“What’s the torte?” I asked.
Margot glanced at me. “It’s a very decadent, flourless chocolate cake. Velvety chocolate with just a hint of raspberry ganache. Very appropriate for Valentine’s Day. It’s a very sexy cake,” she said. “And Ethan loves it. It’s one of his favorites.”
I had definitely come to the right place for help. “Is this possibly something we could do tonight? I was hoping for a meal before the sun came up again. It’s been a long night.”
She checked her watch and nodded. “It comes together really quickly. We’ve got just enough time to bake it off and let it cool. How does that sound?”
“Like a phenomenal plan,” I said, beginning to smile a little. “Thanks.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not actually making it for you. I’m just giving you directions.” With a wink, she pointed toward a set of aprons hanging from a wall hook. “Grab your gear, and let’s get started.”
Start, we did. I’d thought, if just for a moment, that helping bake a cake would be a way to relax. And in a sense, it was. We were three girlfriends in a kitchen, mixing and measuring as we discussed boys and their various issues. But Margot took pride in her work. And just like every other vampire with the same trait, she was exacting in her methods and very, very particular.
The cocoa had to be measured in a very particular way. (“Sweep and scoop! Sweep and scoop!”)
The cocoa had to be placed in the bowl in a very particular way. (“Sift it first!”)
The sugar and butter had to be creamed just so, until the mixture was light and fluffy. (“It looks like concrete! Keep stirring!”)
The pan had to be perfectly buttered, then dusted with cocoa, in preparation for the cake. (“If I can see metal, you’re not done!”)
The oven rack had to be placed just so, neither too high nor too low, to ensure consistent baking. (“Lower it! Lower it!”)
Somehow, miraculously, we came through it still friends. And I must admit, I learned a lot. I hadn’t done much baking in the past and really didn’t have an urge to start now—I preferred dodging a katana slash to pressing the lumps out of cocoa powder—but in the short amount of time we worked with her, Margot taught us a lot.
The timer sounded, and Margot pulled a dark cake from the oven. She set it on a cooling rack, then stepped back to admire our handiwork.
“Ladies,” she said, “it doesn’t look awful.”
It wasn’t much of a compliment, but I’d take what I could get.
“You are the best.” I checked my watch. “I have to run an errand. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. I’ll prep the raspberry glaze, and you’ll be good to go. I’ll make it work,” she promised.
I had little doubt. She always did.
—
I’d missed my last chance to provide Ethan with the best pasta Chicago had to offer. So when the opportunity came around again, I didn’t miss it. I drove to Tuscan Terrace, picked up aluminum containers of pasta, and hightailed it back to the House.
I found Ethan in his office, the door open, the aura relatively mild.
I stepped inside and held up the paper bag of food. “Dinner?”
He didn’t look impressed. “In a paper bag?”
But I kept smiling, because I knew this man. I knew what he’d enjoy, and I knew that even if the packaging didn’t impress him, the food would.
“In a paper bag,” I confirmed. I closed the door and carried the bag to his conference table, where I opened the contents and set out a meal for each of us. Pasta, bread, and olive oil for dipping.
“You’re sure about this?” Ethan asked, sidling behind me and putting a hand on my waist.
“Absolutely positive. I didn’t steer you wrong about pizza, and I won’t about this, either.”
Of course I was right.
Dinner was glorious. Because the food, even in aluminum pans, was delicious. Because Ethan moaned with joy nearly every time he took a bite. Because we shared napkins and laughs and bread at the conference table in his office. Because we didn’t need thousand-dollar champagne or caviar to prove our affection or the validity of our relationship.
“There is something to be said about the satisfaction that comes from a full belly,” Ethan said.
“Couldn’t agree more. We’ll sleep well after this feast. Or we’ll have weird carb coma dreams. Hard to tell.”
Ethan chuckled, wiped his mouth, and tossed his napkin into the pile.
“So, the GP,” I said, when I’d taken my last bite. “What did they want?”
“A tithe,” he said. “Darius, through Lakshmi, has requested that we donate a sum to the GP in penance for our bad behavior.”