Again that twitch of the lips. “Probably not.”
“I feel sad for the way you eat, Patrick. Your relationship with food is . . . not yummy.”
He just gave me a look.
“But then you’re the one with millions of dollars and a legion of fans, so you’re obviously doing something right with your life.”
“Thanks, Norah. That means a lot.”
He definitely had a dry sense of humor. And he was talking to me again. After last night’s attempt at bonding, there’d been nothing but awkward silence. Maybe he’d been thinking big thoughts. Large, unwieldy ideas that filled his head to the point where he couldn’t possibly make conversation. Or maybe he was just as uncomfortable with me as I was with him.
“There’s not much in the cart,” I said, hiding my shaking hands by shoving them in my jeans pockets. “What do you normally buy?”
“I don’t normally do my own shopping.”
“You just have those meals delivered?”
He shrugged. “Basically. Sometimes Mei’s mom sends over fried rice and egg rolls.”
“What if I grabbed the ingredients for grilled salmon with a salad on the side and then we bulk up on those waters you like to drink?”
“You can cook?”
“You can’t?”
“Not really,” he admitted.
“Okay,” I said, my mind going a mile a minute. “Well, I can cook and I am willing to cook for you. I actually enjoy letting loose in the kitchen now and then. When I have time. Though my boss at Little Italy was always sending me home with leftovers, so there hasn’t been much cooking recently.”
Nothing from him.
“And you can’t just exist on reheatable meals all the time,” I continued. “That’s sad. I mean, they’re not horrible. I thought the sweet mash potatoes in particular were quite nice. And not to be a picky bitch, but I bet you’re paying top dollar for them. Which is crazy since the greens were flaccid and the meat dried out in the oven. You must have noticed?”
Still nothing.
“I get that you have to be careful with your diet, but I’m sure we can do better than that. Some grilled meats and fresh low-fat sides or steamed vegetables. Something along those lines.” I smiled. “You have that beautiful chef’s kitchen. Seems a pity not to use it. I’ll need to know if you have any allergies or whatever. Do you?”
The man just stared at me. Guess that was a no.
“This is a great idea and it’ll give me something to do in the evening. I’m not really used to having so much spare time on my hands. I don’t know what to do with myself. Guess I should think about getting myself a hobby for the next six months. So I’ll cook unless we’ve got an event or a party to attend or whatever,” I said, finishing up. “Does that sound good to you? Plus it will seem weird to our audience if we go grocery shopping and only buy dandelion greens and bottled water.”
He kept right on staring with a mix of dismay and awe. Like he didn’t realize I had quite that much talking in me. If there wasn’t a subsection of the contract detailing a hard limit to my daily allowed word count, there would be soon. Maybe he was one of those celebrities who had a rider stating no one could look at him on set, let alone attempt conversation. And there I’d gone getting all up in his face. Worst fake girlfriend ever.
“Sure,” he said eventually. “That would be great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We walked on a few more steps. The Weeknd played over the shop’s sound system.
“I tend to babble sometimes when I’m nervous.”
“Right.”
Sweet baby Jesus, strike me down. Just kill me now and save me from further embarrassment. This was a disaster.
“That’s not a problem,” he finally added, though he didn’t really sound convinced.
A lady with a stroller and cell pointed our way lurked at the end of the aisle. Patrick reached out and rubbed the back of my neck. Damn, he was good. Strong fingers dug into all of my tense muscles and wooed them into submission.
“Relax,” he muttered. “You’re doing fine.”
Oh those fingers of his. All I could do was close my eyes and moan in wanton bliss. Which was when he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Like a real boyfriend would. A good one. I’d swoon under any circumstances, but it’s entirely possible I was also a little touch starved.
I pulled myself together and opened my eyes. “Thanks.”
The tops of his lips curved up like a solid two hairsbreadths at least. We were making progress. Then he stopped and studied me for a moment. “Hon. Honey?”
“You want me to find some honey?”
“No,” he said. “I was trying out another nickname.”
“That’s important to you?”
“Couples always have stupid cutesy pet names for each other, right?”