Nicolas Roja dug his fingers into a ball of dough, feeling the firmness and resilience of it in his strong hands. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell, and both the great and subtle distinctions from the rolls he'd made that morning. Even though his bakery and deli was successful enough that he could have hired chefs to take care of all of this, he'd rather be in the kitchens. He loved the heat of the ovens, the smell of baking bread, the joy of watching a rustic loaf or an elegant pastry come together under his expertise.
Inside him, the spirit of a jaguar reclined, watching the world from bored but comfortable eyes.
His jaguar didn't care much for his chosen profession. For most of the day it rested, content and unbothered, deep within Nicolas's core being. Sometimes he would be seized by yearning for the forest trails on the other side of Highway 1, or catch a waft of the fresh air from the open window in the back of the kitchen, but his jaguar knew it would get its chance. The work day was only so long.
He knew it was getting on in the afternoon when the evening manager-in-training pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. "What are you working on?"
Nicolas grinned. The evening manager, a young woman named Cheli, sidled to the side, as if sensing the predator in his smile. She knew him well enough to know he'd never hurt her, and he'd loved her like a little sister since she'd come begging a job at the deli three years ago, but she was a deer shifter. Her inner deer regarded his jaguar with natural wariness.
"A new experiment," he said. "British pork pies." He set out the dough he'd made yesterday: it had been chilling in the fridge overnight, and had just come back up to room temperature. Now it was time to roll it out, shape it into stout little cups, and fill it with the seasoned meat mixture he'd made earlier. It was a lot of work, and the final steps wouldn't be done until the next day, but he had always been patient.
"Is that what the stink's been about?" Cheli asked, wrinkling her nose. He'd been boiling pork bones and hocks in the big industrial crock pot, and she'd moved it into his office. Now his office was permeated with the smell of fresh rendered pork gelatin, which he didn't mind, but had caused her to start giving the door a wide berth.
"Are you going back to vegetarianism?" he asked.
"Are you trying to convince me to? You have feet in there."
Nicolas laughed. The dough took shape under the rolling pin, and his shoulders rolled as he worked.
He'd started to experiment with different pastries when he found a mentor who was a traditional Mexican chef, producing bolillos and tortillas and empanadas and polvoróns and buñuelos in his homey kitchen. He'd hoped it would be a way to connect with a culture he'd never been exposed to, growing up.
He hadn't found what he was looking for in the cuisine of Mexico, but he had found a love of cooking. And while he didn't think knowing how to bake a British pork pie would make him feel like he had a place in the world, it might at least make the customers in his deli happy. And his deli was the place where he felt most at home, these days.
Cheli came up to his side, looking at the countertop where he worked. "Are those going to be ready for the dinner rush?"
"No," he said. "These won't be ready until tomorrow. That's why I have those baking off." He nodded to the big commercial oven.
Cheli bounded over and peered into the door, and a laugh escaped her mouth. "What are those?"
"Poires en Cage," he said. He'd made them before: poached pear halves baked in lattices of light, buttery puff pastry. He'd poached the pears in spices and rum, and he was planning on filling them with an airy whipped cream when they cooled.
"Oh, those will go fast!" Cheli said. "I think we'll have a new regular offering soon."
All Nicolas's experiments went into the fun case: a set of handsome display shelves with feedback ballots placed prominently to one side. Regular customers of Nico's Deli always came by to check out the items in the fun case, unpredictable as they were. The ballots let them vote on whether or not to add the treat to the regular offerings.
Nicolas was reaching for a circular cookie cutter when the bell at the front door jangled.
Nico dusted off his hands, and went over to the door. The counter was staffed, but he always like knowing what was going on inside his deli... his domain. If it was a regular he liked, he might come out and chat for a while.
Instead, he saw an unfamiliar woman, pale skin suggesting that she hadn't spent much time in the Los Cazadores sun. She was pretty, Nicolas thought. Strong legs and wide hips and generous curves, tantalizingly hidden by her modest T-shirt and jeans. She dressed like she was completely unaware of her own looks.
Her own beauty: she turned, glancing over the employee at the counter and up to the menu on the blackboard above him, and Nicolas caught a glimpse of her eyes. Just a glimpse, but it drew him out of the doorway and up to the counter to get a better look.
"New in town?" he asked, with a disarming grin.
The woman looked down, and her eyes met his. And Nicolas's heart stuttered.
His jaguar, who had been lying languid in his core, roared to life.
My mate, he thought. This woman is my mate.