Page 156 of Terms of Exposure
"Taste."
Not a request—a command delivered in marinara.
I took the spoon and the moment the sauce hit my tongue, my soul separated from my body.
Oh.
Oh, god.
It was rich, silky, perfectly balanced. Tomatoes singing. Basil warm and bright. A depth I didn't know sauce could have. My knees nearly gave out. I actually saw a light.
"I think I just ascended," I moaned.
Next to me, Candace tipped her head back, expression borderline obscene.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped her as well.
Rosie's face split into the most satisfied grin I'd ever seen.
"Good," she declared, pleased as a queen surveying her empire. "You two can stay."
From the living room, Sebastian yelled, "I TOLD YOU IT WAS GOOD!"
"Shut up, you ruined the first batch!" Rosie snapped back.
He gasped in offense. "That is a lie!"
And for the first time since Candace had collapsed on her apartment floor, I saw light spark in her eyes.
Chapter thirty-eight
Emma
Dinner at Rosie Holt's table was an experience.
The floral wallpaper did not stop at the kitchen. Or the living room. Or, apparently, anywhere within a five-mile radius of her house.
It followed us—onto the tablecloth, the napkins, the seat cushions. Even the plates were ringed in delicate pink roses.
Each place setting had its own crocheted doily—uniquely patterned, meticulously shaped, like they'd been arranged by a very determined saint with a glue gun.
Mine was lavender.
Candace's was white with scalloped edges.
Damien's had delicate green vines.
Sebastian's sparkled. Glitter glued to the corners.
Rosie bustled around the table carrying bowls and platters.
"Sit, sit," she demanded, pointing at each chair with her wooden spoon. "You're all skin and bones. I'm embarrassed to have you at my table."
Damien shot me a smug look as he pulled out my chair.
I mouthed:Don't start.
He mouthed back:I'm always right.
