Page 75 of Cakes for the Grump

The problem is I can’t afford anything else. Prices everywhere are way above my budget. Still, I keep looking. My mornings are filled with work, and the evenings are filled with apartment-hunting and secretly checking in on Mr. Albo, Mrs. Milla, and Ms. Baghdadi without Janice knowing to make sure they are okay. The chores still haven’t started up again. If nothing else, Luke’s threats have worked, even if it came at the cost of my losing my apartment.

Not that he hasn’t helped by letting me live with him. For that reason, and for making sure I didn’t die from my fever, and for the CUM help, and the whiteboard?—

As a way of saying thank you to Luke, I’ve started including small treats in his lunch. I know he doesn’t like sugar, but I want to find the perfect dessert for him that doesn’t remind him of his childhood.

Everything is naturally sweetened and subtle in flavor. I ask him to try them out and give me his honest feedback because “it will help me with the meal kit competition to get to know customers with the same tastes as you.”

It’s an outright lie, I know.

But I don’t know what else to give the man who already has everything.

So far, he has rated the following:

A scone as beinginferior to a muffin.

A baked apple asresembling baby food.

(An ironic opinion, considering his love of liquid food in the form of smoothies but being as magnanimous as I am, I point out nothing).

Chocolate-covered strawberries areindecent, and that fruit and chocolate don’t belong together.

The popularity of many snacks would disagree with that one, but okay.

In a desperate attempt to find whether he was suited to the more sour end of the spectrum, I packed him a slice of key-lime pie from a local bakery because I didn’t have time to make it myself.

To which he texted me directly.

LUKE

Helping you is torture.

Perhaps thinking I’m taking it too far, I don’t pack him anything sweet the next day. But then, he texts me again.

LUKE

Have you given up? I thought this competition was important to you.

That encourages me further, and after more brainstorming, I’m about to make him what I think is the least offensive and most refreshing dessert (Sour Cream Bavarian) when I am interrupted in the kitchen by a shriek.

The woman yelling at me is young, maybe a teenager or in her early twenties. Blonde hair halos her shoulders, and is the second most captivating thing about her. The first being her outfit, a black-studded dress that is vaguely punk and largely haute couture as if worn right off the runway. It clings to her gorgeous, pale, tall body.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Before I can introduce myself, she runs to the kitchen drawer, pulls out a knife, and waves it at me.

My hands go up. “Hey! I work here.”

“Right.” Her voice drips sarcasm. “Answer me this. Who is staying in the east-wing guest room upstairs?”

“Also…me.”

“Seriously? What the fuck is going on? He’sfuckinghis employee?”

“No! Who are you? Are you his--” My voice stalls. Barely I can force out the word. “Together?”

“Ew. I’m his sister.”

The similarities strike me. They’ve got the same mouths and limitless blue-gray eyes.