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He snorted. “You’re a nihilist.”
She started to argue on general principle, but stopped before she could do more than utter a few incoherent sounds. After all, whom was she kidding? He was totally right. “Just call me Camus,” she quipped with a shrug.
“Is that a movie?” he asked as he poured more batter on the griddle.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, watching him like a hawk as she tried to find some kind of tell to prove he was messing with her. But the look he sent her was utterly guileless. Not too guileless, mind you. Just guileless enough, as if he really had no idea what she was talking about.
Huh. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect, after all. The thought made her inexplicably happy, though she refused to delve too deeply into why that was.
“Albert Camus was a French writer,” she told him after a second.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
That knowledge made her infinitely more relaxed. “Oh, well, a lot of people would say you weren’t missing much.”
“But not you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He grinned as he slid a plate piled high with perfect, golden, fluffy pancakes in front of her. “But you still didn’t tell me what your favorite movie is.”
“I told you I couldn’t choose just one. Not all of us can wax poetic over a sinking boat, after all.”
“More’s the pity.” He cast her a mischievous look that she immediately mistrusted. “But you know what? I think you’re right. I don’t think I can choose just one favorite movie. Now that I’m thinking about it, a few more come to mind.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“The Stranger, definitely. And maybe The Guest. And—”
“You suck!” she told him, breaking off a piece of pancake and throwing it at him. He caught it, of course. In his mouth. Without even trying. “Those are two of Albert Camus’s most famous works.”
“Are they?” he asked, his face a mask of complete and total innocence. “I had no idea.”
She studied him closely, looking for his tell. He was lying to her, obviously, but the fact that she couldn’t tell was odd. She could always tell—she prided herself on it. It’s what made her such a good investigative journalist. And such a lousy society columnist.
The fact that he didn’t seem to have a tell fascinated her. And made her very, very nervous all at the same time.
When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded at her untouched plate. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
“Maybe I like cold pancakes.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and drizzled it over the top of her pancakes. Then he cut into them and lifted a forkful to her mouth.
He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when she just looked at him instead of taking the proffered bite, he rolled his eyes. “My pancakes don’t taste good cold. Trust me.”
Trust him. The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud. Only the knowledge that he definitely wouldn’t get the joke kept her from making one wisecrack or another. But there was no way in hell she was ever going to trust him. Mr. Perfect. No, thank you. Been there, done that, still had the T-shirt as a not-so-pleasant memento.
Not that she was bitter or anything. Or sexist.
Because it wasn’t that she didn’t trust men. It was that she didn’t trust anybody. Not when life had taught her over and over and over again that she couldn’t count on anyone or anything. If she needed something, she could count on only herself to make it happen. Anyone else would just let her down.
Maybe it wasn’t a great philosophy, and maybe—just maybe—it was a touch nihilistic. But it was her philosophy. She’d lived by it most of her life, and while it hadn’t gotten her much—yet—it also hadn’t cost her much since she’d adopted it. And in her mind, that was a win.
And yet, even understanding all that, she—inexplicably—leaned forward and let Nic feed her the bite of pancake. She had no idea why she did it, but it certainly wasn’t because doing so made him look incredibly happy. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
