“Tay!” Gretchen bellowed, grabbing items as they rolled off the counter. “I forgot what a disaster you are. Don’t touch anything!”
Chagrined, Taylor crossed her arms over her chest and ignored that one of her sleeves now had scone batter on the cuff. “Sorry.”
Gretchen just gave her an exasperated look. “Seriously. How is it that you’re such a klutz after all this time?”
“Magic?” Taylor kept her smile bright. She just didn’t pay attention sometimes, and her friends knew it. She was easily distracted.
Gretchen shook her head and swiped spilled batter into a bowl, then tossed the entire thing in the sink. “More like a voodoo curse. Don’t change the subject, though. How come you didn’t take the promotion? I know you’re always tight on money.”
She shrugged. What could she say? That guild stuff—and Sigmund’s neediness—was keeping her from being able to put in the extra hours a week that a supervisory position would require? That it meant working in the office instead of at home and she’d be unable to play much, which would make Sigmund spiral out of control? That she’d called in a lot in the last few months and they’d stopped asking her if she was interested in a promotion and started asking if she needed to talk to a counselor? “Just . . . didn’t feel like the right time.”
“I swear, it’s because you’re addicted to that game, isn’t it?” Gretchen put her hands on her hips, and for a moment she looked an awful lot like Taylor’s mom. “Do we need to host an intervention, Tay?”
“No, I’m fine.” It really wasn’t Taylor’s choice to play all the time. If it were up to her, she’d put her accounts on vacation for a few months and take some well-needed days away. But every time she tried, the Sigmund thing got ugly, and her guilt got worse. So she lied, “I’m actually cutting back. It’s just been hectic at work lately.”
“I hear you,” Gretchen said sympathetically. She slipped her hands into a pair of oven mitts. “The housing market’s been crazy lately and Hunter’s business has been booming. He doesn’t sell direct himself of course, but all of his offices are scurrying to keep up and that means extra work for my poor sweetheart.” She pointed one of her mitts at Taylor. “Can you zest that lemon for me while I pull out the scones and somehow manage not to hurt yourself?”
“Sure.” As Gretchen turned away, Taylor picked up the lemon, accidentally dropped it on the floor, and then slid out of her chair to grab it. As she retrieved the lemon and got up, she banged her head on the underside of the counter. With a wince, she returned to her seat, rubbing her scalp. Dang. “I’m not sure you should trust me with sharp objects.”
“Use the grater, dummy.” Gretchen pulled a pan of triangle-shaped creations out of the oven, and the room filled with the scent of lemon cake. “If you hurt yourself with that, though, I’m not responsible.”
Taylor picked up the box grater gingerly and then began to rub the lemon on one side of it. “So, how’s the wedding stuff going?”
“Terrible. Greer’s my planner and she abandoned me to go stay with her dad for a few weeks in Vegas. I’m like, this is a crucial time, Greer! I have to pick out cakes and everything!” Gretchen shook her head. “Tragic.”
“Oh, right. Her father’s getting married, isn’t he?” Taylor wrinkled her nose. Greer was a sweet, demure type, but her dad was . . . well, he was old and skanky. She didn’t hold it against Greer, though. Girl didn’t have much to do with her family or her dad’s business.
“To triplets,” Gretchen affirmed. She set the pan down and gave Taylor a shifty look. “Speaking of love and stuff . . . you seeing anyone?”
“God, no.” Just the thought made her want to vomit. Sigmund would freak majorly if she even had a whiff of a guy online, and she barely left her apartment long enough to meet anyone as it was.
Gretchen seemed surprised by Taylor’s reaction. “Do you not want to date?”
“It’s . . . complicated.” As in, There’s this guy online that threatens to hurt himself if I so much as walk away from the computer and I don’t know what to do.
“Well . . . the friend I want you to show around the city? He’s new to the States.” Her eyes gleamed. “And he’s damn hot, girl, so put on your lipstick.”
“My lipstick?” Taylor dropped her lemon again.
Gretchen swooped to retrieve the fallen fruit, and then took the grater from Taylor’s hands. “Yes, your lipstick. Put on some makeup, fix your hair, and get your best flirt game on. He’s a real catch and I think you’ll like him.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “He’s from Bellissime.”
“That weird little country that that Griffin guy is from?” She’d met Maylee, who was real nice, but a bit of a rube, and was surprised to find that her fiancé was a starchy aristocrat from overseas.
“Same one! Now, can we get rid of the Hello Kitty backpack?” Gretchen beamed at her.
Taylor clutched the straps of her backpack and shook her head. “I like my backpack.”
“So do all the eight-year-olds that own one. And that scarf. We need to ditch the scarf. It’s summer.”
“It’s the fourth Doctor’s scarf!”
“Which is why we need to ditch it. I don’t want you flying your freak flag until he sees how cute you are.” She pinched Taylor’s cheek and then gave a tug on the scarf.