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I don’t finish, and her mouth thins more. “Or he’s going to try and pull the no work card on me? Is that what you mean? Over some guy who’s dealing drugs on my watch? Things happened to me. But I’m still standing.” She has her phone in her hands.
I cross to her and take it. “He’s your brother. I told him that.”
“You didn’t tell him about the note, right?”
“Breakfast?”
“Christian.”
“I’m betting we can make pancakes,” I say. “Are you in the mood for pancakes?”
She sighs. “I don’t have all the supplies.”
“How about this? We go into town—”
“You did something to my car, remember?”
I ignore that. “We’ll take my car, get the supplies, and I don’t know, you can do woman things.”
“Oh, my God.” But her mouth turns soft again and way too inviting as it twitches up a little into an almost smile. “You’re like some walking mansplainer cliché.”
“Well, it’s better than being a manwhore.”
“Please,” she says, “I didn’t finish. You’re a walking mansplainer cliché manwhore.”
“That’s better.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Fine. We’ll go into town and get groceries.”
“Maybe I’ll buy you lunch.”
Or turn her into lunch.
“Maybe you’re pushing it. We’ll go, but only because you won’t stop being a pain in my ass, and I’m hungry. Maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll cook you dinner.”
“You cannot cook, Mia.” I’m fairly confident of this, just like I’m sure I got away with not lying to her about the note. “I’ve never seen you cook.”
“I’ve never invited you for a meal, Christian. But, since you insist on being here, I’m not going to subsist on eggs, cereal, or take out. Or, God forbid, frozen dinners.”
“You’re being anti-American.”
“No,” she says, the smile beaming on her lips shines brightly. “I’m being healthy. You should try it.”
The damn woman has the nerve to pat my flat abs.
“There are cans.”
“No. I’m cooking. Come on, if we’re shopping.”
It’s a bizarrely domestic thing to do. There’s always food at Leo’s. A chef. A housekeeper. He likes the fine life, and even my monster parents had someone cook for them.
Speaking of, though they’ve disappeared, I’ll take them out just as soon as I sort this out.
On the way back from the supermarket, Mia is quiet, and I leave her be. It’s not until we’re in her kitchen, unstocking, she turns to me.
“You never answered me.”
“About whether I wanted Japanese or Italian eggplant?” I shrug. “I don’t care.”
