“It’s better than it sounds.”
I was still furious at him, but I could share my meal. He was my father, and I couldn’t just write him off. I wanted answers, though.
I chopped a shallot and set it aside for a can of enchilada sauce. As I cooked, my father took a seat at the island and watched me intently.
“Do you ever cook for yourself?” I asked.
He blinked in surprise. “Erm. No. I have people for that.”
I snorted. “Don’t you worry they’ll try to poison you?”
Cernunnos frowned. “I wasn’t until just now.”
Royalty. So smart and yet so clueless. “You probably have poison sniffers you don’t know about.”
“My chefs have been with me for years. I don’t worry about it too much. Why do you enjoy cooking?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t have ‘hire a private chef money.’”
My father rolled his eyes. “You do.”
My hand stilled in the act of stirring the cream into the enchilada sauce. I’d forgotten about this supposed account he had for me. “You were serious about that.”
“Evangeline.” His tone was chiding. “You are my daughter. Of course I’m serious about providing for you. I will send Birch over later with the pertinent details.”
“I have money.” My voice sounded a little more petulant than I wanted it to be.
“Never said you didn’t.” He smiled. “But you now have private chef money.”
“I like cooking. There’s something therapeutic about taking something in its rawest form and transforming it into something else, something delicious that provides comfort and sustenance.”
My father’s face softened. “Spoke like a true Floromancer. Life begins as a seed and produces some incredible things, does it not?”
I thought of the massive jacaranda tree still blooming in Caelan’s yard. “It certainly does.” Once the pasta water was on, I softened the onions and added the ground beef, seasoning the mixture as I thought about when to chew my father out for his actions.
The conversation could wait until after dinner.
Dad and I made small talk as I made him a bowl. I’d discovered the recipe several years back, gave it a hesitant try, and ended up loving everything about the dish. Seasoned ground beef with a little sauteed shallot mixed into a heavily seasoned enchilada, cream, and cheese mixture, and poured over the top of elbow pasta sounded weird but tasted like heaven.
We carried over our bowls and drinks and settled into the living room. The house was a little cool, so I pulled a blanket over my lap.
Dad took a bite and grunted in surprise. “This is delicious.”
“Thanks. It’s one of my go-to comfort meals.”
“I can see why. Maybe I’ll pass the recipe to my chef.” A sly grin curved his lips. “I tire of greens for every dish. This would give the poor man apoplexy.”
“Can you source ground beef in fae?”
“I can source anything I wish to.”
“Ah yes,” I said dryly. “With all your private chef money.”
Dad laughed. The sound warmed me, almost making me forget I was pissed at him. We ate in companionable silence after that, and when the meal was finished, and I’d poured us another glass of wine, I curved my hands around my glass and studied him.
He sighed. “Have at me, Evangeline. Your disapproval shimmers through the air like fairy lights.”
I stared at him over my glass, thinking of all the questions I wanted to ask, all the things I wanted to say to him, but none of it mattered except for the most important one. “Why?”
