Page 43 of Hot and Bothered
I knew he was fishing for an entertaining story, but my reason wasn’t all that fun. It was actually more sad than anything. Like most things in my life, it was turning out.
“My parents always made a special deal out of my birthday,” was all I said.
No need to tell him it was the one day they actually paid attention to me instead of simply making up for their lack of care and affection by showering me with money and gifts. Of course, there was always lots of that, too. But for that one day a year, it was as if I actually had a real mom and dad, not just a distant mother and father.
But I’d decided I had enough talking about me. I wanted to know more about Evan.
“Are burritos your favorite food?” I asked.
“I don’t know if I have a favorite food,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll eat pretty much anything.”
“Except for caviar and escargot,” I teased.
“I’ve actually never tried them,” he said. “Escargot is cooked in lots of garlic and butter. Doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe it’s my favorite food and I don’t even know it.”
“You do know it’s cooked snails, right?” I asked. “Rubbery, chewy cooked snails.”
“I was trying not to think about that part.”
“You must have a favorite food, though,” I said. “Or at least something you always fall back on when you don’t know what you feel like.”
He held up the bag of burritos. “If that’s what a favorite food is, I guess this is it. Want to dig in?”
I hurried to put the bag with the lingerie in the spare room and went to set the kitchen table. I couldn’t cook, but at least I knew how to arrange a plate, knife, and fork.
Evan raised an eyebrow when he saw me place the utensils.
“You’re not going to need a knife and fork for this,” he said.
He unwrapped one of the burritos, peeling the foil paper halfway down, and handed it to me. I examined the thick, weighty thing from all sides.
“It’s the size of my arm,” I told him before taking a dainty nibble from the corner and chewing.
“Take a bigger bite,” he said. “You only got a mouthful of tortilla. You want to get at the good stuff.”
I gave him a skeptical look but did as he said, opening my mouth wide and chomping down in the middle of the burrito. My eyes went wide and I let out a muffled exclamation, making sure to keep my mouth closed.
“It’s good, right?” Evan asked.
I nodded vigorously as I swallowed, ready to take my second bite.
Before I knew it, the entire burrito had disappeared into my stomach.
“That was delicious,” I told him. “Can we have burritos for dinner every night?”
“That’s the perk of being an adult,” he said. “We can have anything we want for dinner.”
If that was the definition of adult, then I supposed I hadn’t been one until I’d left home. Was it odd that at the age of twenty-two I still ate whatever was placed in front of me at dinner time, even if I didn’t particularly care for it? The cooks went to so much trouble every day, after all, and I didn’t want to make them feel bad by not eating what they made.
Besides, I’d experienced the disapproving frown on my father’s face enough times as a kid that I’d long since learned not to be a picky eater.
“We can even have birthday cake for dinner if you want,” Evan continued.
The thought was inconceivable. It was scandalous.
I loved it.
“When’s your birthday?” I asked. “I’ll have to practice baking so I can make you a homemade cake.”
