Page 37 of Ricardo

I laugh. “This time I am offended.”

“Oops,” she says. “I’m injured. My defenses are compromised.”

“And your vocabulary has become more colorful.”

Her cheeks flush slightly. “You heard that, huh?”

“All of it.”

“Wonderful,” she mutters.

“Your secret is safe.”

“That’s a relief.”

I finish cleaning the mess, toss the towels away, and then wash my hands at the small sink before turning back to her.

“Now,” I say. “How is your head?”

“I'll probably live,” she says.

“Very good,” I say before turning back to the machine.

She watches me skeptically.

“You know how to use that thing?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I hate you a little.”

“As long as it's only a little.” I start the machine. “What were you trying to make?”

“Coffee.”

“The machine makes espresso.”

“I am aware of that.”

I glance over my shoulder.

She sighs. “I wanted coffee, the regular coffee was gone, and I thought, how difficult can it be? Then it hissed at me, I opened the wrong thing, burned my finger, knocked over the carafe, and said several things my mother would pretend she had never heard before.”

“You burned your finger? How bad?”

“Not as bad as the bump on the head.”

“Are you accident-prone, Miss O'Brien?” The machine hums as I get it going.

“Not usually. Today? Yes, apparently.”

“Do you want one?” I ask.

“After what that machine did to me?”

“It will behave for me.”

“That’s irritating, but yes, please.”