Page 118 of Road Trip with a Vampire
I came up behind her, eyeing her work. “I didn’t realize there were so many different options for decorating with goats,” I deflected, hands on my hips. She’d put up a bucolic scene of a goat frolicking through a meadow. I had to admit, absurd subject aside, it was very artfully done.
Lindsay turned to face me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who sent the cookies, Z?” she asked again.
“Um. The cookies?” I mumbled, totally stalling now.
“It was Peter, wasn’t it?” Becky asked from behind the check-in counter. “Is that why you’re throwing them away?”
“I’m throwing them away because they’re terrible.” It was a partial answer, anyway. At the knowing looks my friends were giving me, I caved. “Fine. Yes. Peter sent them. His note said he made them himself, which I thought was sweet.” I still did, even if the cookie I’d tasted had been the stuff of nightmares.
My friends exchanged a look. “That…wasreally thoughtful,” Becky said carefully. “And he made them himself?”
“So he says,” I said. I believed him. There was no way he could have bought something likethatfrom anyplace that had passed a recent health inspection.
“No guy has ever baked me anything before,” Lindsay remarked. She walked over to the box and opened it, considering the contents. Then she took out one of the cookies and sniffed it thoughtfully.
“Don’t eat that,” I warned.
She ignored me, taking a large bite—before spitting it out a second later. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding; these are awful.”
“I told you so,” I said.
Lindsay wiped at her mouth vigorously with the back of her hand. “Still, though,” she said once she’d finished. “This was a nice gesture.”
My friends exchanged another look.
“Zelda…” Becky began before trailing off. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to ask this without prying.”
“I don’t, either,” Lindsay said. “But I’m asking anyway. Z, what happened between you two while you were away?” When I didn’t answer right away—how could I?—she went on. “I just mean that if a guy who is very obviouslynota baker sends you abox of cookies he made just for you, it probably means he feels bad about things and wants to apologize.”
“He didn’t make them just for me,” I countered. “He said these were left over from a batch he’d madefor unrelated reasons.”
Lindsay snorted. “And you believed that?”
I didn’t, of course. What other reason could he have possibly had to bake cookies? “Um,” I said, floundering now. “What happened to you hating him?”
“I never said I hated him,” Lindsay said. At my doubtful expression, she backtracked. “All right, maybe Iwasmad at him for hurting you. But you’ve assured us that he’s not a bad person. I believe you.”
“He’s not,” I said. “We just…don’t work.”
“Are you sure?” Becky asked. “We saw how excited you were when he texted the other night. If he inspireslie to my friends so I can leave the room and text him backfeelings, maybe it’s worth reconsidering?”
I closed my eyes, reminding myself of all the reasons why reconsidering was not an option.
“We don’t work,” I repeated, more emphatically this time. “I wish we did, but we don’t.”
Twenty-Seven
Chicago, Illinois
Present day
“Well?”
Peter cleared his throat. “She thanked me for the cookies. She said she hoped I was well.” He had agonized over Zelda’s note for hours after finding it in his jeans pocket, scrutinizing every word for hidden meaning.
Reginald tapped his pen on the café table. “And?”
He shrugged. “And what?”
