Page 76 of Cakes for the Grump

“Okay, great.” I try for a non-threatening smile. “And I’m his meal prep chef, recently evicted from her apartment with nowhere else to go. Though, partly his fault, because he showed up after I got sick because I wouldn’t pick up his calls, even though he kind of fired me before that. Or I walked out. Both.”

She barks out a laugh. “Now I know you’re lying. Tell the truth. What are you? Some love-sick stalker? Broken in, have we? Pretending to be his girlfriend by—” She points at the plate of cupcakes on the table with her knife. “—baking for him. You don’t know my brother at all.”

“Because he hates sweets?”

Her eyes widen. She didn’t expect me to know that.

“Do you want to try one? They are really good.” I push the plate closer and then leap back again.

Her stomach audibly grumbles. She stares at me. Then the cupcakes. Me again.

With a bold, fearless kind of curiosity, she swipes a cupcake and takes a small nibble. “Sweet hell, this is good.Fuckme.”

Deciding it’s safe enough, I sit down.

“Yeah.” She glares at me, though it’s less menacing when you have frosting on your chin. “Stay there. I’m calling him.”

When Luke picks up the phone, his voice carries enough for me to hear. “Sistine.”

“I’m here in your apartment,” she tells him. “There’s an intruder.”

“It’s me,” I yell out. “Rita. The intruder.”

I don’t hear the rest of the conversation. Sistine has turned around and is whispering into the phone. Terse words. An intense back-and-forth at low volume.

Once the call finishes, she turns to me. “What have you done to my brother?”

“Nothing. Why?”

I’m examined as if on the other end of a microscope, and found to carry evidence of a rare and virulent strain of sickness. “He’s on his way, even though he never leaves work early.”

She proceeds to eat another cupcake. I make some tea. We don’t have towait long. Luke strides into the kitchen and looks straight at me. The sight of him gives me a quick inner jolt. Concerned blues travel down the line of my body. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Why is your meal-prep chef living with you?” demands Sistine.

“Let’s go talk privately. I’ll explain how I got her kicked out of her apartment.”

“When has anything like that ever mattered to you?”

“What are you doing in Barcelona, Sistine?”

She scowls. “I’m here on my own business.”

Luke rubs his forehead with his fingers as if warding off a headache. “Don’t do anything you shouldn’t be.”

“Stop worrying about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Unfortunately, I’m always going to have to worry.”

She rolls her eyes very dramatically. “Piss off.”

“I detest you.”

It appears no matter how wealthy you get, some sibling bonds can be universal. It’s clear they aggravate each other, though I didn’t miss the flash of relief that crossed Luke’s face when he walked in and saw Sistine.

“You don’t have to do whatever you are here for,” says Luke, apparently having forgotten this conversation was going to be private. “Work with me instead.”