Page 76 of The Cupid Chronicles

I add the heavy cream, vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon, and orange zest into the bowl, then push it toward her. “Crack four eggs in there.”

Her eyes go wide.

“You can’t screw it up. Just keep the shells out.”

She grimaces. “So, do you remember when I said I’ve made scrambled eggs?”

“When, three minutes ago? I was here for that, yeah.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smirk on her face remains. “I sometimes get shells in there. And then I just cook them with the shells and pick them out later.”

I stare blankly.

“It’s why I mostly eat things that, you know, come in a package.”

“We’re fixing that. Right now.”

I take out an egg on the counter, crack it with one hand, then toss the shell into the garbage.

“Show-off.” She smirks as she picks up an egg and goes to tap it on the side of the bowl.

Instinctively, I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “Not on the bowl.”

She freezes, and I pull my hand away.

I inch back and cross my arms. “Do it on the counter and the shells won’t get in the bowl.”

“Oh!” She glances at me, but I don’t meet her eyes. “That’s genius.” She taps it gently on the counter.

“Don’t be precious with it,” I say. “Crack it.”

“Now who’s bossy?” She widens her eyes at me then hits the egg against the edge of the counter, and it explodes in her hand. She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help but join.

The liquid spills out onto the counter, but there’s a good amount on the floor too. I quickly swipe the mess away and toss her the towel.

She flicks the shell off her hand, wipes the egg away, and picks up another one, a determined expression on her face. She cracks it, this time, with more success than the first.

“So, I’m basically a chef,” she preens. “You should plan on coming to my new restaurant where we serve only raw eggs.”

I notice that I’m not tense. I’m not squinting. I’m not hunched over, looking for detail.

I’m . . . enjoying myself.

Once she’s finished with the eggs, I pull out the immersion blender and plug it in.

“Whoa. Is that really necessary?” She gives me a look. “I feel like we could stir it with a fork.”

“We could,” I say. “But with dry spices like nutmeg in there, they’re not going to distribute evenly.” I shoot her a look. “Is the Pop-Tart Princess really questioning my methods here?”

She laughs and holds her hands up in surrender. “That’s fair. Although Pop-Tart Princess isn’t a bad nickname.”

I hand her the blender and show her how to turn it on.

“Just, stick it in there? Mix it?” she asks.

“Yep.”

She turns it on and sticks it in the bowl while I pull the bread from the oven.

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