Date = 8 November
Place = San Francisco (Damion’s house)
POV - Melaena
My nose wrinkles before my brain catches up — garlic and melted cheese, and if I’m not mistaken, something caramelized in sugar.
“Oh wow,” I murmur. “That smells illegal.”
My stomach agrees, growling loud enough to embarrass me. Traitor.
Damion slouches over the counter like he owns the place — which, annoyingly, he does — peels back some tinfoil, and tears into a slab of cheesy garlic bread.
His teeth sink in. His eyes roll back. He moans.
I swallow hard.
My mouth waters. And not just for the food.
“Mmm,” he hums, eyes closed like he’s having a spiritual experience. “That’s good.”
I hate him. Deeply. Passionately.
He demolishes the rest of the bread, then slips on lemon-green oven mitts and pulls two glass
