Page 13 of Until Then

“Would you prefer I useokay? Or perhapsacceptablewould be better?”

A derisive laugh escapes her. “I’d prefer more than a one-word response, but thanks for trying.”

With a gulp of my Coke, I rack my brain for an acceptable topic. For reasonable questions that may segue into a realconversation. “Back to our conversation earlier,” I say, though in the back of my mind, I realize that this probably falls more into the touchy category than the acceptable one. “What sent you running all the way across the country?”

Deflating before my eyes, she stabs at a piece of enchilada. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Three words have never made me feel so old. So I respond with three of my own. “You can try.”

She inhales a deep breath and pushes the food around her plate. “I was interviewing a celebrity on the red carpet a few months ago. It didn’t go well, and her fans canceled me. Now…” She shrugs, twisting her lips to the side. “Now, I’m here.”

It hits me then, how much I reallydon’tunderstand. “You interview celebrities?”

“Sometimes.” With a sigh, she drops her fork to her plate with a clatter and leans back in her chair. I can’t help but survey the space behind her. Take in the simplicity. It’s no doubt worlds different from what she’s used to in LA. “For the record, I’mnotrunning away.”

Brow arched, I tilt my head. “Sure looks like it.”

She puffs out her cheeks. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of rude?”

I sip my Coke, assessing her over the can, then set it down gently. “Only you.”

Something about Izzy brings out my combative side. Whether it’s her or my insane attraction to her, I can’t be sure. But the attraction is absolutely an issue. She’s the same age as my daughter. Lusting after her is wrong.

And now she’s living in my house for who knows how long.

“I’ll go back to the grocery store tomorrow,” she announces, picking up her fork again, the defeat rolling off her all but gone.

I’m too tired to understand her meaning. “Huh?”

“To pick up veggies and stuff. You can’t live off protein shakes, frozen pizzas, and those gross prepackaged meals in the freezer.” She sticks her tongue out, shuddering in horror.

“Don’t knock them until you try them.”

They’re barely palatable, but I suddenly feel the need to defend my food choices.

“Sure,” she drawls, eyes twinkling with amusement like she knows I’m full of shit.

“You’ve never even eaten gas station food, have you?”

“Ew, no.” She shudders violently, the force of it making the table tremble between us. “Not a chance.”

A niggle of mirth works its way through me. This woman is something. So, teasing, I ask, “You mean to tell me you’ve never had a gas station slushie?”

Straightening, she shakes her head. “Nope,” she says, popping her lips to emphasize thepsound.

There’s no stopping the scoff that escapes me. “We’re getting one.”

“What?” She blinks at me, her eyes swimming with confusion.

“After we clean up, I’m taking you to get a slushie.”

Brows knitted, she frowns. “Am I going to keel over from a sugar rush?”

I tilt my head and hum, feigning deep thought. “It’s possible, but I think you’ll survive.”

As we finish dinner, Izzy never loses her worried expression. Once the dishes are washed and put away—mydishwasher has been broken for months and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it—I pick up my keys and twirl them around my finger.

“Let’s go.”

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