Chapter Four
I’m not a huge fan of rodents, especially rats. But as I stared down into the box, immobile with shock, I realized that the creature inside had tensed up, whiskers trembling, its furry body practically shrinking in on itself.
It was terrified.
Well, that made two of us.
But realizing the rat was just as scared helped a little. I took a breath and studied it, as though that might provide some explanation for what it was doing in my kitchen. The rat was white with splotches of pale butterscotch, and as I watched it lifted its front paws and held them close to its little face, almost as if it were praying. And honestly, it wasn’t cute, exactly, but it wasn’t not-cute, either.
“It’s okay,” I told the rat, slowly closing the lid of the box so it wouldn’t escape.
A rat in a box was one thing. A rat loose in the kitchen of my café was quite another.
“Glory O’Bryan. A little bird told me you’d had a good day, so I brought you something to celebrate.”
I looked up to find Horst leaping into the window, his hair tousled over his forehead in that way that made me kind of stupid. There was something otherworldly about him, which made sense given he was half-fae. His honey-colored eyes glimmered as they took in my face, then dropped to the box in my hand, where the tag with the words “For the Pied Piper” was visible.
“Oh. You got me something, too?”
“It’s a rat,” I said, still struggling to wrap my mind around this unexpected—and very weird—gift.
He squinted slightly, his head cocking to one side. “Huh. I got you tacos.” He lifted one hand, which gripped a white bag. “I don’t know where a rat falls on the spectrum of gifts. Did I overbuy or underbuy?”
“It’s not from me,” I said, holding the box out for him to take. “Someone left it here.”
“Ah.” Horst set his bag of tacos down on a nearby counter. He moved carefully, purposefully, as though he had some concerns about this development but didn’t want to alarm me. I watched his face take on the cocky, flirtatious look that was part of the mask he usually wore in public to keep people from seeing the real him.
Not that the real him wasn’t also cocky and flirtatious. It was just different somehow.
“Alive or dead?”
“I—” I broke off, staring at him. “What?”
“Sending someone a rat seems like a message, doesn’t it? I assume the message is different depending on whether the rat is alive or dead.”
Did I want to think too hard about the fact that the guy I was currently in a BFF situation with felt there was a chance someone might send him a dead rat?
No. No, I did not.
“What would it mean if the rat was alive?” I asked.
He pursed his lips, deep in thought. “I suppose a living rat could mean, ‘Hey, you’re a rat.’ Or it might say, ‘I heard you would good at caring for small creatures and needed a good home for my pet.’”
Somehow I didn’t think it was the latter. “And a dead rat?”
“Oh, well, that could mean, ‘I’d like to help you with your pest control needs and here’s a pre-dead rat to show you how good I am.’ Or it could mean, ‘I meant to give you a living rat but didn’t poke enough airholes in the box.’”
His fingers fidgeted at his sides, and I knew he was thinking about another possibility. “Or?” I asked.
He shrugged, and even though I was worried about the rat situation, I was still able to appreciate the way his muscles shifted under his shirt with the movement. He was complicated, yes, but...those muscles.
