back to him suddenly: “Things aren’t always what they seem/Skim milk masquerades as cream . . .”
A few minutes later Jimmie was back, balancing two tall containers of coffee and a couple of Danish wrapped in bakery paper. They were still warm from the oven.
“I got you decaf, because of what you said at the party about not drinking coffee much any more because the Sidhe can’t tolerate it.”
“You’re right there,” Eric said. “Before I met Kory, I couldn’t even get up in the morning without that first cup, now I hardly ever touch the stuff. Caffeine in any form acts like the worst kind of drug for them—like a combination of cocaine and LSD. If you’re ever having problems with a mad elf-lord, just pitch a can of Coke at him.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jimmie said, sounding tiredly amused. “You never know; it might come up. But they roast and grind their own beans here. It’s a special blend—you won’t miss the caffeine. And Papa Lombardi only makes these pastries at Christmas. It’d be a crime to miss them.”
She handed one to Eric. The golden crust was fragrant with almond and cinnamon, and when he bit into it, Eric could taste citrus and currants as well. His stomach awoke with a growl, reminding him he’d missed breakfast by several hours, and he had to restrain himself from wolfing the whole t