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“Who got you a waffle maker?”
“My mom,” he said. “Which is my fault for making too big a deal about the panini maker she got me the year before.”
I laughed. “Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get a pressure cooker next year.”
"That wouldn’t be so bad. At least that makes more than one thing. Coffee?”
My whole body perked up at the suggestion.
“Brian got me a Nespresso machine because he’s ashamed of my unrefined palate.”
“Do you have any purple pods?”
His head whipped towards me. “I do, actually.”
“They’re my favorite.”
He turned to root through the basket beside the machine, leaving me to wonder why this didn’t feel more awkward? Did he not realize he’d sent me to the moon and back last night? Was he a professional womanizer? Or was he simply relaxed because nothing would ever come of this charade? “I can do that,” I said. “Since you’re on waffle duty.”
He set two purple pods down beside two mugs. “Cool.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you didn’t strike me as the kind of guy that steals hotel soaps and drinks gourmet coffee.”
“The latter, I’m not,” he said, holding his hand near the outside of the waffle iron. “Like I said, Brian got sick of being offered Nescafé when he came over. That said, I am pleased I have something nicer to offer you.”
“Me too.”
“Don’t tell him I said that, though. I made a big stink about what a ridiculous present it was for me, and I hate having to eat my words.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, situating one of the mugs under the machine before tapping the start button and leaning against the counter.
“As for the hotel bottles,” he continued. “It’s a compulsion. I don’t even want them. I know that in my heart when I stuff them in my suitcase. I just can’t help it.”
“You did sort of pay for them.”
He cringed. “Gee, that doesn’t make me sound cheap at all.”
“I don’t think you’re cheap.”
“It’s just a habit.”
“What happens when the basket gets full?” I asked.
“I donate them and start collecting again.”
I squinted at him.
“Don’t judge me,” he said. “It’s not too late for me to spit in the batter.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“In that case, maybe it’s a good time to confess that I owe you a pair of underwear.”
My brows jumped.
“Or rather, Otis does, but his taste in underwear is significantly less discerning than mine.”
I felt the color drain from my face. “What did he do to my underwear?”
