The scent of warm cheese and freshly baked scones drifted down the main street of Middlemarch, sneaking through open windows, and luring locals toward the heart of town—Emily Mitchell’s café, Storm in a Teacup.
Inside, the counter gleamed, the old timber floor creaked comfortingly, and sunlight slanted through sheer curtains. Locals packed the tables, sipping tea and coffee, chatting, and—without exception—devouring cheese scones.
Emily wiped her hands on her apron and surveyed her kingdom. She’d baked three trays that morning. They were already gone.
“I need to make more,” she muttered, heading for the kitchen.
From the back of the café came the deep, amused voice of her husband, Saber Mitchell. “You made more than usual.”
“Still not enough,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she passed him. “They’re snapping them up fast.”
Saber leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, green eyes glinting. “Funny you should say that.”
Emily paused mid-step, giving him a look. “You didn’t tell them to come in droves again, did you?”
Saber grinned, unapologetic. “I might’ve mentioned that today’s batch had extra vintage cheddar.”
“Saber.”
“I didn’t tell them to overwhelm you. I merely hinted.”
Emily shook her head, lips twitching. “They’re worse than teenagers with bottomless pits for stomachs.”
“Shifters burn more calories,” he said with a shrug. “Fast metabolisms. High energy.”
“And an obsession with my baking.”
“With you, kitten,” he said, eyes warm.
She blushed and pushed into the kitchen, already reaching for flour. “Flattery won’t get you more scones.”
But it might, she admitted silently, because she loved how he always looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
She measured ingredients, added butter, cheese and milk, mixing her dough by instinct. Emily had once dreamed of owning a café, but she’d never imagined it would become the unofficial meeting place of Middlemarch’s shifter community—especially not after falling for a man who could transform into a sleek black leopard.
She didn’t mind. Mostly.
Though sometimes the sneaky feline visits left scratch marks on her floors. And once, someone had tried to bring a live rabbit as a hint for rabbit pie. That had not gone over well.
The bell over the door chimed again. Emily stuck her head out to check the crowd.
A new face stood by the counter—young, female, wide-eyed. She wore city clothes and uncertainty, especially since a group of single men were studying her closely. Her fingers curled around a camera strap slung across her chest.
“Can I help you?” Emily asked.
The girl glanced at the chalkboard menu, then back at Emily. “Are you the one who makes the cheese scones?”
“I am.”
“They’re famous online. Someone posted a review on a food blog. I had to see for myself.”
Emily blinked. “Well, welcome to Middlemarch.”
The girl smiled shyly. “I’ll have one to eat here. Please.”
Emily sighed. “You’ll have to wait a bit. They’re all gone—but I’ve got another batch in the works.”
Behind her, Saber appeared, leaning lazily against the wall like he had all the time in the world. The girl glanced at him, blinked, then quickly looked away.
Emily handed her a mug of tea while she waited. “What’s your name?”
“Zara. I’m a food photographer. Sort of freelance. And… I heard rumors.”
Emily tilted her head. “About the scones?”
Zara hesitated. “Not just that. About the town.”
Saber tensed, but Emily simply smiled. “We’re a small place. People love a bit of mystery.”
Zara lowered her voice. “Someone said the people here aren’t all…normal. I thought it was just a local legend. But then I saw a man leap straight over a six-foot fence.”
“Strong legs,” Emily said cheerfully. “Must be all the dairy.”
Zara laughed, uncertain. “Right.”
The kitchen timer buzzed, and Emily vanished into the back. When she returned, she carried a tray that smelled like heaven—all that cheesy goodness.
She placed one scone and a butter pat on a plate and delivered it to Zara’s table.
Zara sliced the scone in two and added butter. She lifted one half and took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God. That’s not just cheese.”
“No,” Emily said, smiling. “It’s love.”
“And paprika,” Saber added dryly.
Zara scarfed down the rest, blissed out. “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten in my life.”
A low purring sound rolled through the café.
Emily didn’t react. She was used to it now—the rumble of contentment from Saber when he was especially pleased. Most people didn’t notice. Zara did.
She frowned slightly, glancing around.
“I…heard something.”
Saber coughed.
“Must be the heater,” Emily said.
Zara finished her tea and rose, brushing crumbs from her lap. “I’ll definitely write about this place. Is it okay if I take a photo of you with the scones?”
Emily posed, holding a tray fresh from the oven. Saber stayed at the edge of the frame, his watchful gaze never quite leaving the visitor.
Zara snapped the shot. “Thank you again.”
As she turned to go, Saber followed her to the door. Quiet. Unobtrusive. Leopard-silent.
When she was gone, Emily leaned on the counter. “She knows something.”
“She suspects,” he said. “But she doesn’t know.”
“You’ll warn everyone?”
Saber nodded. “Already done.”
Emily looked at the empty tray and smiled.
Let them come.
Let them wonder.
Let the world whisper about mysterious Middlemarch and its irresistible cheese scones.
She knew the real secret wasn’t the paprika or the vintage cheddar—or even the fresh country air of Middlemarch.
It was the way this place, this life, this love—made her feel.
Whole.
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