Page 22 of Baking and Angels

“No, Éliott…” Eleanor shook her head in disgust then huffed a sigh as she brushed her hands off on her apron. “There are three rounds. You get about an hour each, everyone makes a dessert or a dish, though we’ve done other baking rounds, too, like casseroles and stuff. Everything is blind taste-tested and the winner goes onto the next round until there are three of us.”

“Then it’s an all-out battle,” Éliott crowed, taking the narrative back.

Another huff from Eleanor. “In the third round, it’s about making the most stunning piece possible. What makes the ‘better dish’ becomes subjective. Some people have won by visual surprise and artistry, others by extreme tastes. Or being innovative.”

“It becomes very strategic, which is what keeps it interesting,” Éliott added.

Rafferty nodded, understanding. “And the ideal encapsulates all.”

“You’ve got it,” Eleanor agreed. She took a small step closer, and there was a bit of a change in her energy. No longer hostile. Rafferty would almost guess… inviting? Like he had passed some kind of test. Or maybe cooking just turned her on.

“And where do you call home?” she asked, shifting so she perched on the edge of the preparation table they wereeating at.

Another basic question that he had no answer for. Rafferty shifted on the kitchen stool he sat upon, wondering if he could say he lived with Helena. Did he live with Helena? Their future was souncertain.

“You mean where he works?” Éliott asked, before glancing at Rafferty. “I only know I met you at… that job.” Clearly, they weren’t supposed to talk about the Winter Rose Ball—which suited Raffertyjust fine.

Rafferty nodded his understanding. “I don’t have a home. Not like that. I just do… one-off gigs, whenever someone needs me,” he said.

Eleanor smirked. “What are you, a trust fund baby?”

“I… I have a girlfriend,” he said.

“Oh, my dear Lord, you are kidding me,” Eleanor decried, clearly disliking that answer. “So, you’re adeadbeat?”

“No…” Rafferty said, desperately trying to parse her meaning. “Deadbeat” must be a new idiom; he just hadn’t heard Helena say it yet.

“He is from France, you see,” Éliott again interjected. “He hasn’t been here very long, yes?”

“You’re French?” Eleanor asked, getting more and more skeptical of their story.

“Oui,” Rafferty said. “I… I don’t have an accentbecause…”

“Because he does not want to be judged by it like some of us are.” Éliott raised a poignant eyebrow at Eleanor, who ignored him.

“” Eleanor asked, in American-accented French.

“” Rafferty asked, getting annoyed with thepractice.

This time Eleanor blinked multiple times at Rafferty’s perfect French. “You know you would have an easier time getting jobs if you didn’t try to suppress your natural accent. People love that sortof thing.”

Rafferty shrugged. “I’m sorry to disappoint.” He turned away to go back to the small bit of counter by the stove he had used. He snagged the brandy bottle he used for the gruau. His glass received a healthy refill.

Damn, this brandy tastes good,he thought after an equally healthy swallow. Alcohol had no effect on him before, as ashy tasting as anything else he put inhis mouth.

Eleanor’s gaze followed him, the wheels clearly turning in her head, but he didn’t care anymore. His head swam with the drinks he had already consumed. He wasn’t tipsy drunk; he didn’t think he had the emotions needed for such a thing. Even in his first life, he had been a sullen drunk, and that much hadn’t changed now in his second life apparently.

“You know, people are really into antique recipes too. You could fill a real niche for someone. Also, I could refer you to a couple of places if you’re looking for steady paying work,” Eleanor suddenly offered, eyeinghis gruau.

“In exchange for what?”he asked.

She frowned. “Nothing,”she said.

That made him pause. “Why would you do that for me?” Rafferty immediately questioned.

“Because I’m not as much of a bitch as you think I am,” Eleanor responded, finally giving him a grin. It changed her whole face, and for a brief moment, Rafferty’s swimming senses got caught up in it. She didn’t look away from his naked appraisal, then she reached into one of her apron pockets and pulled out a business card. It was a bit of cardstock that had seen better days, the corners roughed up and creased, but everything needed on it was legible.

“Feel free to call me. I remember how hard it was to get started, so if you are interested, I have enough favors I need to pay forward that I can at least make a few introductions.”

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