I flipped the mix with a spatula, as if hoping (in vain) that by stirring it the seasonings would magically stick. “Would you try some?”
“Not on your life.” Connor ambled across my apartment, seating himself on my couch with his legs bumping the coffee table. “While this is the first thing you’ve made that looks decently edible, there’s a good chance there is still something wrong with it, and it’ll end up making me sick.”
I ate another handful of warmed, barely salty cereal. “What happened to ‘being too pessimistic’?”
“I’m not being pessimistic,” Connor informed me. “Just realistic. You do not have a history of winning at baking.”
“You’re not wrong.” I slipped the cookie tray off the severely stained hot pads in hopes it would cool faster. (I may as well call it quits as I didn’t think the cereal would magically pick up more seasonings. If I wanted to pack the snack up, I’d need it to cool first.) I plucked up my phone and shuffled over to the couch.
When I got within an arm’s distance, Connor gently took my hand and yanked me down on the couch to join him.
For a second my instincts warred within me to resist but Connor was my friend, so the impulse cleared in a moment, and I let myself collapse on the couch next to him.
“Cheer up. It’s still an improvement.” Connor held up my clasped hand, rotating it, as if he was admiring the freckles on my arm—though it was possibly my veins visible through my pale skin that had his attention.
“Yeah, I was just hoping if I went for something easy like this, I could share it with our neighbors.” I tugged my hand from Connor’s grasp so I could start a text message to my Great Aunt Patsy.
“I think you can still share it,” Connor said. “You just have to choose your audience carefully.”
“Who would be the ideal audience?”
“Old people,” Connor said without hesitation. “Particularly nice, old people. They’ll be touched you took the time to make something and thought of them. Also, they’re less likely to notice the lack of flavor.”
I pressed my lips together and considered his suggestion. “That might actually work. Give me a second, I’m going to text my aunt to ask her a question about the recipe.”
Connor fell back into the couch. “Is your aunt an O’Neil?”
“Yep.”
Connor chuckled for some reason—vampires laughed at a lot of things randomly; I suspect it came with the age—but I ignored him and typed away.
Hi Patsy. I have a question about your Party Mix recipe—this is it, right?
I attached the image of the recipe card Nan had sent me when I’d asked her for the recipe last night, then set my phone aside.
“How’s work been?” Connor asked, an amused slant in his eyebrows.
“Fine.”
“No violent visitors?”
“Nah.” I said, trying to keep things vague.
“I never knew desk jobs were so perilous before I met you. Ah—now that’s an idea! We should celebrate that you haven’t gotten hurt in the line of duty recently.” Connor’s red eyes glittered with amusement.
“I don’t get hurtthatoften.” I kept my tone light and unaffected, but I was aware I’d need to change the subject soon—Connor’s questions were getting a touch too prying.
Thankfully, my phone dinged with a reply from Great Aunt Patsy.
Great Auntie P.
Ohlass no!
Aunt Patsy’s poor eyesight meant she didn’t always correctly hit the space bar, so it made deciphering her texts a little tricky.
Great Auntie P.
That’sthe recipe Igave yourgrandmother!She’d die if I toldher the realone. Double the butter andadd an extra splash of worcestershire!
