Page 42 of Fang Fatale

Working the register is easy.

People are distracted by their caffeine cravings and rarely look at the person ringing them up.

Handing over pastries is different.

There's eye contact.

Conversation.

Lingering.

People discuss you while you're still standing there.

I overhear two regulars—a banshee and a wood sprite, because apparently this is my life now—arguing over whether I'm the same girl who used to go jogging with Angus the troll.

The banshee insists I am.

The wood sprite argues I must be "her cousin... maybe. The one with the same weird knees."

Barnaby accepts their investigation with quiet dignity, allowing even the shakiest hands to scratch behind his ears.

Around eleven, the rush finally breaks.

The bakery smells of warm bread, rosewater, and happy exhaustion.

My feet ache from standing, but I'm absurdly pleased with myself.

If my old therapist could see me now, she'd probably prescribe mandatory retail work for everyone recovering from a disastrous engagement.

Clover appears beside me carrying two cortados.

"You're a natural," she says. "And you haven't even set anything on fire."

She sets one cup in front of me.

The other...

...she places in front of Barnaby.

He sniffs it thoughtfully before collapsing across my feet with a satisfied sigh.

I blink.

"You know he can't drink coffee."

"I know."

She shrugs.

"He seems to enjoy being included."

Honestly...

Fair enough.

"Any word from Daisy?"

Clover grins.