“You’re giving it a name?”
“All treaties need a name.”
I try not to smile at her. “Nerd.”
“Rule one,” she says, tapping the pen against her lip. “We respect shared spaces.”
No-brainer. “No loud music, please don’t take calls on speaker. If you have to, do it outside.”
She nods along, making the notations on the paper. “Agree. I can’t stand loud noises.” Same. I almost say it, but she beats me to it and says, “I also can’t stand chewing. Or slurping. Or mouth breathing.”
“Now I feel attacked.”
Her eyes flick up. “Do you slurp?”
“No.” Yes—soup and coffee.
“Do you chew with your mouth open?”
“Absolutely not.” Sometimes, depending on what it is.
She taps her pen twice. “We’ll let you stick around, I guess—for now.”
I huff out a laugh and lean forward, elbows on the counter. “Rule two: bathroom courtesy. If you take longer than twenty minutes, I’m picking the lock.”
“Oh please,” she scoffs. “You were in there at least a half hour last night.”
“I was icing my knee!”
Annabelle snorts. “You can do that here, in the kitchen. Or outside.”
Is she micromanaging me? “Rule three: no horror movies after dark. I heard you watching one last night, and I swear it sounded like someone getting murdered in the living room.”
“That wasThe Bachelorette.”
I shrug. “I don’t see the difference.”
She gawks at me. “If you insult my shows, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”
“You don’tknowthe Wi-Fi password.” It’s printed on a sheet of paper, folded in a drawer next to the oven, but my lips are sealed.
“I’ll find it eventually. I’m crafty.”
I point my pen at her. “Rule four: If you have a problem with something, say it to my face. Don’t get buckie about it and sulk around the place like a child.”
Annabelle rears back, hands going up. “Whoa—tell me how you really feel.”
Okay. “I value honesty—even if it’s brutal.” Better still.
She narrows her eyes. “Great. No leaving your beard trimmings in the sink, it’s disgusting.”
I blink. “That happened once, and it was this morning.”
Her nose goes into the air, and she tilts her chin. “No beard trimmings in the sink.”
“Fine.” I scrawl it down. “Rule five: We don’t eat each other’s groceries without permission. I know my protein bars are tempting, but keep your hands off.”
“Puh-leaze. You think I want your stupid little sand bricks?” She feigns a gag, tongue and all. “Not a problem. I’d rather have my Double Stuf OREOs.”
