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Fine. It seems it isn’t that hard for Art to get into my pants—which reminds me.
“What are our sleeping arrangements?” I blurt.
There. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
Art’s hands go still, his fork frozen in midair. “Are you sure you don’t want to have dessert first?”
The duck and the rice harden into coal in my stomach. “Look who’s dodging the question this time.”
He picks up the glass of compote and takes a generous sip. “You’re right. We should talk about this.”
And yet he sits there silently until I can’t take it anymore and say, “I’m starting to guess you want to sleep together.”
His head bobs slightly. “But Rule One still applies.”
Am I disappointed or relieved? “Then why?”
“Because of the interviews,” he says. “They might ask you if I snore, or who hogs the blanket. I figure we should sleep in the same bed at least long enough to learn such details. After that, we can take turns on the couch in the living room. I made sure it’s extremely comfortable.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “That’s ironclad logic.”
And as unromantic as an anthill.
“Good.” He rises fluidly to his feet. “Ready to try dessert?”
Okay, I guess that’s all the conversation we’ll have when it comes to the sleeping arrangements. Not sure I can blame him for not wanting to think more about it.
“Let’s have the dessert,” I say, faking the cheerfulness I usually feel when sweets are the topic of conversation.
He reaches into the freezer.
Thank goodness I didn’t stash the sex toys there.
The bag he pulls out is hard to see through, and then his back blocks what he does with its contents—but whatever it is, I’m intrigued.
Suddenly, the sound of a woodchipper roars through the kitchen, almost deafening me.
What the hell? Is he getting some maple syrup from inside a tree trunk? I thought you just needed to tap it for that.
When the noise stops, Art scoops something out of the blender cup—which explains the noise—and into a pretty bowl.
“Here.” He puts the treat in front of me.
“This looks like ice cream,” I say. “But isn’t that the root of all evil?”
He sprinkles an assortment of nuts on top of the ice cream. “Try it.” He hands me a little spoon.
I taste the result. Yum. It reminds me of a sundae that’s extra heavy on banana.
He watches my lips like he’s hypnotized by them. “You like?”
I swallow the sweet goodness. “What’s the catch?”
“It’s banana.”
I eat another spoonful. “Sure. I can taste the banana.”
His grin is of Cheshire Cat proportions. “You don’t understand. Banana is the only ingredient.”
