Page 68 of A Favor Owed

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What, like your tampons and blow-dryer and shit?” He jerks his head toward the bathroom counter. “In the cabinet under the sink, Pines. Where else?”

For someone who’s never been in a real relationship, he sure as hell is a lot better at it than I am.

“Chill out, Pines,” he says whenever I start getting weird about living with him. “You’re getting worked up over nothin’.” After being in his easygoing presence all the time, chilling out is getting easier to do.

A week after I moved in with him, I’m working at Legal Aid when Elisa tells me that the task force meeting scheduled for next month has been pushed back a week. “Some FBI agent from New York is flying in, I heard,” she says. “He’s been collaborating with the L.A. agents, I guess. Should be good.”

That’s exciting. I love the taskforce meetings. I’m learning a lot about human trafficking and how to help victims. I can’t imagine that a career as a prosecutor is open to me, given my family connections, but I love being able to help victims as an advocate.

It’s dark when I’m finally packing up to leave the office.

“Um, Angela,” says Elisa, peeking her head in the conference room where I’ve been working. She has a slight grin on her face, and is she…blushing? “There’s a very cute guy in our waiting room. He’s asking for you.”

I stare at her. “Yankees cap?” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he is,” I say.

“I’ll, uh, let him know you’re on your way…”

When I enter the waiting room, Brady is chatting easily with Elisa, hands in his pockets, relaxed as always. She’s clearly charmed, a bright smile on her face. Brady winks at me.

“There she is,” he says. He slings an arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “You ready?”

Elisa beams at us as we leave.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Picking you up. Obviously.” He presses a kiss to my mouth.

I unlock my bike from the side of the building, and Brady puts it in his car.

“And I’m making you dinner,” he adds when we’re driving away.

“You know how to cook?” I say incredulously.

“I picked up a few tricks at the firehouse over the years.”

When we get back to his—our, I guess?—apartment, it already smells delicious. “What is that?” I ask, inhaling.

“Pasta sauce.”

I go into the kitchen and peek under the lid of the pot. I look up at him with wide eyes. “You made this from scratch!”

“Yeah. Kind of a risk with an Italian girl, but I learned from my good buddy Johnny Buonatale down at the firehouse.”

I replace the lid carefully and watch Brady get a beer out of the fridge. He sits down at the table and stretches out his legs. “I’ll get back to it in a minute. I overdid legs at the gym yesterday, and it’s just hitting me now.” He takes a long drink of his beer. “What?”

I’m still watching him. I swallow. “How did you know I’m Italian?”

He shrugs, barely missing a beat. Barely, but enough for me to notice. “The sambuca. I told you that.”

“No lies.”

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