Page 93

“When they’re correctly made, they’re really good.” I fetched a knife and grimly approached the pan.

“I will take your word for it,” Connor said.

I cut through the shortbread—it was a lot harder than it should have been—and pried a piece out. I had to grab it with a napkin—it was still too hot to handle. I waved it in the air to cool it down, then reluctantly brought it up to my mouth.

“Wait,” Connor stepped back, alarm flashing across his face. “You’re not actually going toeatthat, are you?”

“I’m just going to take a bite,” I said. “I need to learn what I’m doing wrong.”

Connor rested his hip against my counter and loomed over me. “And you think the key to unlocking your cursed baking skills lies in eating shortbread that is charred?”

“I know what they’re supposed to taste like,” I said. “I might be able to taste what’s wrong.”

Connor raised an eyebrow at me. “Let me save you the effort: it’s burnt. That’s what’s wrong.”

“Obviously, but maybe I missed an ingredient or something.” I grimaced at the hardened shortbread, then experimentally bit off a piece.

Connor waited, tapping his fingers on my countertop. “Since you haven’t choked and died, I assume it’s not deadly?”

The shortbread was dry and tasted much how I imagined charcoal bits would—I couldn’t even taste the sugar. “I can’t taste anything besides burnt…burnt,” I said, failing to find an appropriate word for the charred bite. “Want to try it?”

“No,” Connor said.

“Are you sure?” I nudged the pan closer to him. “You have better senses than me. You might be able to figure out where I went wrong.”

“Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Connor said. “I might be a vain vampire, but I’m not stupid. And I’m certainly not going to make myself eat barbeque coals for no reason.”

I took a glass from the cupboard and poured myself a cup of tap water. “Not even for a friend?”

“Not even for a friend,” Connor firmly said. “My friendly duties ended with warning you not to eat charcoal.”

I shook my head and swished water around my mouth trying to get rid of the burnt taste.

Connor conveniently strolled out of my small kitchen and wandered over to my couch. “It does beg the question: why do you keep trying to bake and cook when your attempts end in failure?”

I took a few sips of water, then set my glass down on a coaster. “Well, I keep trying to make recipes my family made because I miss them.”

“Do they live far from here?” Connor reclined on my couch looking very much like a model for some kind of expensive luxury clothing brand—say what you will about vampires, their hunting instincts to look good to lull humans would make them excellent social media influencers if any of them had any inclination for technology.

“It’s a drivable distance,” I vaguely said, unwilling to part with any details about my family. “But I can’t really go visit them. My parents aren’t happy that I’m working for the Curia Cloisters.”

Connor sat up in his surprise. “Do they fear supernaturals?”

“Hah, no.” I chuckled at the idea of my fierce dad being scared of anything—except for maybe crossing Mom if he’d loaded the dishwasher wrong. “They’re just disappointed. They wanted me to join the family business.”

“Ahh, you’re rebelling, then?” Connor once again relaxed back into the couch. “I’d call you a radical, except your attempts at baking and cooking say otherwise.”

“In my defense, today I was trying to make the shortbread so I could share it with our neighbors,” I said.

Connor blinked at me. “Whatever for?”

“To be friendly? To try and make friends with them?” I suggested.

“Whatever for?” he repeated.

I rolled my eyes. “Look, you might be holed up in your apartment pretending to be antisocial when I know you’re sneaking out frequently, but I need to make more friends.”

“I’m not pretending to be antisocial,” Connor said. “Iamantisocial—people bore me. Conversational interactions are pure drivel.”