Page 35 of Rogue's Path
I gird my loins—That’s such a weird saying. No more reading gladiator novels. Well, maybe a few more times if it gives me an excuse to use funny sayings like that—and step inside.
It isn’t full of rainbows and butterflies, but they’ve created a garden of sorts under a roof made of old windows. There are even small trees scattered about. The vines from the outside grew inside the gap between those windows and the brick walls. They kept the floors simple with a stamped cement that resembles painted terracotta tiles, probably for accessibilityand ease of cleaning. There are quiet little nooks perfect for one or two to get together.
Creating art of any kind, even my mystery novel, in here would be filled with inspiration and creativity.
And whimsy has taken over logic. That isn’t going to stop me from writing in here.
Cordelia chose two armchairs over by one of the fireplaces.
“This place is amazing.” Warmth engulfs me as I sit down.
“Isn’t it? People from all over come here. Their food is amazing, but I’m biased towards their cakes.”
“You make them.”
“Guilty as charged.” Cordelia’s outfit practically screams happy homemaker with its long floral sleeves, belted waist, and circle skirt. All she’d need is a fussy little hat and lace gloves to complete the ensemble.
She looks amazing…and not in the least hungover. “How do you not look hungover? Whatever concealer you’re using, I must acquire it.”
“There’s no amount of makeup that you could trowel on to your face that would hide those bruises. But I’m not wearing any foundation or concealer, just a light dusting of powder. I don’t need to hide a hangover because I’m not hungover anymore. My family’s physician stopped by and took care of it.”
Doctors don’t make house calls. They don’t even take five minutes to listen to your symptoms when you go to their office. “You're rich,” I blurt out.
Cordelia stares down at her hands, which are folded perfectly in her lap. “My parents are.”
Oh, there’s a story there. Maybe she’s an heiress hiding from fortune hunters and society. That’s ridiculous. Maybe inheriting her fortune requires that she marry, but instead, shedecided to forge a path of her own, throwing off the shackles of generational wealth. Or maybe it’s just that her parents earned the money, and she won’t inherit anything until they die. And who wants their parents to die?
And there I went again, falling into my own daydreams. “What kind of cakes do you make for this place? I want to try something you’ve made.”
“Right now, they have a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, madagascar vanilla bean cake with chantilly cream and a fluffy marshmallow frosting, a seasonal blood orange cake with white chocolate ganache covered in candied orange slices, and my favorite peach bundt cake which includes freeze dried peach powder and my homemade peach preserve topped with candied pecans and coconut cream.”
Oh my. “I want them all.” Those don’t even sound like cakes. They’re flavor experiences that feed your heart and soul.
But when the waiter comes by, I only order the orange cake and a sparkling water. Fancy cake requires fancy water. I’m going to be on such a sugar high. Hopefully, that means I can start really diving into my next book.
That reminds me, I should check in with my virtual assistant and make sure she’s scheduling promotions for the upcoming release.
“I still can’t believe you kissed a biker last night. Did the killer ever call you for a date?”
How can I not tell her? “He did. And he’s not a killer.” Though he’s definitely killed. “We actually had brunch earlier.”
“WHAT?” she squeals. “Did you like him? Are you seeing him again? Where did he take you? How in the world were you brave enough to just go out with a random stranger?”
Strangers are nothing new to me. The dozens I’ve met at odd places to research books have helped me to develop a good nose for scary men. Or that could have been the serial killers I’veinterviewed. “I did like him. We’re meeting again in a few weeks. He has to go out of town for work. He took me to this hangover-cure restaurant. The food was amazing. The IV fluids were even better. I guess I’m missing the fear gene when it comes to stuff like that.”
“You’re like Winnie. I don’t think she’s afraid of anything. So tell me everything about this date.” She takes a sip of the tea the waiter brought her.
Why not? Though I’ll keep my personal thoughts about his puzzles to myself. “It started out when he called me…”
***
“…That man is so unbelievably sexy.”
“I know, right? I call him Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy in my head.” So much for not oversharing.
“If I wasn’t determined to be single for the rest of my life, I’d make a pass at him.”
What? Miss Trad Wife over here isn’t ever planning on getting married. Oh, that adds a whole new level of mystery to her story. “You don’t have to get married to make a pass at a fine man.”
