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“Yeah?” I step back out to the main area of the apartment to find him leaning over the kitchen bar. His elbows rest on the granite counter, and his biceps are bunched up tight, pulling at his sleeves. I see ink on his left arm, but his sleeve mostly covers it. Chloe and Gideon grew up Catholic, like me, with conservative parents, like me. Neither Chloe nor I have ever thought about tattoos, but I’m itching to see his.
“What’s good for takeout around here?”
Well, at least he’s not asking me what’s for dinner. I do cook through the week, though probably not things he would like. I’m not a vegetarian, but I don’t eat much meat. I fix a lot of pasta and stir fry, things he probably calls rabbit food.
Still a little embarrassed that he caught me lounging, I join him in the kitchen, careful to avoid his eyes. Too late, I realize I left my phone in my bedroom. All of the takeout menus I order from are saved on my phone.
“There’s a couple of bars across the street.” I lay my hands flat on the counter and picture Fortune Street on the west side of the apartment. “A café two blocks down, but they don’t do dinner. Pizza—”
“Is there Thai food around here?”
“Thai food,” I repeat as I meet his gaze. “Yeah. There’s a place a block over.”
“Do they deliver, or do I need to go get it?”
“They deliver,” I answer. I haven’t ordered from The Red Devil in ages. Sounds good.
He nods and heads back to his room. I wonder if he’ll eat in there, too. I’m not starving, but it’s almost seven, so I should probably eat. With a sigh, I tug my refrigerator door open and stare absently at the leftover deli sandwich from lunch yesterday.
“You want anything?”
Shocked that he spoke to me again, I swing the door closed and look to find him holding an ancient-looking cell phone. Rather than an Otterbox or any sort of case, the back is striped with what appears to be duct tape.
I consider telling him no. But if I order something and have leftovers, I could do the deli sandwich for lunch and Thai leftovers for dinner tomorrow.
“Um. Their number three entrée,” I say with a shrug. He gives me a curt nod and disappears again. It would be nice if we could sit at the bar together and have a conversation over dinner. I have my doubts that it’ll happen. I could follow him into his room and stand there while I eat to make him talk. Sounds terrible. Nothing worse than making someone talk. I’ve had dates like that, and they’re hell. No, thank you. I’ll spend my dinner hour with fictional people.
Just so there’s no awkward moment when the food is delivered, I dig my wallet from my purse on the counter and pull out a couple of tens. It’s more than enough for my dinner. I leave it on the counter and then seek sanctuary in my bedroom.
