“I just…” she yawns widely. “Need something a bit more substantial.”
Are we talking about houses or men?
I turn back to the stove. “You do,” I say, but I speak so low I’m not sure she hears me.
I finish cooking our simple meal, then plate it with a quick flourish of parmesan and freshly cracked pepper.
“Alright, dinner’s up.” I look over to see her yawning and stretching, but she opens her eyes and starts to push herself to standing.
“Stay there. I’ll bring it to you.”
“I don’t want to get your sofa dirty,” she says with a frown. “Not sure if you’ve noticed this, but I’m kind of a mess.”
She’s a perfect, brilliant mess.
“You’re fine. Stay there.”
I bring our plates out to her, and her eyes grow as big as saucers. “Okay, so this beats pizza.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
She grins, taking the plate and fork I offer. Sitting cross-legged, she digs in.
“You’re a pizza guy?”
“Isn’t everyone a pizza guy? Or… girl?”
“Not everyone.”
“There are, I suppose, heathens among us.”
She grins around a large mouthful of pasta. “Suppose.”
I’m more interested in watching her eat than I am in eating my own food. Damn, it’s good to see a woman actually eat something for goddamn once.
“What kind of pizza do you like?” she asks.
I shrug. “Prefer the kind I make myself, but I love a good pizza from the North End.”
“No way,” she breathes, leaning in closer to me. “You make your own pizza?”
“I do. You might even say it’s a hobby of mine.” And one that might come in handy now that I have a kid to feed. My stomach plummets.
I have a kid to feed.
I never wanted this. I’d be a shit father, which translates to me being a shit father-figure, for however long this all lasts.
Her words are still a little slurred, but now that she’s eating, she’s perked up a bit. “I could really get into that. Homemade pizza. I bet Toni would like that, too.”
“At least I know one thing kids like to eat.” I hate this feeling, like I’ve been drop-kicked into a foreign country and I don’t know the language or customs.
She watches me thoughtfully. “You really don’t know anything about kids, do you?”
We’re both done with our food. I stare at the empty plates, then take hers from her wordlessly, carrying it into the kitchen with mine. I load the dishwasher and don’t answer at first.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I had a shitty childhood, too.”
I frown, loading the dishwasher harder than I intended. Glasses ping, plates crash.
“Yeah.” I am not talking about my childhood, and I have a sneaking suspicion this is her way of finding out about me. She thinks she’s a detective or investigator or whatever the fuck? Well, I don’t tell just anyone about my childhood. My family. My past.
I can’t believe I kissed her. I can’t believe I was fully prepared to take her to bed. She’s dangerous, and I can’t forget that.
There’s a pause before she talks again. “What do you mean… yeah? Do you know things about me?”
I don’t, but I also don’t bother to deny it, because I’ll know everything about her soon enough.
“Has nothing to do with that, but I’m not getting into talking about childhoods or whatever other bullshit you have in mind for your investigation.”
She stands, hands on hips, a look of incredulity on her face. “Seriously? That’s where your head went?”
“You can’t trust people who investigate for… fun or whatever.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“Oh?” I sense danger.
I turn to face her, not afraid of the simmering heat below the surface. I can take her.
“Yeah. They ask questions. They pry. They don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
I face her, daring her to contradict me.
“God forbid someone ask a question about your life, hmm?” she says thoughtfully. “How plebeian.”
“It isn’t that.”
She gives me a frosty look, clearly offended by my comments. “Then what is it?”
“It’s that people make assumptions after asking said questions.”
The crease across her brow softens a bit.
I take a step toward her as I go on. “It’s that they think they know you. Just because you have my birth date, my net worth, and my fucking zodiac sign doesn’t mean you know a goddamn thing about me.”
She blinks and doesn’t reply at first. Then she brushes her hair out of her eyes, and when she speaks, her voice has softened, no longer challenging me. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Black. It’s classy.”
“And morbid.”
I shrug. “And yours?”
“Magenta. Favorite time of year?”
“Winter. I like the change of seasons most of all. And you?”
“Summer. Beach days, sundresses, and fruity drinks with little umbrellas.” I could get into beach days, sundresses, and fruity drinks with little umbrellas, if she was beside me. Something tells me she’d make it worth it.
“Mountains or beach?” she asks.
“Mountains. You?”
“Both.” Of course.
“If you had a million dollars, what would you do?”