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What?
I dip the spoon into the creamy goodness and swirl it around. “There’s no way this is just banana.”
“Yes, way,” he says. He brings over the bag he took out from the freezer and shows me the frozen bananas inside. “This is all I put in the blender.”
I take another spoonful. Hmm. “Now that I know what to taste for, the ice cream illusion is ruined a bit.”
He shrugs. “If you enjoy it, finish. If not, no big deal.”
Lies. I know he’s Mr. Don’t Leave Food on Your Plate. Not that I’d want to throw this away. This ice cream may be as fake as our marriage, but it’s cold, creamy, and delicious… not to mention all the potassium and whatnot.
Finishing it, I put my spoon down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He takes all the plates over to the sink and begins to wash them.
“Wait,” I say. “You cooked. At least let me clean.”
“No need.” He opens a door on what turns out to be a dishwasher. “Earl will take care of it.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Earl?”
He puts the rest of the dishes away. “You named your vacuum cleaner, so I figured I’d name our dishwasher.”
As if summoned, Woofer rolls into the kitchen—and bumps into the leg of my chair.
Looks like the male human overlord is just as lazy as the female one. Can’t even bother to wash a dish on his own. At least he’s better at naming the poor machine he’s enslaved. Earl sounds royal and dignified, while Woofer is the name of a filthy mutt.
I stand up. “What now?”
Art extracts a dishwashing tablet from its candy-wrapper-like covering and sticks it into Earl. “I was thinking we’d exchange our movie lists.”
“Exchange? I thought I was just giving one to you.”
He takes out his phone. “I decided what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Fine. Let me take a gander at your list.”
“Ladies first.”
With a mock groan, I text him my list.
He scans it, and a smile appears on his face.
“What?” I ask.
He points at the screen. “That show. I’ve seen it before. It’s great.”
No.
Can’t be.
But there’s only one TV show on the list.
Still, I can’t assume. This is too big to leave to an assumption.
“Which show are you talking about?” I ask, my voice unsteady.
“Sex and the City. I’m a big fan.”
“You like Sex and the City?”
If he’d electrocuted me with a taser, I’d still be less shocked. I’ve yet to meet a male who’s even watched it, let alone liked it. I mean, I’ve always known such creatures existed in theory, like black swans or telemarketers that people enjoy getting a call from, but I didn’t expect one to cook me dinner.
Art nods. “That show is how I fell in love with New York. In a way, I wouldn’t be here without it.”
Okay. It’s official.
I married my soulmate.
