Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
rupert
What if she hates it? I hope I haven’t ballsed it up.
I’ve worked all day, trying it and retrying until I got the texture of the mushrooms right, the layer of mustard spread perfectly, the spinach dry enough, and the dough just the correct thickness. By the time I got to my third batch, I knew it was fit enough for Peony.
I turn the Wellington in the oven one last time, trying to get an even browning on the surface of the dough. It’s a classic, which means it was daring of me to attempt it. Peony will be able to tell right away if I’ve executed any step incorrectly. There’s nowhere to hide in this dish.
But I’m done hiding from her. Tonight, I will open my soul up on the plate.
First is my appetizer, artichoke hearts stuffed with soft cheese and crab. After placing a sprig of parsley on top, it’s time to present it.
When I step into the dining room, I half expect Ms. Austin not to be there. That would serve me right if I spent all day preparing a meal and she did to me what I’d done to her.
But no, she’s here. She is here in all her glory.
Peony. My heart leaps into a frenetic beating.
To say she’s beautiful wouldn’t be right.
You would picture someone who is not Peony.
She is beautiful, in the way her round cheeks look like perfect apples, her plump lips splashed with color, her eyes immeasurably bright and eager.
Her sunny demeanor doesn’t change as I step into the room carrying the appetizer tray.
Her wide mouth is pulled up in a smile, revealing white, straight teeth.
The startling burgundy dress she wears complements her red lips, making her look as if she’s been decorated with roses.
I set her plate down in front of her, sliding it off my long claws onto the table. Then I serve myself and Kellen, who I’ve only just noticed is present. Though I have work to do on the main course, I sit anyway because I want to witness Peony’s reaction.
Her smile hasn’t wavered. In fact, it grows wider as I sit down at the opposite end of the table.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Mr. Edgewood.” She picks up her knife and fork, her eyes glinting with pleasure.
“You as well, Ms. Austin.” My voice, though I am used to it, makes me self-conscious with its deep, gravelly baritone. It is distinctly not human, and I am very aware of how not human I am at this moment with my clawed, scaly hands on the table in front of me.
“What am I eating?” Peony holds her utensils at the ready.
I walk her through what I’ve prepared, and she eagerly examines the dish. Then she packs all the elements onto a fork and plops it right between those red lips.
Her eyes are alight. “This is wonderful.” I can already see the healthy glow spreading across her face as she eats. “A little lemon, too?”
“Impressive,” I say. “You’re right. Sprinkled on right at the end.”
It is a marvel watching her chew thoughtfully, her eyes closing in pleasure as she seeks out every tendril of flavor. The whole room is quiet as both Kellen and I watch her eat, waiting for her verdict. He hasn’t even tried his yet.
“Wow.” Peony’s eyes open again, and I’m riveted to them. They’re so large in her face, dark brown, but they squeeze down to small slits when she smiles at me. “Absolutely wonderful dish, Mr. Edgewood.”
The compliment makes the hair on my mane stand up straight. She cocks her head curiously, and I smooth a hand down my neck to try to flatten it again.
“Thank you.” I scratch behind one of my ears. “I didn’t know your tastes, but I got a good guess from what you’ve cooked for me.”
Then I remember I need to prepare the next course, so I hop out of my chair and rush back into the kitchen.
There are my Wellingtons, perfectly golden brown, the tops shiny with the egg wash I put on them.
Next, I take out the potatoes and the broccolini, and start crafting the plate.
I finish with a sauce around the outside in a long flourish, then the dish is ready.
I carry the plates out to the dining room, setting one in front of Peony first. Her face is simply glowing as she takes in the sight of what I’ve made for her.
“Beef Wellington,” she murmurs. “And Hasselback potatoes. Not easy to get them looking this good.”
I don’t say anything as she cuts open her Wellington, waiting for her judgment.
From where I’m sitting, it looks like the beef is the right color inside, and the dough the perfect thickness.
I have to stop my clawed toes from tapping on the floor as she cuts herself a piece and pops it in her mouth.
Peony’s grin is unguarded and broad.
“Amazing,” she says, and I think then that she might be the loveliest woman to ever walk the face of this earth.
peony
Rupert Edgewood is an unbelievable cook. We would have been more than happy to have him in the kitchen back at the restaurant, claws and all.
He sure is something to look at, too. His face, though resembling an animal, is far more human in its expressions than I expected.
His brows crease in the same way anyone’s do when they’re anxious, waiting for me to speak.
He’s clutching his utensils with his big, awkward hands, but not using them.
The voluminous mane of hair that begins behind his ears is slick and shiny, and cascades down the back of his neck to his shoulders.
Everywhere else—besides his hands, face, and feet—is brown and furry, almost like a long-haired dog.
Oh, and then there’s the tail. The long, sweeping tail that’s scaled, too, the tip of which absently flicks as Rupert sits at the other end of the table, studying my reactions to his food.
Which is fucking delicious, by the way. The appetizer was simple, but it utterly blew my mind. The flavors, too, weren’t overly complex but complemented each other flawlessly.
And then, a perfectly cooked beef Wellington? I was dumbfounded when he brought it out on a tray, this eight-foot monster with claws like scythes, and set it down gently in front of me. I’d never seen a pastry shell that looked so utterly delectable.
Mr. Edgewood seated himself across from me again, looking awkward in the small chair, his odd hind legs crossing under the table. The fact he speaks with such a pronounced English accent only emphasizes his strangeness.
While his eyes are foreign to me, with yellow sclera and reptile-like pupils, they are undeniably human.
I can see all his anxiety, all his vulnerability, and I soften toward him.
It must be complicated to look as he does and likely brings many difficult emotions to the surface.
But he’s trying to make it up to me, to impress me and make me feel welcome, despite his discomfort with his appearance.
Once Kellen and I have settled into eating our dinner, Rupert rises again and disappears into the kitchen. I’m curious what he has planned for dessert if this is how he’s treated me so far.
And where did he learn this? It’s far above the level of a casual home cook.
Kellen glances at me as we eat. “Did you have a good shopping trip today?” Once again, he reminds me of a dad trying casually to make conversation at the dinner table.
“Yep. And I got the bank account set up.” I wink. “See? I listen.”
He nods approvingly. “Quite a good ensemble you chose.”
I wonder if Rupert appreciates it, too. I want him to like it. I want him to think it looks good on me. Rubbing my cheeks, I look down to find my plate totally empty.
Then, as if he’s been summoned, Rupert appears again in the doorway. It’s a marvel that his tall, curved horns don’t bump on the ceiling, but it seems as if the whole mansion has been built to accommodate his frame.
He sets a plate down in front of me that has a chocolate lava cake in the middle with a side of cream. When my mouth falls open, he grins.
This is what I made for him that night he didn’t show up. How did he know?
“I saw it in the trash,” Rupert explains in that wonderfully low voice, “and I thought there was a good chance it was your favorite. No fancy chocolate shell, though.”
“I love lava cake.” Taking the warm cream, I pour it over the top, then cut into the cake. The velvety chocolate inside oozes out, and I give a little squeal. This is the best part.
When I look up, Rupert is grinning even wider, showing off his long fangs.
“I thought so,” he says, a tinge smug. I don’t mind, though, because he was absolutely right.
I devour the cake even though I’m already full, to the point that I wonder if I might just burst. When I’ve scraped up every last bit of chocolate and cream on the plate, I fall back into my chair and exhale long and deep.
“Is it gauche of me to ask whether you enjoyed it?” Rupert asks. The gentle amusement in his voice slides over me like black velvet.
“I enjoyed it.” Then I let out the biggest burp I think I’ve ever emitted in my life.
A huge roar takes me by surprise, and I shoot up in my chair to find Rupert guffawing. He slaps the table hard, making everything shake. His roar, I realize, is actually a laugh, and he lets out another bellow when I burp a second time from surprise.
“I think that speaks for itself,” Kellen pipes up, and now it’s my turn to laugh, too. My laughter makes Kellen laugh, and then we’re all howling at the table over the obliterated remains of our meal.
When we’ve finally quieted down, I start gathering up the plates. Rupert frowns at me, that big lion’s mouth of his tilting down and showing his lower teeth.
“What are you doing, Ms. Austin?”
“Cleaning! You did all the cooking.”
“You cook and wash up for every meal.” Rupert rises to his feet, which means he’s now towering over me. “Let me clean the mess I made. Please?”
I’ve never had someone beg me to clean before after they just spent all day cooking, but he seems to really want this.
“Fine.” I make it clear I don’t enjoy handing over my responsibilities, but a part of me finds it adorable. He wanted to spoil me, and if this is the result, I don’t mind being spoiled. “But you have to tell me, where did you learn that?”
Rupert cocks his big head. “Learn what?”
“How to make a perfect beef Wellington!”
I love Rupert’s shy smile as he takes the plates out of my hands.
“I attended the Culinary Institute for a few years. I thought I was going to be a chef. But then my father died, and things changed after that.”
He doesn’t elaborate, instead taking our plates away into the kitchen. I give Kellen a perplexed look, but he shrugs like it’s not his story to tell.
While Rupert cleans, Kellen pulls out a box of checkers. Something feels so homey, so peaceful, about playing a game of checkers after a big meal, that for the first time in years, I feel happy. Satisfied.
When Rupert returns, I’ve just defeated Kellen. Rupert steps in, and he’s a much better player. I observe his huge hands as he deftly picks up a red piece and places it on the next square, marveling at him.
What a wonder of the world.
“Mr. Edgewood?” I ask.
Rupert pauses as he kings one of his pieces. “Yes, Ms. Austin? You can call me Rupert.”
“Then you can call me Peony,” I shoot back, and Rupert laughs. I like how easy it is between us, as if we’ve known each other a long time. “Well, I hope someday, Rupert, you might feel comfortable telling me about how you ended up here. How you became what you are.”
He pauses, those piercing eyes of his jumping up to mine. He studies me for a long moment, and I feel as if I am being dissected, opened up, seen.
“All right.” He nods. “Tonight is not the night, but perhaps… next time?”
“Oh, yes!” I clap my hands together. “Next time would be wonderful. Could I cook?”
I think the question has pleased him.
“I would love that, Peony.”