Page 17 of Minions and Magic
“You’re preparing a dish with turnips for a birthday party?”
“Gnomes,” I said, thinking that would explain it all.
It didn’t.
“You’re cooking gnomes and turnips?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a gnome birthday party. Pickled turnips are one of the dishes on the menu.”
The look of revulsion on his face was hysterical. And kinda adorable. I patted him on the shoulder and got out the saucepan, then walked over to the sink to add water.
“You’re catering a party forgnomes?”
Putting the saucepan on the stove, I added my ingredients to the water, and turned it on high. “Last week I did a merfolk party. The week before that a centaur party. It’s Accident. I need to be just as good at pickled turnips, sashimi, and oat-molasses bites, as Beef Wellington, Smith Island cake, and key lime pie.”
He washed his hands and put on the ridiculously lacy apron as I peeled the turnips. Since I was already working on those, I asked him to dice some onions and prepare the marinade, then slice the slugs and add them to the bowl. Watching his face as he handled giant slugs made me laugh.
“Not quite what you expected, huh?”
He laughed, and the sound went right through me, making me catch my breath and press my thighs together.
“Not at all. I’d hoped for ginger cake, pie, or maybe even a smoked brisket.”
I bit back a smile. “Well, I will be making sour cherry pie tomorrow, because in spite of their unusual taste in food, gnomesdolove a sour cherry pie.”
“I’ll happily sample that.” He smiled and for a second I forgot what I was doing.
“And brisket…I’ll be making that for the barbeque Saturday. Werewolves love meat, so I’m cooking a lot of meat.”
“Doyoulove meat?”
There was a whole lot of innuendo in that question. Once again I felt myself blush as I bent over and stirred the turnips with more force than necessary. “Only if it’s well prepared.”
“Noted.” There was a moment of silence, and I felt the tension stretch out to the breaking point before he spoke again. “So what do we do when the turnips and slugs are done? Can I suggest something?”
I contemplated that for a moment, then chickened out. “No, you cannot. I’ve got a lot of prep work to do today for Wednesday’s catering job. We’ll cook today, but if you come back to help me tomorrow, I’ll feed you lunch.”
“What about I feedyoulunch?” he asked.
I laughed. “Can you cook? I mean, you’re doing a good job marinating those slugs over there, but what’s your idea of lunch? Bologna on white bread with mayo?”
The smirk he sent my way was one-hundred-percent sexy. “Oh, I definitely can cook. Let’s say we have a little bet. A contest. Tomorrow we’ll both make a lunch dish. Whoever makes the best gets whatever they desire.”
My heart skipped a beat, then I thought of my conversation yesterday at Cassie’s. Lucien had warned me against bargains, contracts, bets, or contests with a crossroads demon. But I couldn’t help feel a surge of competitive instinct at his suggestion. I’d win. I knew I’d win. No one was as skilled at cooking as I was.
But there was a little voice inside me that screamed caution.
“You need to specify what you will get if you win,” I told him. “Because I’m not giving you my soul.”
“How about your body?”
I sucked in a breath. Even with his flirting I’d expected he would ask for either my soul or my recipe for the ginger cake, not sex. I wanted to say “yes” to that bet. I wanted to say “yes” to him, but I was scared to admit that I wanted this demon. I’d just met him. I didn’t know him. The logical, cautious me urged an answer of “no”, but the thrill that ran through me at his suggestion, made me want to do something completely unconventional.
“Sure.” I kept my voice casual, even shrugged as I pulled a container of flour out of the cabinet. “Why not? Come back tomorrow and we’ll have a lunch-time battle of the chefs. Right now I’m too busy to think about lunch or even what I’m going to ask for when I kick your ass. So get your mind in gear, because we’ve got more cooking and a ton of dishes ahead of us.”
“What else do we have to do?” He scrunched up his nose. “Please tell me I don’t need to cut up more slugs.”
“No, you need to make the sauce.” I laughed at his horrified expression. “It’s not that bad.” I handed him the bag of herbs and spices that Alberta had given me. “Grind these up together with that mortar and pestle. Make them as fine as you can. Add them to a cup of chicken stock and a quarter cup of wine, then stick it all in the fridge.”
