Eight Months Later
" H ONEY! I'M HOME!"
Sam lowered the heat on the back burner, giving the glaze she was making a gentle stir. "In the kitchen!"
Next week, after spending the better part of a year working as a private chef for a family of five on the Upper East Side whose eldest daughter Oslo was dating, Sam was set to start her new job as executive pastry chef of a little bakery in Cobble Hill, not far from the one-bedroom apartment where she and Daphne had lived for the last eight months.
As much as working as a private chef had been a much-needed change of pace after Glut, it was only ever meant to be a stopgap, a temporary job while she figured out what it was she really wanted out of a career. Sam was ready to get back to work and she was ready to do it at the Wicked Whisk.
The owner, Patricia, a sweet little old lady, Brooklyn born and raised, had offered Sam the job five minutes into sitting down to interview her. I'd be stupid not to hire you , she had said, and I'm a lot of things, Chef Cooper, but stupid's not one of them.
Never again did Sam want to spend seventy hours a week working herself to the bone, and she'd made that clear to Patricia.
The hours weren't nearly so dire, Patricia had promised her.
The bakery was open from eight to six Wednesday through Friday, and only until four on weekends.
Mondays and Tuesdays, the Wicked Whisk was closed, along with all major holidays.
She'd have to show up a little earlier than she'd had to at Glut, but she'd get off earlier, too.
For the first time in a long time, the prospect of stepping foot inside a professional kitchen filled her with excitement instead of dread.
Sam heard the soft sound of bare feet padding across the floor, and then Daphne's arms wrapped around her from behind. She hooked her chin over Sam's shoulder. "Mm, smells good. Whatcha making?"
Sam pointed the spoon across the kitchen to the cooling rack covered with perfectly golden-brown, deep-fried dough balls just waiting to be glazed with honey and sprinkled with chopped walnuts. "Your favorite."
Daphne's arms tightened around Sam's middle. " You're my favorite."
Warmth bloomed inside Sam's chest, and she laughed softly, turning her head to the side, silently asking for a kiss that Daphne seemed more than happy to give her. "Just got to let these cool a few more minutes and then I can glaze them. Sound good?"
"Sounds perfect." Daphne stepped over to the windowsill to rub Nacho's head, his long bottlebrush tail swishing happily from side to side.
She stared at it, a soft, forlorn sigh escaping her lips.
Aside from the practical conveniences that came with being able to bend space and time, she had told Sam there wasn't much she missed about being a demon.
Though she had confessed there was a small part of her that, on occasion, missed having a tail.
"I could use a treat after the day I had."
Sam frowned. "What happened?"
"You know that paper I turned in last week?"
"The one for your class on gender and sexuality in antiquity?"
Daphne nodded morosely. "I got a B on it."
"Hey, a B's not bad."
"I'm not upset about the grade, I'm upset about why I got the grade.
My professor docked me ten points for too few primary sources cited .
" Daphne huffed. "I was alive in antiquity, Sam. I am a primary source, but can I tell anyone that? No. Not unless I want everyone to think I'm cuckoo. It's not fair."
Sam tutted, trying hard not to laugh. "You poor thing."
"Oh, that's nice." Daphne's lips twitched. "Make fun of the ex-demon."
"I'd never," she teased. "Was work okay at least?"
Daphne's eyes darted away shiftily. "Work was fine."
Fine, huh? "All right, what trouble did you get yourself into this time?"
"This time?" Daphne held a hand up to her chest in mock offense. "You say it like it's habitual."
"Because it is." Sam grinned. "Lucky for you, I happen to like your brand of trouble."
Daphne ducked her chin, trying and failing to hide the smile that stole across her face. "All right," she relented. "I did a bad thing, but I believe it was deserved."
"Go on."
This was becoming a little ritual of theirs, one Sam looked forward to. At the end of the day, Daphne would come home, either from her job working as a barista or from the folklore and cultural studies classes she was taking, and confess her sins to Sam.
Daphne stole an unglazed doughnut off the cooling rack and blew on it. "You know that one customer who always complains that we don't make her lattes hot enough?"
"The one who then accused you of trying to maim her when you made it too hot?"
"That's the one." Daphne popped the doughnut in her mouth and moaned around the bite. "If I didn't love you already—and I do so love you—I swear I'd love you for these alone."
No matter how many times Daphne said those words, Sam had a feeling that hearing them would never get old. "I love you, too." She reached out, thumbing away a crumb from the corner of Daphne's mouth. "Now, finish the story. You've got me on tenterhooks over here."
"Today she came in and asked for an upside-down flat white, but she didn't tip, monster, so guess what I did."
"No clue." Sam smiled at how gleeful Daphne sounded. "Tell me."
"I made her a latte macchiato instead."
Daphne had explained that she found it oddly freeing, defying customers' orders after so many years spent being maliciously compliant.
"A latte macchiato instead of an upside-down flat white?" Sam set her hands on Daphne's hips, dragging her closer. She leaned in, meeting Sam halfway, brushing her lips against Sam's mouth, a quick kiss and still it curled Sam's toes. "You, Daphne Cooper, are downright evil."
Daphne smiled into the kiss. "Duh."