Wounded Wings (Cupid Chronicles) Page 3

This experience was getting more enlightening by the moment.

  Michael glanced down at the petite waitress when she cleared her throat. “Oh, yes, I’m sorry.”

  “You wanna seat? Lunch?” She smiled sweetly.

  He nodded as the scent of the fried chicken lunch special tempted him and she ushered him to a countertop stool where he had a front row view of the kitchen. Perfect.

  He ordered the special and continued to watch Elijah work. He seemed to have acclimated to human life well, but Michael was itching to talk to him.

  A few moments later, a little girl with chestnut curls came scampering by, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.

  “Emma!” his waitress called after her. “Stop running. Go finish your lunch so Grammy can get you back for a nap, or none of Miss Vi’s cookies for you.”

  The little girl skidded to a halt and spun around, her blue eyes twinkling and full of mischief. “’Kay.” She lifted her gaze up to Michael and whispered, “’S okay. Miss Naomi gave me two cookies this morning. But don’t tell my mommy.”

  Michael grinned. “I won’t.”

  She tilted her head. “Why you glowin’, Mister? You a superhero or sumpin’?”

  Uh oh. “I . . .”

  “Just like Mr. Eli, the new cook man. But you’re brighter. And prettier.” She giggled and stepped closer, reaching out as if to touch his wings, even though they were tucked safely away.

  “Well, thank—”

  “Emma, leave the poor man alone,” his waitress cut in and scooped her daughter up. She smiled at him. “I’m so sorry if she bothered you. She can be a bit overly sociable sometimes.”

  “No bother.”

  She nodded and walked away, but little Emma kept her smiling eyes on him over her mother’s shoulder as if she was onto his secret. Well, he only hoped he could befriend her and she wouldn’t tell. His heart skipped a beat as another more terrifying thought occurred to him.

  His eyes flew to Elijah. Surely he’d lost his angelic ability to recognize another of his kind?

  If not, this assignment was doomed worse than the Tudor Incident.

  Michael stayed around long after the lunch rush had cleared out. He watched as interesting characters came and went for their mid-day meal, some in a hurry, some relaxed and taking their time over cups of coffee.

  The Sheriff must’ve grown up in the town, he seemed to be friendly with everyone from tiny little Emma to the elderly couple in the corner. And it was more than an official capacity, Michael could tell, as he rehashed rushing someone named Delaney to the hospital the day before with a younger man who had a stethoscope draped around his neck.

  Michael sipped the last of his Coke and tried to act casual as he studied the rest of the locals. An older man next to him in a faded blue chambray shirt with a patch that read ‘Sam’s Plumbing’ nibbled on a piece of apple pie from the display case.

  Michael nodded down toward his plate. “That any good?”

  The man glanced up and focused on Michael’s face. “Any good? You askin’ if Vi’s pie is good?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Well, heck, boy, that’s like askin’ if the Grand Canyon is big.” He forked another bite. “This here pie is the next closest thing to Heaven you can get without actually goin’ there, I’d say.”

  “No foolin’?”

  “I never fool around when it comes to Vi’s pie.”

  “Hmmm.” Michael lifted his hand to flag down his waitress and ordered a slice. He’d just see about that Heavenly claim.

  Well, the pie was pretty divine, Michael decided as he set his fork down on his empty plate. Some things were worth being trapped in a human vessel, and taste buds were one of them.

  The older man also finished up his pie and bid him goodbye. A few minutes later, the waitress brought by the bill and picked up his dirty plate. “Will you be needing anything else?”

  Michael didn’t miss the way her eyes roamed to the clock. He hoped his hanging around wasn’t holding her up. He just couldn’t leave . . . not until he figured out how he was going to get a start on this assignment.

  He shook his head. “Nah. I’m fine.” He reached for his wallet, but his hand stalled as Elijah came out of the kitchen and untied his apron then hung it on a hook by the door. The closer he got, the more Michael saw his shimmer, like he had a fine coating of pearl dust—faint, but it was there. How could humans not see that?

  “It’s fine, Eli,” the waitress called out as he began gathering dirty dishes off the back tables. “You’ve been busy in the kitchen all day. I’ll get it. You go on.”

  Elijah glanced up, making eye contact with Michael for the first time.

  Michael’s breath seized up in his chest as his heart thundered. This was it. If he was going to be found out, now was the time.

  He stared unflinchingly into those deep brown eyes, seeing all the pain only a fallen angel must know, and waited.

  Three agonizing heartbeats.

  Silence filled the diner for a moment. Nothing moved.

  Elijah’s brows dipped ever-so-slightly as if recognition niggled his subconscious, but he seemed to push it away and moved back to picking up the dishes. “It’s all right, Maura. I don’t mind helping.”

  The waitress shook her head. “Just got here yesterday and so far hasn’t done anything but work and help people. Not even sure he went to sleep.” She picked up Michael’s check and cash. “I think he left here last night and cooked over at the shelter. The man is something else.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds like it.” Michael waved off his change as his eyes tracked Elijah stacking up the dishes just before the waitress moved off to help him and inspiration struck. “Say, why are you two doing that? Don’t you have a bus boy or dishwasher?”

  “Nope. The high school kid we had quit on us last week and we haven’t been able to get anyone else yet.” She gave a half-laugh. “Why? You wanna apply?”

  How hard could it be? He’d hoped to work at a local tattoo studio—his only true human talent—and his heart gave a little tug at the thought of not being able to do that. But this was much better for his assignment. He could be near Elijah every day.

  He smiled at her. “Sure. Where can I get an app—?”

  “Sharla!” she yelled, interrupting him.

  A pretty woman with delicately coiffed gray hair and a hot pink track suit appeared from a back office with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and a grin. “The place better be on fire for all that hollerin’.” She winked in Michael’s direction and sipped her drink. “On second thought, better not be on fire. What is it, Maura?”

  The petite waitress took her stack of dishes to the counter and nodded in his direction. “He wants to apply for the dishwasher position.” Her pleading eyes spoke volumes.

  Sharla, obviously the owner, turned sharp eyes on him, now appraising him as more than just a customer. He sure hoped she saw more than just a three-hundred pound bald biker. “You do?”

  He stood and approached her with his most charming smile. “Yes, ma’am.” He offered his hand. “Michael Smith.”

  Her surprised gaze darted to Elijah then back as she accepted his handshake. “Michael Smith? A lot of Smiths applying for jobs these days.”

  He smiled, but didn’t respond. How could he explain that angels weren’t very creative with their surnames? Not exactly part of the job description.

  She took him into her sparse office—just a place for her computer, file cabinet, and a simple desk, obviously—where she asked him a few basic questions and had him fill out an application.

  She stumbled a bit when he told her he was fresh from Texas. “What is it with all of you guys coming from out of town?” When he didn’t answer again, she shrugged. “You planning on moving on soon, too?”

>   So Elijah was planning to leave? He’d have to move quickly. “No, ma’am. I’m planning on being here as long as I’m needed.”

  “You ever washed dishes before?”

  He shook his head, embarrassed. “Not really. Just at home.”

  “Hmmm . . . I’m not sure if I can take a chance on another mover and shaker that’ll up and split on me. Plus you don’t have any experience.”

  Michael’s heart sank as he saw his chances slipping through his fingers.

  Next to them, Elijah knocked on the door and popped his head in. “Sharla, I’ve finished . . . oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t realize you were with someone.”

  She glanced over, then back to Michael. “No problem. We were just finishing up.”

  Michael stood. “Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.” He offered his hand again. “If you change your mind or don’t find anyone else to fill the position, I’ll be around town for a while yet.”

  She stood and took his hand.

  Elijah stood in the door watching their exchange. “Position?”

  Michael caught his eye. Again, something unspoken seemed to pass between them. Just a mere second of unacknowledged brotherhood, perhaps. Maybe something deeper. But whatever it was, Elijah stood his ground in the doorway. “You know, Sharla,” he said. “If it’s the dishwasher position, you might want to reconsider.” He glanced at her with a soft smile. “I mean, I don’t want to step on your toes by any means, but we could really use the help, and he certainly seems like a strong, hard-working guy. Maybe you could give him a trial run like you’re doing for me?”

  Michael could hardly believe his ears. Elijah was helping him? He wanted to grin like a fool.

  Then he wanted to yip for joy as Sharla sighed and eyeballed him again. “Well, I guess we can try you out. For a probationary week. Then we’ll see.” She blinked adoring eyes at Elijah. “You can thank Eli here for your good luck.”

  Thank Eli, indeed. He was supposed to be the angel. And yet, here came salvation in the form of his fallen brother.

  Chapter 4

  A week after Delaney’s accident, Naomi stared off into space as the Hobart Industrial mixer did its work on the vanilla bean cake batter. The whir of the beaters melded with the fat raindrops spattering against the windows to lull her as Frank Sinatra crooned from the radio in the corner. Vi had won their last rock, paper, scissors battle for control over the stereo, and this morning, even though she was alone, Naomi didn’t have the heart to change it. The melody suited the weather.

  It also explained Vi’s achy knees this morning. So Naomi had plied her with an Aleve and told her to take it easy today. It wasn’t easy getting Vi to relax, and if she was honest, it broke Naomi’s heart a little that the only mother she’d ever known was growing old. She sometimes wondered if Vi and Paul regretted not being able to have biological children, only taking in her, the troubled, abused foster child that she was. If so, they never said it.

  She frowned and shoved those thoughts aside as she got back to work and mentally went over the day’s orders, including the diner’s. Especially the diner’s. It was a particularly small order; nothing really. Come to think of it, Sharla’s orders had been steadily dwindling this past week. Vi had been taking the basket of goods over the past few days and hadn’t said anything. Had something changed? Naomi mulled over that as she got the cake in the oven and prepared turtle brownies and banana nut muffins for the rest of the day. By the time she was individually wrapping them for the miniscule diner order, she had half a head of steam going.

  Anxiety, irritation, and fear for Vi’s business churned in her gut like a roiling ocean with a nasty storm brewing overhead. How could Sharla do this to them? Was her business suffering? It was sure packed everyday just as always.

  Well, only one way to find out.

  Naomi packed up her baked goods, bundled her hair back into a ponytail, and made a beeline for the diner to find out what the heck was going on.

  The minute she yanked open the diner’s glass door, the thought hit her that something was amiss. She stood in the doorway and peered around trying to figure out what was different.

  All the regulars sat at their normal seats. Sam Fuller smiled at her over his cup of coffee, wearing his usual baby blue plumber’s shirt that he’d worn for the last twenty-something years he’d owned his business.

  Dr. Gage Arrington was tucked into a corner booth trying to eat a quiet breakfast of fruit and oatmeal, but was obviously being barraged by an elderly patient with her ailments—and taking it with a tolerant smile. He glanced over at her and gave a small wave.

  Maura zipped by with a tray full of divine-looking Belgian waffles topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Definitely not New Destiny Diner’s usual fare. Even the coffee had a different scent, more expensive and definitely not Folgers. And she liked the Folgers.

  But, overriding it all, her baker’s nose caught something else. A delicate blend of sugar, cream, vanilla . . . She inhaled appreciatively.

  And then the full bakery case caught her eye.

  Oh, hell no.

  She hastily shoved her basket onto the front counter as she rushed to the case and pressed her fingers to the glass, taking in the admittedly fine display. The arrangement was like something out of a magazine. Fine French pastries filled the shelves. Fruit tarts, croissants, something decadently chocolate . . . and were those crème puffs?

  Where had all this come from? Was there was a new bakery in town?

  Her heart sank as she realized she and Vi couldn’t possibly compete with this. How dare they? Whoever they were? Was this who Beau had mentioned the other day? Surely not. Vi’s Sweet Spot had been supplying the New Destiny Diner with their baked goods for the better part of the past quarter century. Just because some hoity-toity French schmuck wanted to blow into town and wow everyone with their fancy pastries didn’t mean they’d go down without a fight.

  She tugged her sleeves back down and lifted her basket again. She had a bakery to keep going and a magazine article to think about. Nobody, certainly no fly-by-night, frou-frou baker, was going to take that from them.

  She was just about to go find Sharla when Beau came strolling in wearing street clothes instead of his Sheriff’s uniform. “Hey, beautiful.” He chucked her under the chin and hefted the basket from her. “Kinda light today?”

  She frowned. “Don’t remind me.”

  He glanced at the display case that had quickly become the bane of her existence and laughed. “Eli putting you out of business?”

  “Eli?”

  He tipped his chin toward the kitchen. “The new cook I told you about? You telling me you haven’t been by to check it out yet? His food is the talk of the town. He’s awesome.”

  Her eyes tracked Maura as she removed a strawberry tart from the case and served it to one of the corner tables.

  She ignored whatever Beau was saying as she waited for the most important part . . . wait for it . . . wait for it . . . the customer finally picked up her fork and took that first bite.

  And her face said it all. It was heavenly. Damn it.

  Vi’s was doomed.

  She turned to Beau. “He’s gotta go.”

  “What?”

  She spun on her heel before the adrenalin stopped spurting through her veins and marched to the kitchen. Rational thought raced to catch up to her instinctual reaction to protect what was hers. When it finally got there, she tamped it down viciously. She had nothing to lose.

  Screw it.

  Well, technically, this Eli person had screwed it for her.

  She slammed open the swinging kitchen door, satisfied when it hit the wall with a resounding thud. The usual odors of old grease and raw meat no longer permeated the place. Instead, it smelled freshly washed. Chopped strawberries la
y on a board near the sink and sizzling bacon was popping under a heat lamp.

  At the large industrial stove, a man—must be Eli, she thought with a smirk—turned to her, not seeming all that surprised by her thunderous entrance.

  Great. Eli was hot. Tall, longish, cinnamon brown hair—very ‘I’m-sexy-and-I-don’t-know-it’ in an understated, Henry Cavill-esque way. Damn. Well, that didn’t matter when he was threatening every plan she had for the success of the bakery.

  “Hello,” he said simply. But his chocolate-brown eyes were wary, as if he was waiting to be found guilty of a crime.

  Which, she reminded herself as she wanted to soften just looking at him, he was. Guilty. She let the door swing closed behind her, the air whooshing against her back rustling her ponytail. “You Eli?”

  He nodded.

  “Great,” she mumbled to herself. “Well, I’m Naomi. I run the bakery next door with Vi?”

  He ignored that. At least the introductions were out of the way.

  She glanced over as a timer dinged and saw the neatly lined up petit fours behind him. Renewed emotion surged through her, ending with tears springing to her eyes, which she flippin’ hated. She wiped them away with a vicious hand. “You’re the one filling the bakery case out there?” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Yes.” Again he nodded as he slid a divine-looking quiche from the oven. “Sharla hired me to cook.” He glanced up at her briefly. “So I cook.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You cook.” She paced. “You cook?” she repeated as she began to get more agitated. No. Irate was more like it.

  “Yes.” He moved back to stir something at the stove, oblivious to her turmoil.

  She wanted to throttle him.

  “Do you have any idea . . .?” She stopped pacing as emotion choked her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  He continued with what he was doing without turning around.

  Had he even heard her?