Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,1

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 two 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