Page 58 of Personal Foul

I grin at her, then focus on folding my omelette. “We’re friends. Friends give each other nicknames. That’s yours now.”

Snorting, she moves to the counter next to me again, holding the glass in one hand with her elbow propped on her other arm that’s crossed over her torso. “Oh yeah? So I can give you a nickname?”

I don’t look up from my omelette, but I grin. “Course. If you want to, anyway. It’s obviously not required.”

Glancing at her reveals a mock serious look as she nods. “Oh, well,obviously.” She sets down her glass and taps her lips, pacing back and forth in the small space between the counter and the island. Two steps one direction, turn, two steps the other direction. “Hmm.”

This continues until my omelette is done. I slide it onto the other plate, turn off the burner, and set the skillet on one of the unused burners to cool down. Fishing two forks out of the drawer, I offer one to her, which she takes with a nod.

“You know,” she says as we carry our plates into the living room, “I’m not sure I know you well enough to give you a nickname.”

“That is a dilemma,” I say around a mouthful of omelette. When we reach the couch, I sit in my usual spot and wait for her to sit in hers. “There’s the obvious, though.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

Shrugging, I focus on cutting another bite. “You could always go with Handsome.”

That makes her laugh. I grin at the sound, glad we’ve managed to find our way back to the place we got to on Friday night. I like hearing her laugh. I like being the one to make her laugh even more.

Shaking her head, she chews a bite of her omelette, her face screwed up in thought. “No,” she says, tapping her fork against her lips. “Handsome isn’t right.”

I gasp and lay my hand on my chest. “Ouch, Spitfire. That hurts me. Right here.” I point at my chest, and she laughs again.

“Oh yes. I’m sure I’ve damaged your highly fragile ego. Almost beyond repair.”

“I’m very wounded.”

“I can tell.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Charity

Something about this whole exchange feels almost … dangerous.

Is this flirting? Are we flirting?

He said we were friends. I don’t think friends give each other nicknames like Spitfire. Or Handsome. I can’t even think that with a straight face, and I hide my grin by focusing far more than necessary on cutting another bite of my food.

This omelette is delicious, though. I’ll give him that much.

“I know!” I hold up the bite of omelette on my fork triumphantly. “Cookie!”

God, the expression on his face is priceless. He looks horrified and amused, but I think the horror is winning.

“Cookie?” he chokes out.

Grinning, I nod. “Yeah. Like Cook, because you cooked us these omelettes, but with a diminutive ending because it’s a nickname. I think it works.”

“You better not call me that,” his voice is a clear warning.

“Or what, Cookie?”

His face lights up with anticipation and something more feral as he opens his mouth. But then he shuts it down, shoveling food into his mouth and shaking his head, muttering, “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Awww,” I coo, leaning closer. “You don’t like my nickname for you?”

Obviously he doesn’t. But it feels good to needle him a little since he’s spent so much of his time doing it to me. Our entire relationship, I’ve been the one in the lower power position. I still am, really. But for right now I get to grab some of that back.

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