“Beef Wellington,” she murmurs. “And Hasselback potatoes. Not easy to get them looking this good.”
I don’t say anything as she cuts open her Wellington, waiting for her judgment. From where I’m sitting, it looks like the beef is the right color inside, and the dough the perfect thickness. I have to stop my clawed toes from tapping on the floor as she cuts herself a piece and pops it in her mouth.
Peony’s grin is unguarded and broad.
“Amazing,” she says, and I think then that she might be the loveliest woman to ever walk the face of this earth.
peony
Rupert Edgewood is an unbelievable cook. We would have been more than happy to have him in the kitchen back at the restaurant, claws and all.
He sure is something to look at, too. His face, though resembling an animal, is far more human in its expressions than I expected. His brows crease in the same way anyone’s do when they’re anxious, waiting for me to speak. He’s clutching his utensils with his big, awkward hands, but not using them. The voluminous mane of hair that begins behind his ears is slick and shiny, and cascades down the back of his neck to his shoulders. Everywhere else—besides his hands, face, and feet—is brown and furry, almost like a long-haired dog.
Oh, and then there’s the tail. The long, sweeping tail that’s scaled, too, the tip of which absently flicks as Rupert sits at the other end of the table, studying my reactions to his food.
Which is fucking delicious, by the way. The appetizer was simple, but it utterly blew my mind. The flavors, too, weren’t overly complex but complemented each other flawlessly.
And then, a perfectly cooked beef Wellington? I was dumbfounded when he brought it out on a tray, this eight-foot monster with claws like scythes, and set it down gently in front of me. I’d never seen a pastry shell that looked so utterly delectable.
Mr. Edgewood seated himself across from me again, looking awkward in the small chair, his odd hind legs crossing under the table. The fact he speaks with such a pronounced English accent only emphasizes his strangeness.
While his eyes are foreign to me, with yellow sclera and reptile-like pupils, they are undeniably human. I can see all his anxiety, all his vulnerability, and I soften toward him. It must be complicated to look as he does and likely brings many difficult emotions to the surface. But he’s trying to make it up to me, to impress me and make me feel welcome, despite his discomfort with his appearance.
Once Kellen and I have settled into eating our dinner, Rupert rises again and disappears into the kitchen. I’m curious what he has planned for dessert if this is how he’s treated me so far.
And where did he learn this? It’s far above the level of a casual home cook.
Kellen glances at me as we eat. “Did you have a good shopping trip today?” Once again, he reminds me of a dad trying casually to make conversation at the dinner table.
“Yep. And I got the bank account set up.” I wink. “See? I listen.”
He nods approvingly. “Quite a good ensemble you chose.”
I wonder if Rupert appreciates it, too. I want him to likeit. I want him to think it looks good on me. Rubbing my cheeks, I look down to find my plate totally empty.
Then, as if he’s been summoned, Rupert appears again in the doorway. It’s a marvel that his tall, curved horns don’t bump on the ceiling, but it seems as if the whole mansion has been built to accommodate his frame.
He sets a plate down in front of me that has a chocolate lava cake in the middle with a side of cream. When my mouth falls open, he grins.
This is what I made for him that night he didn’t show up. How did he know?
“I saw it in the trash,” Rupert explains in that wonderfully low voice, “and I thought there was a good chance it was your favorite. No fancy chocolate shell, though.”
“I love lava cake.” Taking the warm cream, I pour it over the top, then cut into the cake. The velvety chocolate inside oozes out, and I give a little squeal. This is the best part.
When I look up, Rupert is grinning even wider, showing off his long fangs.
“I thought so,” he says, a tinge smug. I don’t mind, though, because he was absolutely right.
I devour the cake even though I’m already full, to the point that I wonder if I might just burst. When I’ve scraped up every last bit of chocolate and cream on the plate, I fall back into my chair and exhale long and deep.
“Is it gauche of me to ask whether you enjoyed it?” Rupert asks. The gentle amusement in his voice slides over me like black velvet.
“I enjoyed it.” Then I let out the biggest burp I think I’ve ever emitted in my life.
A huge roar takes me by surprise, and I shoot up in my chair to find Rupert guffawing.He slaps the table hard, making everything shake. His roar, I realize, is actually alaugh, and he lets out another bellow when I burp a second time from surprise.
“I think that speaks for itself,” Kellen pipes up, and now it’s my turn to laugh, too. My laughter makes Kellen laugh, and then we’re all howling at the table over the obliterated remains of our meal.
