Page 64 of Cakes for the Grump

When I wake up for school, he’s gone.

I put away the bottle he’s left behind.

At least, it’s not empty this time.

EIGHTEEN

The next morning,I don’t have time to worry about my situation. The second round of the Championing Unimaginable MealKits (CUM) competition has officially started and I almost completely missed the email telling me about it.

My assignment: Create an egg-based meal kit that is both innovative and practical.

(An oxymoron, one would think).

Deadline: Less than twelve hours from now.

Bleary-eyed, not at a full-strength, and jerked awake by this calamitous stroke of timing—I must get to work immediately. After taking a heavy dose of medicine, I dash into the kitchen.

It’s going to be fine.I’m fine. Just fine.

The next few hours are spent in complete concentration, with me brainstorming and experimenting tirelessly. Then halfway into me boiling another set of eggs, I twist around to pore over the scattered pages of my notes, and let out a cry.

“Whyare you lurking behind me?”

“Can one lurk in their own home?” asks Luke, standing there professionally dressed but a notch down from his usual full business suit. Well-fitted trousers pair with a crisp dress shirt. No vest. No tie.

“Yes,absolutely.”

“I don’t think so. Now tell me, why aren’t you resting? It’s not been nearly enough time for you to have made a proper recovery.”

“I’m obviously cooking.”

He does a slow appraisal of the spills on the countertop, the food bits littered on the floor, and how I have basically pulled out every pot and pan and tried to put them to use. The kitchen is, in a phrase, a tornado of a mess.

“You must know,” he says slowly, “that I don’t expect you to perform your usual meal prep, right?”

I’m busy now, stirring a bowl of blended green veggies, trying to un-gloop the texture. “This…isn’t for you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

I should be obligated to answer his question since I’m his unwanted houseguest, though if he hadn’t showed up at my apartment, and not gotten into a fight with Janice, maybe I’d still be there. Feverish, collapsed on the bed. Okay so, his doctor’s medicine is giving me strength to compete right now…and this is his kitchen I’m invading for the contest…

But so what?

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Aren’t there vulnerable labor unions available for crushing? Or stolen wealth that needs hoarding? Maybe some small businesses you want to demoralize under the weight of your boot?”

Yeah…I’ve not forgotten about the soup incident.

“I’m taking a break from world domination,” he says with cool casualness. “Also crushing dreams to fluff up my yacht fund really builds up the appetite. What are you in the mood for? I’ll order in for us. There’s no need to cook.”

Before I can answer, water from one of the stockpots I have on the stove bubbles over. I put down my bowl and rush over to take the pot off the heat. “No, that’s—I can’t. Later.”

In the process of moving the pot, some water splashes up over the side and lands on my arm. I let out a soft hiss.

“Stop that,” he chides. “Stop fretting about, Rita.”

“I’mnotfretting. I’m good.” I pat the spot as if proving it doesn’t hurt.

“You don’t look good.”