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“If you say so.”
I scowl but choose to let it go as I jump down from my stool. “Hey, Sam?”
“Yes?” She’s turned away to place the pots in the cupboards.
“What are you making for lunch?”
“Basil soup, shepherd’s pie, and broccoli salad.”
“And dessert?”
“Salted caramel flan.”
“Make it strawberry and I’ll help.”
“Why would you?”
“Well…I’m bored.”
“Considering you’re able to watch films and read books for hours on end, I find that hard to believe.”
“Fiiine. I want to learn how to cook.”
“Why?”
“Just stop asking questions and teach me.”
“So you can burn dishes faster than you murder the poor flowers?”
“Oh, please. I’m trying to make something fun from those flowers.”
“Afraid Mr. Pratt does not agree with that view.”
“He’s just being dramatic. He’ll survive.” I interlink my arm with hers. “So will you? Please?”
“As long as you promise not to poison Mr. King.”
My lips part.
“Youwillpoison him?”
“Nooo, what are you talking about?” I laugh. “You’re so funny.”
“I’m anything but funny.”
“True.” I sigh with a mock pout.
She flips a sliding drawer open, places the pot inside amongst an incredibly organized set of similar pots, then pushes it closed.
OCD runs in this household, I swear. They should be thankful I’m adding more liveliness to their existence for free.
“So? So?” I place my hands together in a prayer. “Pretty please?”
“Fine. But only if you promise not to mess with his food. He’s iffy about it as it is and would possibly fast for eternity if something were to happen.”
“Aye, captain.” I salute, and I swear she suppresses a smile.
I wonder if I can convert Sam to the bright side and steal her away from her tyrant boss. Being exposed to that gloomy energy, stone-faced orders, and dark soul on a daily basis will suck the life out of her.
