Page 8 of Eager Beaver
“What, like the stuff in the bottle shaped like my granny?” I asked.
Guy reared back, aghast. “Non! Nothing like it. That fake syrup is an abomination to nature.” He turned in his seat to reach intothe inside pocket of his coat that was draped over his chair and pulled out a small glass bottle of amber liquid.
“Do you actually walk around with a bottle of maple syrup in your pocket?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, lips twitching. “You never know when you might have a breakfast emergency,” he said, turning my own words back on me.
I laughed. “You mean like this?” I gestured at the subpar food in front of me. It was standard buffet fare, which was fine, but it had been sitting in warming pans for too long and was all soggy. And it was in serious need of saving.
“If you’ve never had the real thing before, you have to try this. I insist.” He uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount over my breakfast—not just the French toast but also the hashbrowns and bacon.
The first thing I noticed was that the consistency was entirely different. And then I put a bite of food in my mouth, and I swore my entire world was turned on its axis. I saw heaven, I tell you! Sweet and rich, a hint of maple without the overpowering artificial flavors. The gastronomical glory! I swore my eyes rolled back into my head. I was ruined for all other syrups for the rest of time.
“Ohmygods,” I mumbled around my mouthful, finally coming back to my senses. “How much time has passed? What day of the week is it? I might’ve blacked out for a second. How have I never tried this before?”
“Don’t they sell it in your stores?” he asked, genuinely fascinated by my reaction.
“Well, I mean, yeah, but it’s so expensive, and I just assumed it would be the same. This, though… Mmghffh.” I let out a guttural near-orgasmic moan, drawing attention from the other diners. Guy didn’t seem concerned about their attention, though. No,his eyes remained firmly fixed on my mouth as I licked the syrup from my lips, then my fork, before moving on to my fingers.
“And French toast is just the tip of the iceberg,” I said, my mind whirring on all cylinders, gears chugging to life and building momentum. “Muffins, with an oatmeal cinnamon crumble on top, cookies, tarts. Not just dessert, though. I could do savory too!”
“Salmon,” Guy said, and I slammed my palm down on the table with enough force to rattle the cutlery.
“Yes! Salmon!” I agreed.
I shoved back from the table, the legs of my chair grinding against the floorboards with an angry squeal.
“Where are you going?” Guy asked.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing his hand without a second thought and dragging him from his seat. There wasn’t really anything for him to do, but it just made sense that he had to come too. “I need to write down all these ideas before I forget what the syrup tastes like. Sauces and spreads!” I shouted on the way out of the dining room, towing Guy behind me. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”
He was a large man, he could’ve pulled his hand from mine easily, but instead, he laced our fingers and came willingly. Eagerly, even.
6
Guy
Dinner@WiseGuys,7pm!
Count us in!
Hey, Guy, you coming?
I probably should’ve felt bad about all the missed texts in the group chat with my fellow sauciers, but it was honestly easy to ignore them. Too easy, in fact, when it was a choice between socializing with mere acquaintances or my fated mate. Tomorrow, though, was supposed to be the first day of the conference. There were panels discussing package design, food-safe sanitizing, and marketing strategies. I was expected to be there, I’d paid to attend! Tell that to my beaver, though.
Sensing my doubt, he chuffed.Âme sœur,he repeated yet again.Toujours.
Yes, I know, I assured him.I will always choose our mate.Always. Even if it meant putting my own aspirations on the backburner. The dream I’d always had for my future had drastically changed. Now there was only Fable. I just wished there was a way to balance everything.
I flopped down on the bed and stretched out, hands behind my head to hide my fists. Outwardly, I was a picture of calm. Cool, collected, and not at all too intense or overtly threatening to a certain tasty omega. Inside, though, I was a snarl of tangled roots.
Fable was currently alternating rummaging through his suitcase and the dresser drawers, looking for something to wear to his reunion tonight. Periodically, he would grab a shirt and walk over to the bathroom mirror, holding it up in front of himself to see how it looked, before shaking his head sharply, somehow displeased with whatever he saw. Then he would go back to the dresser and go through the whole process again. His frown only got more and more pronounced.
“I know it’s none of my business, but what was wrong with that one?” I asked, gesturing to the blue button-down he’d just tossed over his shoulder onto the floor. I hadn’t seen anything wrong with any of the shirts, but that one had earned a curse from him.
“It’s too pale. They might have black lights at this reunion, and I don’t want to look like a glow stick. This isn’t a rave.”
“So, what about the black one?” I asked. I’d thought that one made his skin look like porcelain.
