The Vampire's Pastry Chef (ONC 2022)

4 - I Believe They Call This A Meet-Cute

The hood to the Subaru lifted with a groan; sighing, Autumn pried the support strut from its recessed holder and propped the hood up. This thing was seriously on its last legs. As much as she wanted to get a down payment on the store, having a reliable vehicle came first. If she deducted the cost of a new (used) car from her earnings, that would only push the store purchase back another six months.

Would the Lennoxes hold it for her for that long?

That was something she had to worry about later. Wiping a hand across her forehead, Autumn studied the interior. Okay, so what's the problem here?

Well, what didn't she have to worry about? As promised, the butler, Mr Feldman, came back later in the evening to go over the dessert menu. Everything was pretty straightforward, nothing exotic, which surprised Autumn. She expected someone with that much wealth to want desserts that were expensive, strange, and out-of-the-box—all of which were beyond her capabilities.

"Mr Westbrook has very simple tastes," the butler had explained when she tentatively expressed her concerns. "He wants desserts that are elegant and delicious—nothing over the top."

There were things on the list that Autumn knew could not have blood substitutes—basically, anything that was light-colored, such as cannolis, lemon bars, danishes, and sugar cookies. After a brief discussion, Mr Feldman agreed that not everything had to contain blood. They settled on three desserts: chocolate sponge cake, red velvet cake (and its cake-pop variant), and black forest cookies. Everything else Autumn had mentioned earlier was acceptable.

Mr Feldman left several hours later with three pages of ingredients and promised to have most of them delivered the next day. The big event was in two weeks, giving Autumn plenty of time to bake, have Mr Westbrook vet the results, and make corrections as necessary.

That night, as Jordyn stayed up late chatting with her friends, Autumn collapsed in the large master bedroom and tried to sleep. But everything felt off—the bed was deliciously comfortable, covers soft as a dream, pillows just firm enough. But Autumn, instead of reveling in this luxury, only felt anxious. Ever since her parents kicked her out at seventeen and pregnant, she'd been fighting for every dime that came into her hands. None of this felt real.

So she spent the night in a restless half-sleep, waiting for the other shoe to drop, only to get up at dawn to check on the Subaru.

Oil was good, washer fluid full, fan belt still attached ... Autumn leaned forward. Ah, there was the problem. The air filter was loose. She pushed the casing with one finger and felt it wiggle. There was an old, battered toolbox in the trunk that her grandfather had left her when he passed; a few twists of a screwdriver should fix the problem.

"Do you need help?"

Carefully extracting her head from the car's interior, Autumn peered over her right shoulder. A tall man wearing baggy, paint-stained tan overalls and a grey shirt stood behind her. A grey newsboy cap sat low over his eyes and he carried an easel under one arm; the other hand held a medium-sized canvas with some sort of woodland scene painted on it. A battered black backpack hung off one shoulder. Two smudges of green paint marred the bridge of his nose.

Autumn straightened. "No, no thank you."

"Are you certain?" He took a few steps closer, angling his head to get a better look inside the hood.

"Quite certain," she replied firmly, mimicking his verbal style. Walking around to the back of the car, she opened the door and pulled out her grandfather's Craftsman toolbox. The box was heavy, but she managed to lug it around to the front of the Subaru. It hit the brick pavement with a clang and Autumn winced, glancing at the painter. Please, don't let me have broken anything, she prayed, lifting a corner of the toolbox. But the brick appeared to be made of stronger stuff and was unharmed. Phew.