Hot Blooded

sold well enough.
    "Checking up on my goods?" Heather said from the kitchen door. Mariann wasn't
sure what she'd been expecting, but Heather's grin was the same as always: wide
and full of sass. She looked her employer up and down. "You look good, boss.
Playing hooky must agree with you."
    "I… I didn't—"
    Before she could stammer out an explanation, Heather squeezed her into a hug.
Behind the girl's back, Bastien smiled at her and shrugged. He looked, Mariann
thought, extremely pleased with himself.
    "I'm glad you're all right," Heather said. "Not that I begrudge you your
night of fun. You and Bastien are made for each other. It's just that working on
my own was, like, totally horrible. I miss it when you don't teach me the baking
stuff. Those jerk-offs at the cooking school were way too stick-up-the-butt,
expecting me to be, like, Ms. Cordon Bleu before I even got there. You made me
believe I could learn."
    The compliment affected Mariann more than she expected. Blinking hard, she
patted Heather's back. "I won't leave you alone again," she promised. "At least
not for a while. You don't need to be overstressed."
    Heather fell back from her, mouth agape, then turned accusingly to Bastien.
"You told her! It was bad enough that you guessed. I wanted to break the news
myself."
    Bastien pressed his hand to his heart. "My heartfelt apologies, Mistress
Heather. How may I make amends?"
    "You can't," Heather said. "And don't call me that goofy name. Man. Old
people think they don't have to ask permission for anything."
    Ignoring the jibe at Bastien's age—more appropriate than Heather knew—Mariann
assured her she was happy if Heather was. Heather turned pink and mumbled a
response, something about Eric and her not getting married yet, but being
prepared to "act like a team." Whatever Bastien had done to impose his thrall,
he hadn't changed the real her.
    "I'm proud of you, kiddo," Mariann said, "keeping this place together by
yourself. A lot of employees would have thrown in the towel. That tells me you
and Eric should do fine. Why don't we—" She paused to take a breath. "Why don't
we go back in the kitchen and I'll show how to make my grandfather's famous
Vermont Mountain Fudge Cake."
    "Really?" Heather cocked her head. "Your Gramps's recipe? Like, can I copy it
down and all?"
    "You bet," she said, feeling strangely light. "You're part of my team, too.
It's time I treated you that way."
    "Wow," said Heather. "Cool."
    Â 
    "SHE thinks I'm a good teacher," Mariann said, still hugging the memory to
her. "And she didn't seem to find it odd that I made her do all the tasting. I
know it's early yet, but maybe this will work out."
    Bastien squeezed her hand, then let it swing between their hips. He didn't
have to say a word. She knew he guessed how sweet her optimism felt, as sweet as
knowing their thoughts were in harmony. Every time their fingers twined, the
contact felt more natural—until she gave up on trying to fight her pleasure. Now
they were climbing the grand main staircase at the inn, following the curve of
mahogany risers to the second floor. The Night Owl was dark, but Mariann could
see everything perfectly, down to the muted greens and browns of the wallpaper.
    She had to admit she liked her new hypersenses. Her nose had told her the
state of her cooking almost as well as Heather's tastebuds.
    At the top, they stopped to admire the black-and-white diamond patterns in
the marble floor below. Apart from a few empty spots in the decor, the
renovations looked done. Seeming nervous, Bastien released her hand. Mariann
pretended she didn't mind.
    "So," he said, "how does the place strike you?"
    "Quiet. Plush. Even though a lot of this stuff is new, it looks like the real
McCoy. I feel like I'm time traveling."
    "Good," he said. 'That's what I wanted."
    "Figure you'd get the humans to meet you halfway?"
    "Perhaps. Of course, halfway for me would be more like the Renaissance."
    "I'm afraid I never was much for counting if it didn't involve spoons and
cups."
    "Ah," he said, a sound that came out as awkward as it was pleased. She
suspected he was leery of putting a foot wrong. Their new rapport must have
seemed as delicate to him as it did to her.
    "Bastien," she said, hoping to make him relax. "Why do you want an inn? It
seems a peculiar business for a… an
upyr
to have."
    "Do you want the easy answer or the hard?"
    "Both."
    She turned to