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Oscar needs to eat. This is something that can wait.
I retrieve the salt from the stash in the cupboard.
There’s a little less than I expected, which plays into my suspicions that Noah’s using it more than he let on. It’s enough for this meal, for all of us. Maybe I’ll just hold off on making another, much smaller batch, for a while.
“Okay,” I say as I sit down, taking the lid off the salt. “This salt can make food taste like anything you want it to taste like. I’m going to sprinkle it on your breakfast, and you get to decide what it tastes like.”
Everett doesn’t look sure. “I don’t think I want bacon flavored oatmeal.”
Noah laughs. “That’s not how it works. You’ll think you’re eating bacon. It’s magic. There’s texture involved. It’s freaking awesome.”
Oh yeah. He’s addicted to this stuff. And I’m the one who got him hooked.
I suppose there are worse things, but I can’t believe I didn’t notice.
Oscar’s not the only one who’s been hiding something.
“You don’t need to sell it to me,” Oscar says. “If Cheryl made it, it has to be awesome.”
I smile and Everett throws up his hands. “Fine. Go ahead. I’ll try not to gag.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” Oscar tells him.
Noah snorts.
I sprinkle Everett’s oatmeal and look at him.
“You’re thinking of bacon, right? Not bacon flavored oatmeal.”
He frowns, and I can tell he’s having a hard time separating the two.
This feels kind of like the moment right before the marshmallow man appears inGhostbusters.
I just know he’s going to end up with bacon flavored oatmeal.
“Yeah,” he says.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” He really isn’t. Oh well. He’ll learn, or if he doesn’t at least he won’t ever get addicted to magic salt like Noah.
I invoke the spell and move on to Noah’s bowl.
His eyes light up as he looks at the sprinkle of salt glistening with lightly twinkling magic.
“You’re thinking about what you want it to taste like?” I ask.
“Chocolate pudding,” he says.
I invoke the spell, and he makes a yummy food noise before I even turn Oscar’s way.
My Omega mate seems much brighter now than he was before our visitor arrived. It’s a huge relief that the guy didn’t come in here making demands. I hope he’s as reasonable as he appeared. If some of his pack are the assholes and he’s not, we don’t have anything to worry about.
“What do you want your food to taste like?” I ask.
“Anything that isn’t oatmeal,” he admits, as he pokes at it with his spoon.
“Strawberries in cream?” I suggest, making him smile.
