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And it meant facing the fact she couldn’t keep dragging her feet on submitting the book.
“It’s good enough or it’s not, Breen,” she told herself. “Either way, you wrote it, and that’s more than you ever thought you’d do.”
If it wasn’t good enough, she’d try to make it better.
“Like I made myself better.” She turned up her wrist.
“Misneach, and don’t you forget it.”
She had a life here, and in Talamh. And in both she felt productive and happy. She was damn well going to keep that life, that productivity, and that happy.
All she had to do to make sure of it was defeat a god.
The following afternoon, as the rain continued, she followed Marco’s recipes to the letter—such as they were. At least for the Italian bread he had very specific amounts. The red sauce for the lasagna she planned for his welcome home dinner proved more problematic.
“I’ve seen him do it countless times,” she told Bollocks as he sat and watched her chop herbs. “And he’s not coming home from getting engaged—and Iknowhe’s coming home engaged—and making dinner.”
She added the herbs, stirred the pot, and resisted the temptation to do a spell that turned her sauce into Marco’s.
“It’s not really cheating, but it could go wrong.”
She uncovered the bread dough she’d formed into very, very careful football-shaped loaves for the final rising.
Saw the pair of them had somehow merged together into a fat, puffy blob with a slight fork at the top.
“Shit, shit, shit! Why? We’ll fix it.”
She started to use her fingers, then imagined the loaves deflating like balloons.
“It’s not cheating,” she insisted, and just held her hands over the mass, gently, slowly separating them. “I did all the work, and no shortcuts, so it’s not cheating.”
She slid them into the oven, over a shallow bowl of water already steaming—for reasons she didn’t understand, but Marco had in the recipe.
She set the timer and hoped for the best.
“Now we clean up.” And, Jesus, she’d made a mess.
By the time she’d dealt with the dishes, taken out the bread—and it looked pretty good—she heaved out a huge breath.
“It’s exhausting! How can he love doing this all the time? Let’s get the hell out of here, Bollocks.”
She grabbed her rain jacket, tossed up her hood.
After the heat and terror of the kitchen, the cool and wet felt like a blessing.
The rain—if it rained in Talamh—might delay his travel.
Even as she thought it, he walked down the path toward her.
“Marco Polo!” She and Bollocks ran to him together. She jumped into a hug while Bollocks just jumped.
“I was just thinking you might not get back for a few hours because of the rain.”
“Sun’s shining in Talamh. Sure is pouring here.” He gave her a hard squeeze before he drew back.
And when she saw the light in his eyes, she bounced like Bollocks.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
