Delicious plans
IF THERE WAS ONE THING?I really disliked about independence it was grocery shopping. Absolutely despised it, really. Glen pushed our trolley through the sweets aisle while I frantically shook my head at her.
“No, most certainly not. That’s not lunch nor is any of it dinner material,” I grumbled.
“You’re no fun!” Glen whined. “The last nice thing I ate was Luke’s cooking. Luca’s? Mr Umbrella’s. Ugh...”
“Which wasn’t a sugarbomb, so it’s possible to make something nice and still be healthy. We’ll just need to learn how.”
“So biscuits and gravy?” Glen stared at our basically empty cart that only held ingredients for exactly that.
I huffed. “Well yes.”
“You don’t know how to make proper gravy.” Glen stopped mid-aisle to cross her arms and stare at me.
“And you are not helping one bit,” I scoffed.
We had a staredown, blocking a family from exiting the sweets section, the mother holding a wailing boy by the armpit and shooting daggers our way. Glen was an unmovable boulder, however, especially when she decided she didn’t want to move.
“Pasta,” Glen said. “We could make pasta.”
“I bet Luke—Luca?—makes delicious pasta.”
“Italian pasta,” Glen hummed happily, imagining the taste, while I dragged her into a different aisle, letting the family behind us go their own way, without a thank you, or anything. Typical.
“How difficult could that be? I can make pasta.”
“Probably not as good as Luke. Luca. Heaven’s sake, you should ask him which he prefers because it’s messing with my head.”
“He’s messing with mine in more ways than that.” I kind of liked it but was kind of scared to death of it. There was a fine line between the two. Very fine. Almost impossible to see, truefully.
Glen giggled. “You are enjoying it, admit it!”
I glared at her. “Not as much as you are by the looks of it.”
“Not as much as I’d like to taste his pasta,” she countered.
