Optimal Delusions (Wayward Spirits Cozy Mysteries Book 1) by Amber Fisher

Author:Amber Fisher [Fisher, Amber]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blue Demon Media
Published: 2023-07-09T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

I awoke the next morning to find a note stuck to my lampshade. “Ms. Swift, I have early morning business to attend. Give Connie my apologies and see that she gets this. Simon.”

Lying on my desk with a corner tucked beneath the lamp was a glossy 8x10 headshot of Simon. Across the bottom in black Sharpie, he’d scribbled, “To Veronica, You have wretched taste in art. XOXO, Cupid.”

I slid the photograph directly into the wastepaper basket.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and was staggering out of bed when I suddenly went numb. The note stuck to my lampshade meant Simon had been in my bedroom. Without my permission. While I was sleeping. The sheer mortification of someone seeing me in my pajamas, my hair a mess, and no makeup on was more upsetting than the idea of someone invading my private space. Had I been snoring? Or worse…Drooling?

I snatched the note from the lamp, crumbled it up, and threw it in the garbage. I’d have to have a word with Simon about boundaries later. But first, coffee.

I had barely reached the bottom of the stairs when an overwhelmingly delicious scent filled my nose. Someone was cooking pancakes. I’d never been much of a breakfast person—morning yoga classes, jogging sessions, and meeting the ladies for coffee left little time for bacon and eggs. But I always had a soft spot for pancakes, French toast, waffles—any bread drenched in syrup, really. The very thought made my mouth water.

I followed my nose into the kitchen but stopped short when I saw someone I didn’t recognize standing at the stove.

She was a tall woman with striking features and a regal air. Her hair was silvery platinum and flowed down her back in gentle waves. Her feet were bare, and she wore a white waffle-knit housecoat cinched tightly at the waist.

She saw me lingering in the doorway and lifted a carefully plucked brow. “You’re the new girl,” she said, looking me up and down. “The one Penny was painting. Literally.”

“That’s me,” I said, trying not to look pathetic. She looked queenly in her pajamas; I had a feeling I presented less graciously. On the other side of the kitchen, someone had laid out an assortment of crumbling white cheeses, sliced red tomatoes, bread, and olive oil. And, of course, coffee. Blessed coffee. I lifted my chin. “Is that breakfast?”

The woman scrunched her nose. “If you can call it that. I’m making tiganites if you want some.”

I glanced at the stove, and my stomach rumbled. “They look like pancakes.”

“They are pancakes,” she agreed. “Greek pancakes. Do you want some or not? I can’t eat them; they’ll ruin my figure.” Her eyes narrowed as she evaluated me beneath my flannel nightgown. “You, on the other hand?” She shrugged.

I chose not to let her bait me. “If you can’t eat them, why make them?”

The woman shifted her weight, prodding the pancakes—excuse me, the tiganites—with her spatula. “Meg wants me to do something with my hands. And Tessa says cooking is therapeutic.

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