"You." He turns to grab his own plate, then sits opposite me. "I substituted flaxseeds for the eggs for the pancakes," he remarks.
I glance at him. "You did?"
He nods.
"How do you know that I am vegetarian?"
"Because you don't keep any meat or fish or eggs at home?"
Right. "I do eat milk and eggs," I mutter. "Just happen to be out of them..." I shuffle my feet, "the eggs, I mean." Gah, shut up, what's wrong with me? Why do I tend to babble in his presence? Why does he make me nervous?
He picks up his fork and knife, then eyes me across the table. "You’re not eating," he admonishes.
"Neither are you."
His lips quirk, then he glances down and digs into his food.
I follow his lead, manage to make my way through a quarter of the pancakes, before I give up and lean back. I watch him demolish the food on his plate like he hasn’t eaten in years.
When he glances up, I push my half-filled plate toward him.
He scowls at it. "You haven’t eaten nearly enough."
"It’s enough," I insist.
"It’s enough when I say it is."
I blink at him, "Seriously, you didn’t just say that."
"What’s wrong with what I said?"
"Are you trying to be funny or something?"
"I’ve never been more serious." He leans forward, "You need your energy; you are wasting away."
I scoff. "I wouldn’t call this," I point at myself, "wasting away."
"You’re right."
"I am?"
He nods. "You have decent curves. I’ve seen better, of course, but you’ll do."
I gape at him. "You…you’re…something, you know that?"
"I often have that effect on women."
I jump to my feet. "Out. Get out."
He meets my gaze with a cool glance. "You’re overreacting."
"And you’re not welcome here anymore."
"I’m afraid that’s not your call to make."
"What?" I frown. "This is my apartment and you are seated at my table—"
"In front of a breakfast I cooked for you."
