Page 10 of Bite Me

He continues eating, ignoring me. I glare at him as I pick up a fork and begin tasting the best meal that’s ever graced my lips. I’ve never had anything comparable, and Mom took me to as many restaurants as she could when growing up. I hate giving Dacre any credit, but my excitement is overriding my annoyance. This must be his master plan to butter me up till I’m ripe with excitement for whatever he’s asked me here for.

“How did you know Sophia Arendal was my favorite chef?” I try again.

“You aren’t exactly subtle on the forums with your interests.”

“So, you’re stalking me.”

He shrugs. “What would you do if I were?”

I sit with that, thinking of what Dacre might gain by such a thing. He’s just trying to distract me, but as I sip my soup, I picture him sitting at a computer and wonder how many hours he might have spent to find out that information. Did he sift through my likes and reposts? Scroll through my profile and see my thoughts on the newest romance drama, Magically Mated?

“So that’s the reason you called me here? So you could reveal your sick interest and get me into a nice dress?”

Come to think of it, I did have some pictures of my friends and me at the Luxxia pool party.

“I’m going to accept your nomination.”

I drop my spoon.

“You will?”

“Sure. I’ll be your sponsor for the culinary club.”

My excitement swells to elation and bursts before I can exhale.

“What’s the catch?”

He flashes his teeth. “You think there’s something I want?”

The clubs of Doxlothia are ruthless and riddled with bartering wars—the culinary club is no exception, from what I’ve heard. Everyone here wants something.

I take another bite of the delicious food, and I swear my vision blurs. “There’s always a catch.”

“Dessert first.”

He motions to a gooey cake that’s oozing caramel and cream.

I grab my spoon and shove a piece of cake into my mouth. What is that? Walnuts . . . Cinnamon? While I chew, he studies me as if I were the only girl on the planet. There’s something so intense about it, as if I’m prime Saturday-night entertainment—the most interesting person to ever sit across from him. I fight the urge to cover myself with the cloth napkin in my lap.

“Why do you want to be in the culinary club so badly? What do you think it’s going to get you?”

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

“Let me guess. You think it’s your one-way ticket to culinary fame. You have all these lofty ideas of your name in magazines and atop buildings.”

“You don’t know everything about me just because you’ve spent a few hours stalking me,” I remind him as I grab another spoonful of the cake and then go back for a piece of the Bolognese.

“I know you’re the youngest in your family, most likely loved to the point where you feel smothered. What a terrible thing it is to be so loved. So, you do little reckless things, like stealing notebooks from the culinary lounge.”

I almost choke. He pushes a glass of water toward me.

It was one time. Last semester, when I was devastated by the news that the culinary club was closed to new members, Zant pulled some strings to let me visit the culinary lounge because he had an in with Dacre. The whole thing was a mostly harmless endeavor, except that I was dared by a few of the other volunteers in the kitchen to bring something to show, and it just so happened there was a nice little notebook filled with recipes sitting out in the open.

“You’re so blinded by your own ambition that you’ll blaze through everyone and everything to get into the club.”

Listening to his analysis is like looking in a fun house mirror, where everything looks strange, but oddly recognizable. He’s not wrong, but he’s not right. Dacre doesn’t know me. That doesn’t make it any less surprising.

“All this proves is that you’re a stalker, and I should be concerned.”