Page 11 of Nine-Tenths

"Oven mitts!" I warn.

"Not necessary!" He's got the tray balanced in his claws. "Where should I—?"

And that's when the fire suppression system kicks in.

It lets out a sharp, high whistle that startles him so badly the claws of the hand holding my arm spasm. They go right through my shirt and into flesh.

I holler.

Five things happen at once.

First, he drops the tray of scones. It clatters off the tile, sending burnt pucks of dough into the air. One smacks into my leg, and two pelt him as we dance away.

Second, he yanks his claws out of my arm, blood on the tips, and freaking hell, it stings.

Third, white foam pours from the pipes that ring the kitchen ceiling, coating every surface in a bitter-tasting cloud. Including us.

Fourth, the guy makes a sort of gurgling belch noise, then a sharp bony click accompanied by a spark on his lips that looks exactly like the kind you get from a lighter.

Fifth, he spits fire.

Right into the corner. Where the giant custom bean roaster is. The drum is perforated, and the beans inside it immediately go up in flames. They're so hot they burn blue. The steel drum starts to goddamn melt.

"Coc y gath," he gasps in horror, dithering on the spot.

"Holy shit," I say, clamping my hand down over the punctures in my arm.

"I'm terribly sorry!" he shouts over the sound of the alarm and the hiss of the foam deflating around us. "I didn't mean to—I was startled!"

The urgency of the situation suddenly hits home, fire crawling up the wall toward the ceiling, and I scream: "Put it out!"

"What do you want me to do? Suck it back up?" he shouts back, all his cool calm evaporating in the heat of the inferno. "I'm a dragon, not a fire extinguisher!"

Well.

Fuck this meet-cute straight to hell, then.

Chapter Four

"You destroyed my roaster, set the kitchen on fire, and clawed up my employee," Hadi snarls ,counting off the dragon's sins on her fingers. She shouldn't look as frightening as she does, standing there in pajama pants, a rumpled hijab, and a bright purple hoodie she somehow hasn't realized is on backwards.

But he iscowed.

"I'll pay to replace them," he replies, so miserable that I genuinely feel sorry for him. His forearms are black with ash from where he clawed the burning beans out of the roaster and scattered them on the floor so I could attack them with the extinguisher. His shirt is now raggedly short-sleeved.

Hadi snorts. "Damn straight you will. And in the meantime? How am I supposed to makecoffee?"

"We'll rush-order it." He fumbles for his wallet. Soot smears all over everything, but he manages to hand Hadi an honest-to-god paper business card. She pinches a clean corner between two fingers. "Have your insurance company contact my people with the information of the upscale model. Hire professional cleaners and contractors. I'll cover it all."

Hadi looks over at me. "You heard that? I have a witness?"

From my perch on the rear fender of the ambulance, I give her a thumbs up and a goofy grin behind my oxygen mask. This is hilarious. I'm not feeling even remotely hungover anymore.

That might be the shock talking.

The garage-door style windows at the front of the café are open, letting out the last of the ugly smell. Inside Beanevolence, the fire fighters are checking over their gear and preparing to go. There's a small crowd around the outside of the police tape cordoning off the sidewalk, mostly folks from the buildings on either side of the café, which were evacuated for safety. Luckily, nobody but me has to be treated for smoke inhalation.

A sharp pain on my right bicep startles me hard enough to make a very not-manly noise. The paramedic dousing the place where the dragon's talons pierced my skin in disinfectanttsksat me and reminds me to stay still.