Page 8 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

But I’ve managed to undo some of those habits.

To create a space where I can breathe, can relax, can be me.

My apartment is small—a studio that leaves very few places for monsters to hide—and it’s mine. The kitchen cabinets are full of baking supplies, my Kitchen Aid sits in a prime spot on the limited counter space. Well, it takes up most of it, but I don’t mind doing what I’m doing now—prepping dinner on the kitchen table.

It’s the right height and I can spread out and…

I can get lost in my drug of choice—fantasy and Sci-Fi movies.

This goes hand-in-hand with my love of fantasy (in particular romantasy novels).

Tonight, I’m watching a favorite of mine, The Princess Bride.

Which has all of the best parts of a film: love and danger, high stakes and villains and adventure, and it doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Plus, Cary Elwes.

Perfection.

But even though I have my favorite movie playing and fresh bread baking in the oven and soup simmering on the stove and sugar cookie dough ready to be rolled out, I’m still feeling restless.

And off-center.

Because of…

“Thorn,” I whisper miserably.

I haven’t even seen him over the last week, but my mind hasn’t gotten the message to stop thinking about him.

About his soft voice suggesting ocean sounds to help me sleep, about those all-seeing green eyes, about the gentle way he’d handled Violet despite her clawing the hell out of him.

Sighing, I pull out the cookie dough, liberally flour the table and get to work rolling them out.

But even though my hands are busy and my gaze is mostly on the movie, my mind keeps drifting.

It’s annoying.

Especially because it means my cookies aren’t perfect.

The buzzer goes, and I scowl as I pull the bread out of the oven then slip in a sheet pan filled with slightly lopsided daisies cookies to bake off.

They won’t take long, so I put the finishing touches on the soup, set the bread aside to cool, and whip up a simple frosting.

I don’t bother dyeing it, but I do pull out a container of sprinkles.

Because everything’s better with sprinkles.

My lips twitch and I wonder if Thorn would agree…or what he’d do if I presented him with a sprinkle-covered daisy-shaped cookie.

Would he just scowl at it?

Or would he eat it?

And…would he like it?

“Enough,” I groan as I set the bowl of frosting aside, grabbing the cookies out and putting in the last tray to bake.

I slice the bread, dish up my soup, and when the timer goes, I pull out the last sheet of cookies.