Page 8 of Cooking Up a Demon
Monday morning, I’m barely able to crawl out of bed. I planned to take the day off, but there is too much to be done. I’m making a list on my iPad while my tea steeps, bagged tea, because I don’t have time to summon pesky demons, when my phone rings.
My dad’s name flashes across the screen, and I grimace. He and I have never seen eye-to-eye, but, since I inherited Nonna’s estate, it’s only gotten worse. He insists I need to sell everything and return home, as though we have ever been the Sunday dinner family and didn’t regularly go months without even speaking to each other.
I send him to voicemail and ignore the stab of guilt. Instead, I focus on the list in front of me as I add berries to my jar of overnight oats.
There isn’t even time to get the spoon into the jar before it starts smoking.
“Motherfucker!” I yell. I drop my digital pencil and grab the jar of oats. I throw it out the open kitchen window.
“Well, that was rude.” I spin around and there he is, in all his stony glory.
“You know what’s rude? Popping up unwanted all the time. Also, wasting my food. I wanted to eat that!” I point out the window to where the now empty jar lays in the grass.
“Oh, I’m growing on you.” He props his hands on the doorway and leans forward. The move shows off every lean muscle of his torso, and I can’t help but trace the lines from pecs down to the string fastenings of his leather pants.
“Like a bad mold.” I grumble. I go to the fridge and grab another jar of oats. After a brief hesitation, I grab one for the demon too.
The strawberries and blueberries are still on the counter by the sink, so I carry my jars there. I reach for the knife, but the demon snags it first and hip-checks me out of the way. I stumble a couple of steps before smacking into the opposite counter.
“Hey!” I cross my arms under my breasts and glare at the demon. He doesn’t even look at me as he starts slicing strawberries and blueberries with a dexterity I wouldn’t have believed possible if not for seeing it myself. His hands are large, his fingers broad and rough.
“This doesn’t count as a task, you know. I didn’t ask you to do that.” The demon shrugs his massive shoulders, the muscles in his back flexing with the movement and drawing my attention. Fuck, why was it hot?
I watch with a glare as he finishes the berries and adds them to the jars. He grabs a spoon from the drawer and hands me the jars.
“Easy enough for me to do. And I’m the one who cost you your breakfast.” My glare deepens.
“Like you’ve cared about that before.” I take the jar with the spoon, but shake my head when he pushes the other jar at me. “It’s for you.”
His face goes completely blank, and I feel like I’ve made some kind of grievous error. The demon stares at the mason jar of oats and berries for what feels like forever. I’m about to take back the offer when he looks up at me.
“You made me food?”
“Technically, you made it. I just threw oats into a jar.” I shrug, feeling uncomfortable with the odd weight of the moment. “You don’t have to eat it.”
When I reach out to take the jar, the demon jerks it away from me. He cradles it to his chest like something precious instead of what it is, a cheap and easy breakfast. I don’t say anything about the weird behavior. I scoop up a spoonful of oats and berries and begin to eat my own meal.
Kallax doesn’t eat. He bounces between watching me and staring down at the small jar in his large hands with something like wonder. I don’t know how to react to the weirdness, so I do the only thing I can do with the weirdness of the situation. I ignore it.
“As fun as this is,” I say as I finish the last of my breakfast. “Are you here for a reason? Because we both know I didn’t summon you.”
One of the things on my to-do list for this week, now that the store is open and things can finally settle into something resembling a routine, is demon research. I might believe the soup was a summoning potion. I could even buy the tea isa demon mix. But there is no way in Hell, pun intended, I summoned a demon with some cheap tequila and orange juice. And frankly, I am tired of losing perfectly good food and drinks to the demon.
“You need help.” The demon shrugs. He still hasn’t eaten his oats, but when I go to take the jar from him again, he jerks it against his chest and cradles it there.
“I mean, I have a to-do list but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” And it’s true. Sure, my list is long, but it is a busy day sort of long, not an overwhelming long. Not like things have been lately.
I look over my list: go to the bank to deposit weekend cash, organize the store to cover all of the holes, place book and sidelines orders. I need to refill the coffee cart and get in contact with the baker about doing some regular orders of cookies. I especially wanted to get some specialty cookies for the book club I intend to have running by the end of the month.
I also need to put some time in on the website. The current one is basically a landing page with little more than the store name, photo, and hours. I have zero website setup or management experience, and it is proving to be the most challenging.
“I guess I’ll hang around and see what comes up.” Kallax says, with a shrug.
I think about that for a long moment. How would I explain the giant demon following me around the bakery, grocery store, the stationery shop, and the bookstore? Then I think about all of the weird things I’ve seen since arriving in Ghostlight Falls and realize the people of this town probably won’t even blink an eye.
“Suit yourself.”
Chapter Seven
