Page 69 of Secondhand Soul

“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 and instantly feel horrible.

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 from 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’ll have to put them on the table for everyone to try,” I say with a shrug. What if she doesn’t even eat them? Or notice them? Will it look too obvious if I keep trying to get her to try one all night?

Victoria’s voice startles me. “Um. Hi. I was wondering if you have wiper blades? It’s starting to sleet, and one of my blades is just dragging and streaking.”

I whirl so fast that cookies go skidding off the plate. Manny catches them like a star outfielder, and they disappear into his mouth. “Victoria!” I gasp.

“Told you,” Rhea mutters.

Victoria smiles. She’s in a slinky little black dress, and she’s filled out a little more than when I first saw her. Maybe not being an assassin is good for your appetite. It’s gotta be less stressful.

The dress hugs her curves—especially the ones at the top.

She’s dressed up for this Christmas party, not for me.

“Uhhh... You know what, I’m sure I do. But I don’t want you two to be late for the Christmas party.” Manny takes his keys from his pocket and passes them to me. “Take my truck, and we’ll bring over Victoria’s car when I get the blade on. Won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protests softly, eyes wide.

“It’s no trouble, and it’s getting slick out there,” Rhea urges, her hand out for Victoria’s keys, which she slowly hands over. “You two run along. Lazarus, wrap those cookies up tight—after Victoria tries one. Victoria, Lazarus made these himself. They’re divine.”

“He can bake?” One smooth brow arches, and she tentatively walks over and takes one of the cookies.

“Not even poisoned,” I breathe so low that only she can hear it.

“Goes good with un-poisoned whiskey,” she breathes back, and brings the cookie to her lips.

I watch the way her mouth closes over the first bite and...

I swallow hard, pointed canines digging into the inside of my lip. Victoria was there during the great squash fire. In fact, I blame her for it—at least, partially. She’s also seen me burn canned soup, something a toddler could probably handle.

What if human taste buds are different? What if they’re really horrible? What if I can’t bake, and I’m making myself look so stupid that she—