Page 42 of The Closed Off Captain

“What is your deal with my pay, Coftman?”

He shrugs. “You just should get paid more for what you do.”

“And how do you know how much I make?” I counter.

“I don’t.”

“Then why are we having this conversation. I make plenty.”

“No, you don’t.” Before I can say anything, he continues. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen your condo and your car.”

Indignation rises up in me. “Better watch out, Coftman. You're starting to sound like you think you’re better than me.”

His eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I mean at all. I just mean you should get paid more for what you do for our team. You're an invaluable asset to our team, and you don’t make enough—”

“I’m going to cut you off right there, Big C. I make plenty.”

“Your Grandma.”

I turn to him. “What?”

He studies me. “You pay for your grandma’s care, don’t you?”

I frown and turn back to my computer. “Let it go, Coftman.”

He’s quiet after that, and I’m thankful to be able to work in the silence. I close my laptop when the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it.” I open the door and take the boxes from the delivery man and close and lock the door. “Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you wanted pizza.” I turn around, and he’s right there. I take a step back. “Where are your plates?”

“I’ll get them.”

“Come on. I’m supposed to be doing this, so you don’t have to.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “I think I can manage to get two plates down without hurting myself.”

“I don’t need a plate,” I remind him.

“I got you pizza,” his low voice rumbles. Before I remind him that I can’t have pizza, he adds, “It’s dairy free and gluten free.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Really? They have such a thing?”

He nods. “It took me a while to find one, but this one had good reviews.”

“Which one is it?” I ask.

“Both of them.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

“I got both of them dairy free and gluten free.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I figure we’d try two different kinds. One is barbecue sauce with chicken and pineapple and bacon. The other is red sauce with lots of meats.”

I continue to stare at him. “That’s my favorite kind of pizza. Barbecue with chicken and pineapple and bacon.”

He doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“How?” I can’t help but ask.

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