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“You’re right,” he mumbles, his body growing heavy against mine, “but you’re still an asshole.”
With a soft chuckle, I reply, “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
Chapter 10
Callie
With Gina in a coma, my food and nutrition class has been a lot less eventful, her gaggle of Barbie clones far more subdued without their queen bee to impress, but I still hate the class. All my magic can’t save me from being a horrible cook. Logistically, I understand everything, but once I attempt to put it into practice, it all goes to hell. The number of things I’ve managed to both over and under cook at the same time is staggering, and everything I bake is hard enough to chip a tooth. I guess I should be grateful that I haven’t managed to burn the school down in one of my failed attempts, though a small, second extinguisher has been placed near my station just in case.
I sigh and keep scrubbing my pan in the sink when the bell rings and the rest of the class escapes for the day. Today, we were learning how to sauté vegetables, and shocker of all shockers, I burned mine beyond recognition. Fortunately, Ms. Brooks doesn’t grade based on skill and offers a lot of extra credit for helping around the classroom. I’m literally getting an A for effort.
“Can I help you?” Ms. Brooks asks from her desk at the front of the classroom, and I look over my shoulder to find Donovan leaning against the doorframe.
He motions toward me with his chin. “I’m waiting for her.”
“Just a sec,” I call and glumly get back to it. If I were at home, I’d just Fantasia the scrub brush to do it for me, but alas, human school, so I have to keep the supernatural world a secret. Blah, blah, blah.
The squeak of rubber boots against linoleum announces his approach, and he releases a low whistle when he looks over my shoulder. “You burnt the hell out of that.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” I grumble, scrubbing harder, but the pan doesn’t seem to be getting any cleaner.
Donovan drops his backpack on the ground, plucks the pan and scrub brush from my hands, and uses his hip to nudge me out of the way. Unlike my pathetic attempts, he puts a little nephilim strength into it, and it’s not long until the pan is a shiny silver again.
Grabbing a nearby hand towel, he begins to dry the offending cooking implement. “Next time, try soaking it first, or better yet, don’t burn it in the first place.”
“It’s not on purpose,” I complain, picking up the rest of the items I left to dry while fighting the battle against burnt food. “Last time, I messed with it too much and my food got all mushy and took forever to cook. This time, I decided to let it sit longer, and apparently, it was too long, and the moisture evaporated out of the pan and burned.”
He follows me to the cabinet that holds all the cooking supplies. “I don’t get it. Cooking isn’t that hard. I started when I was six on a hot plate in a run-down RV while my dad was driving down the road.”
“Not everyone can be a prodigy like you,” I mutter as I put everything away.
“This is a basic life skill, angel,” he corrects, going back to the sink to retrieve his backpack. “I’m not saying you need to learn how to make a gourmet meal, but you should at least be able to scramble some eggs without burning them.”
“Why do you think I took this class?” I whisper harshly, looking over at Ms. Brooks who seems to be engrossed in some type of record keeping.
Donovan releases a weary sigh. “I had other plans for our date tonight, but it’s a crime to let this go on. I’ll teach you how to cook.”
“Mei tried to teach me to bake and that didn’t really go too well,” I warn, walking to my station at the back of the class to pick up my backpack and jacket.
Following me toward the door, he promises, “This will be different.”
“I don’t know,” I hedge, not super excited to have him witness just how bad I am.
“Callie, as much as you’re a joy to have in class, you could really benefit from some one-on-one tutoring,” Ms. Brooks interjects without looking away from her computer. “I highly recommend accepting the offer presented to you by this nice young man.”
Donovan makes an expression somewhere between offended and horrified over being referred to as “nice,” making me a giggling mess. After a few halting breaths, I wheeze out, “Okay,” before we leave the classroom and head for my locker.
“This is not me being nice,” Donovan clarifies as we walk down the mostly empty hallway. It’s Friday, which means everyone has bailed from school like the building is on fire. “Your cooking is literally a health hazard.”
I give him a large grin. “And it’s so nice of you to help.”
He shudders, which has me giggling all over again.
My levity lasts until we hit my locker that’s decorated in fun phrases like “slut” and “homewrecker.” Crouching down, I run my finger over the offending phrases and find it doesn’t smudge. Permanent marker, yay!
“Motherfuckers,” Donovan growls, his eyes blazing. “We need to find out who did this. It’s been too long since I bashed some heads in. Clearly, this school needs a reminder of who they are fucking with.”
“At least they stopped calling me a suicidal crazy person,” I comment with a sigh. After peering around the hallway to make sure we’re alone, I envision a spotless locker and wave my hand over the graffiti. Every locker in the hallway appears brand new. Close enough.
