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It is a truth universally acknowledged that Rita’s bakery is the best in Velaris. They specialize in finger foods and exquisite little pastries, each more exotic and original than the next; but the town’s favorite – or at least, Feyre’s favorite – will always be their double chocolate chip cookies.
These are no simple cookies. Even though they have been critiqued by many a reputed culinary writer, the secret to the complexity of their taste has yet to be uncovered. With a chewy center and crispy edges, chocolate chips that explode in your mouth and a bittersweet aftertaste that is nothing short of addictive, plus the extreme exclusivity of Rita’s services, they are nothing short of an urban legend. In fact, hiring Rita for an event earns you a spot on the local gossip column for weeks, no questions asked.
Feyre supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that her cunning devil of a sister managed to get them to cater for her wedding. Or that she only made her maid of honor in order to work her to the bone. Nevertheless, as she gazes at Nesta’s dazzling smile and the absolutely enamored look in Cassian’s eyes, Feyre finds she is glad to be here. Even though she didn’t get to the cookies in time.
Her friend Alis catches her eye from a few tables away and as she walks towards her, a familiar voice makes her pause.
“Now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if any, I prefer it. But that one was aggressive. So I says to myself. I say 'Colm, this is no day for a do'. ”
The steadiness of his monotone never fails to amaze her.
“When the bride arrives, and I say by this stage, the wind was fierce. I've never heard wind like it -”
Feyre dares a peek at the new victim of her uncle Colm’s boring and endless ramblings, and the sight that greets her almost makes up for the missing cookies. Rhysand - the best man and general pain in her ass ever since she met him a couple of months ago – is the portrait of boredom. He is slouching in his chair, his chin in his hand and his eyelids drooping as he struggles to focus on uncle Colm’s story. It’s the first time she sees him without his usual smirk, and she hates that she misses it.
“Howling like a banshee it was,” her uncle drones on. “So the poor girl –”
Feyre clears her throat and Rhysand starts. She bites back a laugh at the hope that kindles in his face when he sees her.
“Feyre dear, I was just telling this handsome young fellow about –”
“The windy wedding story?”
Uncle Colm smiles at her fondly. “You remember?”
She nods solemnly. “It’s a very funny story. You should hear the rest of it, Rhysand,” she adds with a smirk.
Rhysand’s eyes are wide with horror. She can almost hear him shout ‘save me!’
“So the poor girl,” her uncle resumes his retelling, “the bride now this is –”
Feyre raises a brow defiantly. Why should I?
“She arrives and –”
He glances to his side and she follows his gaze. The prick has not one, not two, but three of Rita’s cookies on a plate.
“Isn't she no –”
“Uncle Colm,” she exclaims in a high pitched tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt such a good story, but I actually need Rhysand for a very urgent matter.”
The usually unflappable best man practically jumps out of his seat. “Duty calls, uncle Colm.”
“That’s a shame,” her uncle sighs. “I was so close to the end. Are you sure –”
“Yes,” Rhysand squeaks, and Feyre coughs to hide her laugh. “Maybe next time,” he throws over his shoulder as he drags her away.
No sooner are they out of earshot that she collapses into a fit of giggles. Rhysand frowns and she laughs harder. He tries to keep his face stern but the corners of his lips are twitching. When she finally sobers up, Feyre offers him her hand, palm up.
One groomed eyebrow lifts. “What?”
“What do you mean, what? You promised me a cookie!”
Rhysand slides his hands into his pockets and Feyre’s heart sinks. “I did no such thing.”
“But, but,” she sputters, “I saw you! You looked at those cookies!”
He chuckles, low and soft. “Those cookies aren’t mine, Feyre darling.”
“You tricked me.”
She glares up at him but freezes when her eyes fall on the doors behind him. Tamlin is here. The blood drains from her face. She can feel herself quaking in her heels and she hates how he makes her feel small just by walking in the room.
“What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer.
What in the Cauldron is he doing here? Is he here for me?
Her chest is too tight. She can’t breathe.
He’s here for me, he’s here for me, he’s here for-
“Feyre.”
She startles at Rhysand’s voice. He turns to look behind him and she grabs him by the lapel. “Don’t,” she whispers.
He patiently waits for her to explain.
“Tamlin, my ex –”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. His smile is grim.
Feyre dares another glance over his shoulder. “He’s –” she croaks, swallows, clears her throat, “comin –”
Rhysand’s lips on hers stop her short.
Feyre just stands there, too stunned to react. He draws away slightly. His hands cup her face and his thumbs stroke her cheeks lovingly. His gaze is steady on hers as he waits for her to make the next move.
Her hands are still clutching his lapels so she pulls him close and kisses him.
She means to repel Tamlin, but as soon as their lips meet she forgets everything but the man that has been haunting her dreams for months. The kiss is slow and languorous, and Feyre wonders at the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his caress. Her fingers bury in his hair and his hands trail down to her waist, setting her skin burning on their wake. She moans and he smiles. She bites his lower lip so he allows her entry, and Feyre is so busy committing the taste of him, the feel of him to memory that it takes her a couple of minutes to realize that someone is watching.
A throat clears next to them, and Feyre pulls away. Rhysand’s eyes are a mirror of what she’s feeling: a mixture of surprise, delight and longing. His smile is slow as he reads the naked emotions on her face, his hold tightening around her waist. Her fingers are still caressing the soft hair at the base of his neck.
Tamlin clears his throat once again and Feyre reluctantly untangles herself from Rhysand, though he nestles his hand in the small of her back to keep her close.
“Tamlin,” she begins and is surprised to find her voice strong and her knees steady. She remembers something an old friend of hers told her in the dark days following their break up. ‘Only you can decide what breaks you.’ And here, in Nesta’s wedding and in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre decides she is done being afraid of her controlling asshole of an ex.
She levels a condescending glare at Tamlin and says nothing, but he’s too busy scowling at Rhys to notice. “Who. Are. You?”
Feyre’s nostrils flare. How typical of him to dismiss her, to address any one but her as though what she has to say doesn’t matter.
Rhysand’s only answer is his arrogant smirk, and she kind of wants to laugh.
“Tamlin.”
Now he looks at her, frowning at the smirk dancing on her lips, a mirror of her companion’s.
“This is my boyfriend, Rhys. But you can call him Rhysand.”
Her accomplice’s fingers poke her side in amusement. “And who might you be?” he asks, looking down his nose at the man who has been haunting her nightmares for months.
“I’m Feyre’s fiancé,” Tamlin bites back.
Rhysand’s face is disinterested, almost bored. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you were engaged.”
She shoots him a sheepish smile. “I guess it slipped my mind.” And because she just can’t help herself, she puts a hand back on his muscled chest and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t think of much when you’re around.”
The moment she says it, the truth of it resonates in her heart. She doesn’t know what gives her away, but something sparks in Rhysand’s eyes and he pulls her impossibly closer. “Yeah?”
She bites her lip. “Yeah.”
His smile takes her breath away. She doesn’t bother looking back at Tamlin as she declares, “For the record, asshole, we are not engaged. I refused your proposal three months ago.”
“You were confused. You don’t know what –” Tamlin starts but Rhysand interrupts him, “You heard the lady.”
Rhysand’s gaze doesn’t stray from hers for a second. Feyre is drowning, no, floating in this moment. She feels free, unmoored. She wants to throw her head back and laugh until she cries. She wants to dance until her feet ache. She wants to hold this man and never let go.
“Thank you,” her voice is earnest. “You saved me.”
He leans so close their noses touch. “You know, Tamlin left a few seconds ago.”
Feyre loops her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”
His eyes are brighter than stars. “About those cookies,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “I could bake you some.”
She raises a disbelieving brow.
“I know, I know. I’m no Rita, but I happen to have a mighty good recipe. Except instead of flour, I use oatmeal –”
Feyre grimaces.
“Instead of butter, coconut oil.”
She scrunches her nose in disgust.
“And instead of chocolate –”
“You’re replacing chocolate?”
“It could be a date.”
Feyre’s heart stumbles. She glances left and right then stands on the tips of her toes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “I would be burned at the stake if the people around here found out I chose this awful creation instead of a good ol’ Ritacookie –”
Rhysand rolls his eyes.
“But it’s a date.”