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I laugh. But there's something about his expression.
He's upset.
And he's deflecting with a joke.
I'm supposed to call him on that.
But I can't bring myself to do it.
I clear my throat. "I want to make dinner. I don't have time to cook during the semester."
"You're a student."
"Maybe."
He cocks a brow.
"How about we talk about that tomorrow?"
"Fair."
I push aside the thought of law school. I'm handling one life crisis at a time. "My place is small. Not much room to cook. And my family doesn't like me cooking while I'm home. I make too much of a mess."
He laughs. "You make a mess?"
"I can be messy."
"You can be dirty, but messy?" He shakes his head no way. "I bet you've got your socks color coded in my dresser."
"Maybe."
He nods. "Definitely."
I admit nothing.
9
Bella
I'm far from an expert chef—I don't get a lot of time to practice—but I enjoy cooking.
Well, I enjoy cooking for myself. I don't have to worry about pleasing anyone or failing to live up to their expectations.
There's something about the way Joel is looking at me.
He has expectations of me.
But I'm not sure what they are.
I pluck shrimp and mixed veggies from the freezer. The fruit drawer is packed with lemons, limes, and oranges.
I point it out to Joel.
He shrugs. "Sometimes I want to do tequila shots."
"With everyone in Venice Beach?"
"You never know."
