His food shoveling pauses momentarily. “Representative Vega? The socialist?”
“The Democratic Socialist, yes.”
He resumes chewing, keeping his face carefully blank. “No problem, Princess. I can make it through a fundraiser, especially if there’s free food involved.”
“It’s really more of a seminar. It’s not plated. But I think you’ll enjoy the keynote.” I point to a spot midway down the page.
He reads it aloud. “How Taxing the Rich Can Pay for Universal Healthcare.” He looks up at me. “Seriously?”
“I know, doesn’t it sound fascinating?”
He pushes the flyer back toward me. “You know I can’t be seen at an event like this.”
I feign ignorance. “Whyever not?”
“As an architect of the tax plan, I can’t attend an eventattackingthe tax plan.”
“‘As an architect of the tax plan’? Do you even hear yourself? You sound like one of those celebrities who says, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ while they’re getting arrested.”
He crosses his arms. “I’d prefer not to get fired over abet.”
“Hey, this whole thing wasyouridea. But if you’d like to forfeit, just say the word.” I smile with all my teeth.
His eyes narrow, and we stay locked in a silent standoff until he exhales, shaking his head. “Fine, I’ll figure something out. But if you expect me to sit there and listen to some quack disregardcenturiesof evidence as to why a socialist system doesn’t work, then I’m cashing in my dinner invitation.”
“What dinner invitation?”
“You promised me a home-cooked meal.” There’s a glint in his eye. “And I’m collecting.”
I feel my face flame. He’s breaking the cardinal rule.
As if by tacit agreement, neither of us ever mentions my night of drunk and disorderly conduct. I don’t know if it’s out of respect for me or if he’s just as disturbed by that whole fiasco as I am—maybe both—but we avoid the subject like Stephen avoids carbs. It’s like the Voldemort of events: the Night That Must Not Be Named.
“Fine. If you’re a good boy during the event, I will make you dinner as a reward.”
His lips twitch. “Deal. I have one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Will you cook at my place? Instead of yours?” The casual way heasks makes my stomach drop to my knees. I must look thrown because he leans toward me, lowering his voice. “I have an ulterior motive.”
“What’s that?”
When he grins, he’s like a kid with a shiny new toy. “If you cook at my place, I’ll get to keep the leftovers.”
Chapter 18
Limes, huh? Those must be for margaritas.”
I roll my eyes but don’t comment.
“Mm, jalapeño. That must be for the queso. You are making queso, right?”
“Stop it.”
Ben and I are at the store, shopping for our dinner. That’s right, it’s D-Day. Dinner Day. I haven’t told him what I’m making and he’s currently trying to pester me into spilling the details—in between griping about the event we just attended.
“I can’t help it, I’m starving. You didn’t tell me that guy was going to drone on fortwo hours. And at dinnertime!” The real crime, apparently.
