7. Enoch
ENOCH
It’s been four days since that brief kiss in my kitchen, and my world has not, as feared, combusted in a chemical fireball of awkwardness and regret.
The only thing incinerated is my ability to think straight anywhere within a ten-yard radius of Daisy Flowers.
If I could bottle that scent—her shampoo, her laugh, the sugar-dusted warmth of her skin—I would.
I am a demon. I should not feel like I’m in a perpetual state of soft, sticky euphoria.
And yet, here I am, carving half-moons into my palm as I pace the office, pretending to review patient charts when, in fact, I am counting down the minutes until opening at the bakery.
It is not only the anticipation of seeing her face, though that’s potent enough to power a small country.
It’s the fact that, sometime between her lemon tart and her hand in mine, I decided on a wholly new and reckless course of action.
Humans call this “asking out,” as if it were a minor act of inquiry, not the risk of emotional obliteration.
I am determined, for once in my wretched, long life, to be more than the clever demon in the shadows with the perfect nodding advice.
So I do what I have never done before: I leave my work unfinished, slide on my coat, and cross the micro-park that separates my office from her bakery in exactly thirty-eight seconds.
The wind is sharp, filtering through the narrow streets and carrying with it the yeasty promise of the day’s first batch of bread.
I tell myself I’ve timed my arrival for the tail end of the breakfast rush, but I’m too early.
There are still four customers ahead of me, two of whom are debating the merits of cinnamon buns versus maple crullers as if it’s a matter of public policy.
Daisy weaves between them with an ease I envy, her braid swinging, her cheeks glowing pink from the oven.
She wears a turquoise headband and a cardigan the color of wild violets.
She catches my gaze before I can look away, and for a fraction of a second, the world becomes a tunnel between the back counter and the cash register, silent except for the staccato of our mutual pulse.
She beams, and the next minute is a blur of brown paper bags, bottles of cider, and the jangle of the bakery bell. When it is finally just us, she leans one elbow on the counter and grins as if daring me to surprise her.
“Enoch. You’re early.”
She has that tone, the one that makes me want to do ridiculous things, like sing or give her a piggyback ride through City Hall.
“I wanted to ensure you didn’t run out of breakfast,” I say, which is not a lie. I haven’t eaten since last night.
She raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you eat breakfast?”
“I am told it’s the most important meal of the day.” I scan the glass case and then, very deliberately, point to the smallest, pinkest cupcake on the tray. “I’ll have that one, please.”
She tries and fails to suppress a giggle. “You sure you don’t want something more... dignified?”
“That’s the one,” I say.
She boxes the order, sliding it across with a faint showmanship that makes me want to break into applause. I pay—cash, on the off chance the universe decides to humble me with an awkward card-declined moment—and push the cupcake back in her direction.
Her lips twitch. “I thought this was for you?”
“It was. But I’ve found that most things are better when shared.” My hands are steady, which is a small miracle. “I have a question for you, Daisy.”
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “If it’s about the new almond flour, I can explain. It’s a supply-chain issue.”
“Not that.” I draw a breath. “Would you like to have dinner with me? Tonight. Not here, not at my house. Somewhere neither of us has to make the menu or do the dishes.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, as if I’ve suddenly started speaking in tongues. For a splintered heartbeat, I worry I’ve read everything wrong—that the kitchen, the kiss, the hand-in-hand walk home were figments of my imagination. Then she smiles, and I feel the tectonic plates of the universe shift.
“Enoch, are you asking me on a date?”
I don’t dare look away. “Yes.”
She lets the moment grow; she always does. For once, I’m not the patient one, and the seconds stretch, fluttering like banners in the wind.
“I’d love to,” she says.
I huff out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “I’ve heard good things about a new place on the bay. Drake’s.”
She lights up. “The one with the sea-glass windows and the tableside flambé? I’ve wanted to go for ages!” She stops, suddenly bashful. “I mean, only if you want...”
“Seven o’clock?” I say, and there’s a quaver in my chest that I hope is not audible.
Her hands smooth the edge of the bakery box. “It’s a date. I’ll see you there.”
She finishes the transaction with a flourish, and when I leave, I nearly miss the step at the threshold because I can feel her eyes on my back, a honeyed prickle that doesn’t fade even as I walk out into the wind.
Back at my office, I endure a twelve-minute conversation with a kombucha-brewing mothman about his HOA board, then suffer through a mid-morning existential crisis from a new client, a low-level orc who works sanitation and believes he may have fallen in love with a witch who despises him.
I am on autopilot, my own existence coalescing around the next few hours and the possibility of a future in which Daisy Flowers says my name like it’s not merely a footnote in the annals of Hell.
I count down the hours, barely touching lunch, my appetite a hostage to anticipation.
I draft and redraft a script for the date, only to crumple the notes in my fist because none of my clever lines are as good as simply listening to her talk about scones or sourdough starters.
I have accepted the possibility of euphoria; I have not accepted the possibility of muscle spasms in my face from the effort it takes not to smile at every random memory of her.
When the appointed hour arrives, I put on my newest shirt—a dark maroon that some would say is on the nose, but which I justify by the fact that everyone is going to see my horns anyway.
I iron my slacks and wrestle my hair into something less like a cyclone and more like purposeful chaos.
The walk to Drake’s is precisely seventeen blocks, winding through Old Town and along the harbor, where the air is skin-tingling and frosted with the memory of salt.
I arrive at the restaurant with three minutes to spare, and Daisy is already there.
She leans against the window, her face angled toward the candlelight, a wash of gold catching the edge of her cheekbone.
She wears a dark blue dress with tiny embroidered flowers, and in the dimness of the restaurant, she looks like the lead character in every song about summer I have ever heard.
She stands when I approach, and for one strange, out-of-body moment, I think maybe she’s going to hug me. Instead, she beams and says, “You clean up better than I expected.”
My hands hover awkwardly. “You look... formidable.”
She laughs. “In a good way?”
“In a very good way.”
“Is that a demon thing, or an Enoch thing?”
“I think I’ll find out,” I say.
The host leads us to a window table overlooking a ragged spit of shore and a dock where gulls wage open warfare.
The air inside is warm and cozy, with a faint sizzle from the open kitchen and the sound of ice clinking in glasses.
The host hands us menus and winks at me, which would be mortifying if I cared about anything but the woman across from me.
Daisy opens her menu, then glances at me over the top.
“So. This is a date.”
“It is,” I say, and the words are surprisingly easy to say out loud.
“I thought you were going to chicken out.”
“In fact,” I say, my voice low, “I nearly did. Several times. But then I remembered the look on your face last Friday when I nearly kissed you, and I knew I had to see that look again.”
She laughs, and it’s better than any magic I have ever conjured.
“You really are a demon. I’m going to order the most complicated thing on the menu just to see if you can handle it.”
“A test?”
“An experiment,” she says. “For science.”