“Dad will tell you no since he doesn’t believe in paranormal activity. Mom will tell you yes. She believes there’s an old couple who appreciates our family lives there.”

“And where do you stand on the ghost front? Are you a believer?”

I press my hand to the countertop and smile. “Yeah, I am. But that’s only because I swear they were fucking with me in the attic one day when I was in eighth grade. We kept the Christmas decorations up there, and I was attempting to hand Banner boxes, but the boxes kept moving on their own. I would hand one to him, then go back for another, and they were in a different spot. Banner said I was nuts, but I know what I saw. It was totally the ghosts.”

“I could believe that as well. You seem like the kind of human spirits would be attracted to.”

“How so?”

“Accepting of all is how I would describe you, even the deceased. So yeah, they would try to communicate with you.”

“I’m assuming you’re a believer.”

“Eh, take it or leave it.”

The timer dings and Myla hops out of her seat and squats down in front of the oven. She holds her hand to the sky. “Mitt me.”

Chuckling, I slip an oven mitt on her hand. I watch as she carefully opens the oven and lets out a tiny squeal when she pulls the pastries out, then sets them on a trivet on the counter.

Golden-brown pastry logs are puffed and look delicious on the baking tray.

“Oh my God, look at what we did.” She turns toward me. “Ryot, they look amazing.”

“They do. We actually did it.” She loops her arms around my waist, and I take that opportunity to drape my arms over her shoulders.

“Look at our little babies. Once mere ingredients, and now, they’re all grown up and ripe for us to eat.”

“Well, not quite. They have to cool, then we’ll stuff them, and finally coat them in chocolate.”

“Bet you can’t wait to stuff them. Bet you’re good at all kinds of stuffing.”

I chuckle. “If only you had firsthand experience.”

She sighs and then smiles up at me. “If only.”

* * *

“I’m nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?” I ask Myla as we sit at our counter, each holding an éclair in hand. The filling was a breeze—a few blowouts, but that’s okay—but the chocolate, that was a bit of a nightmare. We kept dropping the éclair into the bowl of melted chocolate and then squeezing the filling out. Yeah, there are a few mangled ones.

“Because what if they taste bad?”

“What if they taste good?”

“Great point.” But she doesn’t move to bring the éclair to her lips. “But if they taste bad, that’s an omen.”

“An omen for what?”

“That we don’t have good chemistry.”

I lower my éclair and give her an amused look. “Are you really going to base our chemistry off an éclair and not the fact that every time we’re around each other, we have no problem holding a conversation?”