d have free time to get Naomi’s help with my magic.

There’s one thing I need to try first. I pull out my phone and make a call. “Hi, Mom.”

“Sweetheart! Have you made me a grandbaby yet?”

I wince. Why does she start every conversation with that? “Nope, not yet.”

“Do you need any tips? I read a new one. If you lie on your back and prop your butt up on pillows, gravity helps hold the semen in.”

Oh, god. Oh, god. Here it comes. I die inside every time she says the next part.

“Of course, when your father and I were trying for you, we had sexseveraltimes each day. Did I tell you I think you were conceived the time we did it with me sitting on top of the washing machine?”

Yes,toomany times, but I keep my mouth shut, because any interruption only makes this part of the conversation take even longer.

“The movement added a lot of vibrations, which I think helped. All the experts say female orgasm aids conception. You are having orgasms, right? Do you have a boyfriend yet? Does he need any tips?”

“I’ve started seeing someone, but no tips needed.” It comes out strangled as I try to fight down a hysterical giggle at the thought of Mom giving Severin sex tips. Oh, god! I can only imagine the look on his face!

Her excited shriek hits a high note that goes past the edge of human hearing. I’m surprised it doesn’t make the neighborhood dogs start to howl.

Her joy makes it excruciating for me to tell her about Severin, and it’ll only get worse once I tell her we’re engaged. Maybe I should be glad I’m not allowed to tell her the engagement is fake. It would break her heart.

When she finally stops speaking in delighted squeals, I bring up what I called to talk about. “So, Mom, are there any old family stories about us being witches?”

“Not that I can recall, dear.”

“What about Dad’s family?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Why?”

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