Page 40 of Personal Foul
“Oh, I have,” she quips. “I’ve called you a variety of things. Dillhole. Dickweed. Dipshit. The list goes on.”
Normally I’d be irritated or offended at someone listing all the insults they have for me. But in this case, I can’t help laughing. “I’m sure it does.”
She flashes her teeth in a wide grin, but quickly bites it back, rolling her lips between her teeth.
“Seriously, though.” I spray the pan with oil and turn on the stove to let it heat up. “Scrambled? Over easy? Over medium? You have to decide how you want your eggs.”
“Over medium is fine.” When I give her side eye for her still noncommittal answer, she holds out her hands. “What? I picked something. Am I at least allowed to put bread in the toaster?”
At my grunt, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, heading for the pantry to pull out the bread while I bury my smile in the task of cracking eggs into the pan. Getting a rise out of her is my favorite thing. And not even deciding to put distance between us can change that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Charity
For someone who demands I fold his boxer shorts, he sure is persnickety about me being in his kitchen.
Last night he seemingly had no problem with me getting out supplies to make popcorn. Maybe that was because he didn’t know how to make microwave popcorn in a bowl? He clearly knows his way around a frying pan and eggs, though, delivering me two eggs over medium on a square white plate just as the toaster dings.
It’s one of the fancy toasters that lowers and raises the contents. No plebeian popping here. When it dings, it makes a little whirring noise as the motor inside raises the now perfectly toasted bread back up so we can claim our slices.
Dylan examines the two slices of bread I put on a plate for him, then takes the plate with a shrug and scrapes butter over his toast.
“What?” Even to my own ears the question sounds petulant and demanding. That seems to be a theme where he’s concerned.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you’re looking at your toast like you’re worried I poisoned it.”
That makes him laugh, and he shakes his head. “No. Just more carbs than I normally have at breakfast.”
I point at him around the toast in my hand. “Football player. Right. You follow a diet, I take it?”
“We call them meal plans, but yeah, basically.”
After that, he lapses into broody silence. I have to stop myself from shaking my head in front of him. I cannotget a read on this guy.
One minute he’s propositioning me. Now he’s being grumpy and distant.Andhe called me Chastity, even though he said last night that he wouldn’t anymore. Didn’t he?
But that was obviously intended as a joke. Almost an inside joke of sorts. And now he won’t even look at me.
I guess now that it’s the next morning, we’re done with the whole pretending-to-be-a-couple thing. Or maybe it’s because I turned him down and passed out on his couch …
I hadn’t thought his ego was that fragile, but maybe it is. It’s not like I know him all that well, familiarity with his underwear choices aside.
He scarfs his food, and even though I eat more slowly, it doesn’t take long to finish two eggs and two pieces of toast. Standing, he moves to the front door.
Blinking after him, I look at the dishes, then through the opening to the entryway. With a shrug, I collect both our plates and take them to the sink. But when I turn on the water to rinse them, he barks, “Leave it.”
“I’m just trying to save myself some work later,” I mutter.
He glares at me. “I thought you were in a hurry to get home.”
Sighing in frustration, I follow him to the door and accept my jacket. “Do I have to come back to clean later?”
He pauses, keys in one hand, other hand on the doorknob, mouth open. Then he closes his mouth, his brows drawn together, and shakes his head. “No. Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Great,” I mutter, following him out the door. “More mess for me to clean up tomorrow.”
