I wiped my hands on my apron, let out a weary breath, and picked up the platter. Balancing it carefully, I set it on the counter. Zylas, perched on the stool across from me, stared at the dish. “My best recipes,” I told him, gesturing at its contents. “Chocolate-dipped toffee butter cookies, salted caramel pretzel pecan cookies, red velvet and white chocolate cookies, raspberry almond shortbread cookies, and my personal favorite, marshmallow-stuffed s’more cookies.” He blinked slowly at the heaps of fresh-from-the-oven deliciousness. Behind me, the tiny apartment kitchen was a disaster of
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