Page 115 of The Witching Hours

He chuckled. “Your mind formed a very clear picture of what it looks like and how it tastes.”

“And you used that as a guide. I’m not being presumptuous, but since Paddy’s not begging I assume that means you fed him?”

He looked down at Paddy. “Yes. He has a healthy appetite. I didn’t give him that stuff in bags. I gave him real food good for warrior dogs.”

Whatever it was couldn’t have been harmful because Paddy had never looked happier or more relaxed.

“Well, thanks again. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay.” He went back to his inventory.

Most of my herbs and spices were way past expiration date, but I wasn’t worried. Mitch had culinary skills both mad and magical.

I took a leisurely shower and performed grooming chores that usually only get attention on weekends. I pulled my still-damp hair up in a clip ready to face the morning in my favorite faded jeans and a soft Henley.

I found Mitch waiting in the sunroom with a place setting he must’ve copied from one of my magazines, gorgeous fresh flowers, cranberry juice and Eggs Veronica. That’s poached eggs with hollandaise and shaved uncured ham on field greens.

Speechless would only be believable so many times, but that’s how I felt. Being greeted on a Sunday morning with breakfast fit for a Rothchild was a joy beyond description.

“Breakfast is served,” Mitch said. “May I join you?”

There was a second place set on my glass-topped table, but he could take it away if I said no. I couldn’t think of a good reason why to say no. Company for Sunday morning breakfast was both novel and welcome these days.

“Please do.” We had a lively discussion about the cooking education he’d undertaken while I slept. “Did you always like cooking?”

“You mean when I was not jin?”

“Yes.”

“No. Then people who weren’t kings didn’t think in terms of what they did or did not like. They only thought about… surviving.”

“So. Is it more fun to, um, conjure or more fun to actually cook? Hands on?”

He sat back and pondered that question. “An unthinkable thought,” he said finally.

“That’s an oxymoron. A thought is thinkable by definition.”

“I will put it to the test and find out which is more…fun.”

“I suppose the concept of fun wasn’t a thing when you weren’t jin.”

He was shaking his head. “No. It was not.”

“Well, after seeing some of what’s available in the modern world on TV, what looks like fun?”

He sat back, chewing a designer selection of greens. “Paragliding.”

I laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re a secret adrenaline junkie.”

He smiled. “If that means what I think it means, then… maybe.”

“You can transport yourself anywhere, right?”

“Yes.” He answered slowly, cautiously.

“So go paragliding.”

A light lit behind his eyes. “Where?”