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“I don’t know why you even ask. You get all snappy when people bother you while you’re cooking.”
I glance over my shoulder at him and purse my lips. “You don’t even know how to scramble eggs.”
“Why should I learn how to do that when I can just order take-out?”
My eyebrows rise, and I nod. “Fair.”
My gaze turns back to the eggs and bacon, making sure to focus on the food and not on Diablo who is crunching away behind me. He sounds like a horse chomping on hay. Or more like a miniature pony, I suppose.
Hm.
“I can do toast.”
“Can you?”
“I can.” He sounds so sure. I’ll be surprised if he does this without burning the bread. Or the shack down. That would be just my luck.
He sets the granola on the counter, too close to the edge so the bag topples onto the floor. It scatters on the ground, some landing near my feet. I glance at him, wanting to see his reaction, but he just steps over it and moves to search for the bread, not at all bothered that he’s walking on hard objects.
“Where is the damn bread?” he asks.
I wait a minute before answering, a payback of sorts for the granola on the floor. “The fridge.”
“Why the hell is the bread in the fridge?”
“Would you rather I leave it out to grow mold like you do?”
“All you need to do is scrape it off and then it’s perfectly good again.”
And he wonders why I insist on cooking since showing up in his life. It has nothing to do with showing off like he tries to insist. I’m just trying not to die from toxins.
Honestly, I’d rather die by a bullet than moldy bread. How embarrassing.
“We are only here a few days, right? Why put it in the fridge? Honestly, who are you? Martha Steward?” He gets her name wrong and doesn’t even notice, which makes my lips twitch even more. The stupid brat. “You sure don’t look like her either.”
I don’t answer, just smirk internally and then frown when I realize that I haven’t proven a thing. Not at all. I’ve only stooped to his level and become juvenile. I haven’t behaved this way since I was sixteen, and yet, somehow he’s managed to bring it out in me.
I watch as he examines the toaster, those eyes squinted, his lips pursed. How a twenty-year-old man doesn’t know how to use one shouldn’t shock me—I’ve seen a lot of shit in my days—but it does.
He’s managed to surprise me almost every goddamn day.
Don’t get me started on his weird obsession with saws. I’ve seen more battery-powered tools than I ever care to. I’m not sure he’s ever actually cut someone in half, but I know his father has. So maybe Diablo was taught at an early age how to do it.
To be fair, saws are much easier than knives when cutting through bone. He’s got that right, at least. I can kind of see why he likes them so much. They are very convenient.
I stare at Diablo, the top of his head visible as I watch him fiddle with the knobs on the toaster. He turns a dial one way and then the other before stepping back and clapping his hands.
“I told you I could do it.”
“You haven’t actually pushed the bread down.”
I reach over, my arm brushing against his and push the lever down, watching as the prongs turn orange inside. Kind of like the color that flashes in his eyes when he’s mad.
“I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He glowers at me, scooping some loose granola off the counter and shoving it into his mouth. More falls to the floor and lands on my bare foot. I want to put my hand on the back of his neck like I did the other night and make him pick it up.
