I smirk, because if I said that to the hot Latina MILF who runs the library, she’d hit me with a reshelving cart.
“Cookies you don’t have to bake.”
Healthy raw crap with coconut oil and chopped cashews comes up.
Ughhhhhh.
“You’re a man of science.” Rhea comes out to the shop and puts a sandwich down in front of me.
My frown turns to a soft smile. “Thanks. I was going to go to the coffee shop.”
“You don’t have to. I cook for my boys. Well... I stick bread together.” She ruffles my white hair. I don’t know why my hair is white, and Manny’s is black, and hers is black with thick white streaks.
“For a man of science, there’s a lot of stuff I don’t know,” I grumble.
“Sometimes, it’s okay to be a man of faith. To take a leap. Or ask for a push in the right direction.”
I nod. The only thing that makes me a man of science was that I was put together by a crazy-ass doctor who also had fucked-up warlock sidekick on the payroll to bring his sewing projects to life.
“You know how you were made for Manny?” I say, and I wish I hadn’t. Rhea goes stiff right away. They don’t like to think about the man who made them.
“Yes.”
“Sorry, but... I killed my doctor before he could make another one of me... whatever I am. Maybe he was making me a bride. What if I’ll always be alone now? I’ll never have—what you have.” I hurriedly take a bite of the BBLT (beef bacon, lettuce, and tomato) she made, hoping that if I swallow enough, this sudden lump in my throat will leave me.
“They were not making mates, honey. They were making death machines. You saved someone a life of pain and self-torment, and that means the woman for you is out there, somewhere. You know, in a way... wasn’t Victoria sent after you to ‘make you pay’ for going rogue and killing that mobster’s underlings?”
“Pazcuso’s head doctor and his dark arts dude. Yep.”
“So in a way, she wasn’t made for you, but she was sent to you. You were still matched up, weren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Stubborn boy. Tell you what—I know a stovetop cookie recipe.”
“I want to figure this out by myself,” I lash out.
Rhea doesn’t even change expressions. “So, like I was saying, I have this recipe. I’ll give you the ingredients and lend you a pot and some cookie sheets. You figure it out. I’ll taste test.”
“I shouldn’t agree to that last part. They might be little lumps of burnt rubber.”
“Only if you cook the spatula, Laz. I’ll run home, get it together, and bring it here before work lets out for the day. You have a couple of days before the party to get it right.”
Three jars of peanut butter, seventy-six burns, and one new cookie sheet later...
“These are so good.” Manny shovels a second one into his mouth.
Rhea takes a third. “Delicious! Different than my recipe. I think you added more vanilla, and I love it.
“We need to stop eating these,” Manny groans, reaching for a third.
“I have seven batches. Some more awful than others,” I admit, chuckling as Rhea smacks her husband’s hand away as he goes in for a fourth.
There’s pride in my voice as I slip him another one. “They’re addictive as f—”
“Language!” Rhea hisses. “Stop that, Manny. We need to save some for—Victoria!”
“Well, maybe I made them with her in mind, but I guess I have to put it on the table for everyone to try,” I say.
