Richelle Mead - Iron Crowned

“Why are you dressed up so early? Morning commuters aren’t going to stop for poetry slams.”

“It’s Saturday, Eug.”

“Is it?” I asked, startled. My timing was all awry with my double life.

“There’s a cultural fest out by the university, just begging to hear my beautiful insights on nature.” He flipped some sunny-side up eggs onto a plate with a flourish.

“A cultural—?” I groaned. “Tim, the local tribes will be there. You know they’ll try to beat you up again.”

He flashed me a grin. “Be a pal. Come protect me.”

“Can’t. Too much stuff to do.”

A knock at the back door astonished us both. We didn’t get a lot of visitors. Hoping it wasn’t a missionary, I opened the door and gaped at what I found. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Katrice had come calling. It was Lara. She smiled at my shock. I almost never saw her in the flesh. She worked out of a home office, most of our correspondence being handled by phone and e-mail.

“Come in,” I said, still amazed. She stepped into the kitchen, just as tiny, blond, and cute as I remembered. A big stack of papers was in her arms. “I don’t like the looks of that.”

“It’s your—”

Lara came to a halt when she saw Tim. Her eyes widened. He flipped his last egg onto a plate and glanced up at her. His eyes registered equal amazement. And in that charming, con-artist way of his, he instantly slipped into character.

“A beautiful blossom has joined us, her petals brilliant and unfurled in the morning sun.” He was using his awful ‘How, white man’ voice. Hastily, he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Join us. We’ll feast and enjoy Mother Earth’s bounty together.”

Dazed, Lara walked over to the table and sat down, unable to take her eyes off of him—his chest in particular. “Thank you.”

“It is my honor to—shit! The cinnamon rolls!”

Tim dove backward, grabbing a mitt and opening the oven, from which smoke was pouring out. Lara turned to me conspiratorially as he groaned about the state of his baked goods.

“Eugenie, why is there a hot Native American chief cooking in your kitchen?” she whispered.

“Well,” I said, suddenly realizing the two had never actually met. “He’s neither a chief nor Native American. That’s Tim.”

“That’s what—?” Her baby blue eyes opened even wider. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Tim meanwhile was scraping blackened bottoms off of his cinnamon rolls. He held one up for my inspection.

“It’s fine,” I said.

He turned to Lara, putting his smile back on. “I beg your pardon a thousand times for this unworthy feast I must set before you. Such a delicate, beautiful creature like you deserves—”

“Oh for God’s sake,” I exclaimed. “Will you cut the bullshit, Tim? This is Lara.”

“This is …” The cinnamon roll dropped off his spatula, back onto the pan. “Are you sure?”

I sighed.

Both seemed at a loss for what to say. Lara’s mouth moved, no words coming out for several moments. Finally, she blurted out, “I brought tax paperwork.”

Tim swallowed. “I … That’s pretty cool.”

I moved past sighing or groaning. Now, I was fighting hitting my head against the table. “No, it’s not. Can we get on with breakfast?”

“I …” Tim finally recovered himself. “Sure. Of course.” He looked at Lara. “Do you like eggs and cinnamon rolls?”

“I love eggs and cinnamon rolls.”

He promptly built her a plate and handed it over.

“Hey!” I said.

He shot me a glare. “Be patient a sec. We have a guest. You should be more polite—especially since she went to the trouble of doing your taxes.”

“I pay her to do my taxes.”

Lara bit into a cinnamon roll. In his daze, Tim had forgotten to cut off the bottom. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. How is this even possible?” She gave him a shy smile. “Good looks and cooking skills.”

He smiled back, nearly dropping the plate he handed to me. “I have all sorts of skills.”

“Oh my God,” I said. Until this moment, I’d thought nothing was more annoying than their phone bickering. I suddenly wished they’d get into an argument now.

“Besides,” he added, joining us with his own food. “You’ve got mad tax skills. I could never do that.”

“That’s because you don’t have an income or actually file taxes,” I said.

“Hey,” he shot back. “Don’t judge. You obviously can’t do your own.”

“I don’t have to! That’s why I pay someone.”

With great effort, Lara managed to drag her eyes over to me and remember her job. “They’re all done. I just need you to sign them. I wasn’t sure you’d ‘get around to it’ if I mailed them.”

I nodded. As far as the federal government and state of Arizona were concerned, I was a self-employed contractor who did assorted home repairs. Which wasn’t that far from the truth.

“That was really nice of you,” said Tim. “Taking time out of your Saturday for that.”

“I take my job seriously,” she replied. “Besides, I didn’t have any other plans.”

“Really?” He leaned forward. “Do you want to go over to the university’s cultural festival with me? I’ll be reading poetry there.”

She gasped. “I would love that. I bet your people have some really amazing insights on the world.”

“He’s not—” I began.

Lara turned back to me, her business face on. “Make sure you sign these while we’re gone. And you know your schedule today, right? Three jobs?”

“Yes, yes. While you guys are out slumming with college kids, I’ll be fighting for my life.”

Tim stood up and set his barely touched plate on the counter. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

She handed him her equally untouched plate. “I’m ready now. Just let me run to the bathroom first.”

The instant she was gone, Tim turned on me. “Why didn’t you tell me she was so nice? All this time, you’ve let me think she was a total bitch.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times she wasn’t a bitch! You’re the one who decided that, after talking to her on the phone. You only think she’s nice now because you’ve seen her and want to get her into bed!”

Tim gave me a grave look. “Eugenie, that is not the kind of woman you have a one-night stand with. She’s a goddess among women.”

“Unbelievable,” I said.

When Lara returned, I noticed she was wearing lipstick and had neatened her hair. “All set.”

I scowled at the dirty plates Tim had left on the counter. “Don’t forget to do the dishes when you get back!” I called as they headed out the door.

“Don’t forget to earn a living while we’re gone!” he called back. “This mortgage doesn’t pay itself.”

“Neither do you,” I muttered. But they were already gone, lost in the throes of infatuation. Considering all the things that had happened in my life, you’d think nothing could surprise me anymore. Clearly, I was wrong.

Turning around, I set to washing the dishes myself, deciding that kicking some supernatural ass was exactly what I needed.

I signed the tax return and left a check before heading out. It figured: I owed. Self-employed people always owe. It was a credit to Lara that she’d managed my books well enough that the amount was low, but after seeing her run off with my roommate, I decided it was a good thing our working relationship didn’t include performance reviews.

She’d also left me a jam-packed day, which turned out to be beneficial. A busy schedule kept my mind off Dorian (mostly) and what was transpiring in the Otherworld. I fought with ferocity, as though each ghost or monster I battled was Katrice herself. It was the drives in between that were the roughest on me. There was no action then. Just my own thoughts.