Page 57 of Personal Foul

“Alright,friend. What would you like for dinner?” I pull open the refrigerator to scan the contents and see what I can offer. “Omelettes?” I pull out the carton of eggs, shredded cheese, sliced mushrooms, and a package of deli ham, setting them on the counter and glancing up at her.

She holds my gaze for a beat, and then says, “Oh, was that actually a question? Because you didn’t give me a chance to answer, and then you started pulling out all the ingredients. I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted my response or if you regularly feed your friends whatever you decide.”

With my hand over my mouth to cover my grin, my shoulders shake with irrepressible laughter. “Shall I put it all away?” I ask when I get control of myself, gesturing at the food.

She holds up her hands like she’s surrendering. “Don’t do anything special on my account.”

“What’s the deal here, Spitfire? You gonna hassle me all night?”

She shrugs.

Shaking my head, I start gathering things up again. “If you don’t want omelettes, you could just say so. I could do sandwiches or”—I turn to open the fridge again, but her hand on my arm stops me.

“Omelettes are fine,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m in a weird mood tonight.”

Her fingers are cool on my bare skin, and it’s a relief when she removes her hand. Because when she touches me, I want to gather her against me, wrap my arms around her and hold her, bend my head and kiss her, see what she’d do if I parted her lips with my tongue … And friends don’t do that sort of thing.

When she’s not touching me, it’s easier to keep those desires in check.

I’m just horny, though. It’s probably because I know I can’t go hook up with anyone while we’re ostensibly dating. Which I guess we could end …

But I’m not gonna bring that up. We can cross that bridge when Charity figures out that with her not cleaning my apartment anymore, there’s no reason for us to keep pretending to date. We don’t have to have an excuse for kinky roleplay games anymore.

God, wouldn’t it be fun to play some, though?

That’s never really been my thing before—too much work when you’re just trying to get laid in my opinion—but for a long-term thing … I can see how it would be fun. Maybe not all the time, but occasional dress up, costumes, pretending to be in different roles …

Hell, the naked maid thing could be a ton of fun if done the right way.

Aaaand, I need to get my mind out of the gutter, because jerking off to fantasies of Charity is one thing, getting a boner while making her an omelette is another thing altogether.

She barely wants to be friends. She doesn’t want to hook up with me, even if I am the only option that doesn’t make her look like a cheater.

Which, again, would provide a convenient resolution to a cover we don’t need. Though I suspect it would be better for Charity if I were the cheater, not her.

I’m not hard up enough—yet—to contemplate that, though.

Mostly you just haven’t given up on the idea of Charity,whispers a voice in the back of my mind.

Yeah, yeah, shut it, voice. No one asked for input from the peanut gallery.

I busy myself with gathering bowls, a skillet, butter, and a knife, hyperaware of Charity watching me as I slice the mushrooms and ham, drop butter into the skillet to melt, and beat the eggs.

Once I pour the eggs into the pan, letting it set up a little before sprinkling the toppings on, Charity moves, stepping up next to me to pull plates out of the cupboard to the right of the stove.

“Thanks,” I murmur, deftly folding the omelette, congratulating myself on not making a mess of it. I’m not bad at making omelettes, but it would be just my luck that the one I’m making for her would turn into scrambled eggs instead.

When it’s finished, I plate it and nudge it closer to her before starting mine. “Do you want anything to drink? There’s water, of course, but I have a few beers too. Help yourself.”

She crosses to the fridge, and I glance at her after topping my omelette, spatula in hand. “Oooh, orange juice,” she says, more to herself than me.

“I have some vodka to add to it if you want.”

That makes her laugh. She gets out a glass and pours herself some OJ. “I think I’ll pass on the alcohol tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Aw, don’t worry, Spitfire. I’ll make sure you’re safe if you drink too much.”

She holds up a finger as she takes a sip. “Number one, I’m planning on driving home tonight, thanks. And number two, what’s with Spitfire?”

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