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“I invited her to go sailing already. You can stop prying. You’re right. I need to test this out.”
“And her.” Marcel chuckles. “Make up a potential lover and tell her about it. Just something casual, light to see if she has the same reaction as you did to her cousin.”
I wince. Why did I tell him that last night? I know better by now.
“That sounds like being manipulative.” I remove my hand from my hip before anyone in the marina can see.
“Yeah, for like five seconds. You know you want to ask her about her love life.”
“We’re neighbors,” I explain for what feels like the tenth time. “Neighbors sail with each other. It’s the nice and safe thing to do.”
“Just don’t forget about the romance.” It’s like Marcel hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.
“That’s it. I’m forgetting this number. Goodbye.” I hang up on him because I can. It doesn't do much to soothe me. It’s one thing if Marcel thinks I have feelings for Clarissa. It’s something totally different if I think it, too.
You do things with friends all the time,I remind myself, not sure if I believe what I’m saying.
17
CLARISSA
The smell of baking dough mixes with roasted chicken breast, sauteed mushrooms and onions, and a bubbling sauce of stock and cream. It’s heavenly. Even the thyme and rosemary are easily picked out in the aromas wafting through my kitchen.
It’s been too long since I made a recipe that took hours to complete. But I know when that time goes off in ten minutes, it’ll all be worth it. And now with my hand healed and the cast finally off, I can cook properly.
The process itself is always soothing. Kneading the dough, dicing the ingredients, even measuring spices feels like a meditation on life and how we sustain it.
It’s the biggest reason why I became a baker. I love every bit of the work involved. Even cleaning the dishes afterward is calming. The other reason I became a baker is that I love good food. I never have to worry about where I’m going to get a perfect pistachio croissant if I can just make some myself, after all.
Being away from my work for this long has been stressful. Honestly, if I could just bake all day, this transition may have been easier to handle. Alas, I have to learn how to handle home maintenance instead. This little break I’ve planned for myself has been vital for my mental health.
Some girls take bubble baths for self-care. Others get massages and skin treatments. I make chicken pot pie.
The timer goes off, and I grab my oven mitts. Opening the oven door, my face is hit with an incredible aromatic steam that makes my mouth begin to water. The crust is golden and flaky, thanks in part to the egg wash I spread on top. Even the little leaf cutouts I made from leftover dough look delicious.
I set the pie aside for a few minutes to let the contents cool and settle. Nothing good ever comes from putting a spoonful of boiling hot gravy in one’s mouth. I help myself to some iced sweet tea while I wait and idly stare out the window.We don’t sail until later this afternoon, but I’m still trying to find ways to see him.
Emile seems to be home right now. He isn’t working in his garden at the moment, so I can’t ogle him while he flexes his muscles and works up a sweat under his almost too-tight T-shirts. Pity.
I briefly consider bringing him a slice of the pie. Do vampires like pot pie? It has meat in it, but I guess no blood. Would it be rude to offer him food without blood? Can he even eat it? There’s so much I don’t know. Maybe I can use the pot pie as an excuse to learn more about vampires. More about Emile.
I grab two bowls and slice the cooled pie into eight equal pieces. I carefully scoop a portion into each bowl and top them with fresh chopped parsley, then drizzle a basil-infused b-negative gravy onto his. If I weren’t in a complete social media blackout, I would be tempted to take perfectly lit photos of the dish and post them with a dozen relevant hashtags. Instead, I take another sip of my iced tea and consider my options.
I smile, thinking about enjoying a slow, lazy meal in Emile’s kitchen. Something about the image feels so wholesome and right. I want to linger in that fantasy for a while, let myself get carried away to another reality where he and I are able to be together, completely honest and no holds barred.
Unfortunately, the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the floor wrench me out of that fantasy and back into a world where rude government agents help themselves into your home whenever they want.
“Really?” I ask, walking to the entranceway. Todd looks pissed, as always, and frankly, I’m starting to take his criticism less and less seriously.
“What would you do if I were a hitman, huh? Shoot me with a glass of soda?” Todd asks. “You’d be dead before that cup hit the floor.”
“Isn’t it your job to make sure the hitman doesn’t even get to this point?” I roll my eyes and stomp back to the kitchen. So much for softly lit fantasies of domesticity. Nope, I have a U.S. Marshal to babysit.
“Just because you have me doesn’t mean you can get sloppy. You have to maintain vigilance, understand?” Todd asks while following me into the kitchen. “Huh, smells like you took my advice and learned how to cook.”
“I already knew how to cook! That’s why I’m in this mess, remember? I’m a baker!” I cry.
“Baking and cooking are two different things. They’re like the two sides of a successful agent. Baking takes know-how and hard compliance to the rules, but cooking requires instinct and an ability to think on your feet.”
