Page 64 of Hot and Bothered
I heard Evan say something under his breath. They continued talking in lower tones, quiet enough that I couldn’t hear. I didn’t know what Christie was telling him, but eventually, Evan raised his voice.
“I need to go back to my work,” he said.
“Fine,” Christie said. I could practically hear her pursed lips and rolling eyes.
She stalked back into the living room and took a textbook out of her schoolbag.
“You mind if I study in here while you read?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I said.
Christie settled back into her armchair with the textbook and a highlighter. A few minutes later, Evan came out of the kitchen with his tablet and stylus. He took his place on the sofa again and started working.
Three of us sat there, working and reading for the rest of the afternoon.
Evan didn’t speak to me once.
24
That afternoon was one of the most uncomfortable situations I’d ever been in, and I’d been to dinner parties where half the guests were rival businessmen or opposing politicians.
But despite the awkward silence, I couldn’t help noticing Evan giving me sidelong glances. Mostly, the expression on his face was unreadable, but every so often I thought I caught a contemplative look or a self-conscious twist of his lips.
Every time I looked up, he ducked back down to his tablet, obviously not wanting to get caught staring at me.
Eventually, Christie announced she was hungry, and Evan ordered a pizza for dinner. When it arrived, we put our work away and stayed in the living room to eat.
“You don’t eat pizza at the kitchen table,” Christie told me, aghast that I’d even mentioned it.
“You don’t?” I asked.
“No!” she cried. “What kind of monster sits at a proper table for pizza?”
Sitting in the living room for dinner wasn’t the only novel thing about this meal.
“I’ve never had pizza like this before,” I confessed. “It’s so thick and greasy. Look, you can see the oil pooling in the middle of the pepperoni.”
“I know,” Christie said with a satisfied sigh. “It’s delicious.”
I took a tentative nibble at the pointed tip, just as I had with the burrito. And just like with that burrito, my eyes went wide and I let out a muffled exclamation.
I saw Evan suppressing a smile.
“It’s so good!” I said. “It’s much better than that bruschetta flatbread my parents served us,” I said. “They told us that was pizza, but I was never convinced.”
“Evan, what have you been feeding this poor girl that she’s never had real pizza before?” Christie shook her head and made a tsk tsk sound.
“We’ve been eating lots of burritos, at least.” He finally looked my way, the corners of his mouth lifting.
My heart soared at that tiniest of smiles. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe Evan wouldn’t stay mad at me forever.
By the time we finished the pizza, it was late. Christie made a big show of yawning and stretching.
“I’d going to go read in bed,” she said. “I’ll see you two in the morning.”
She gave Evan a pointed look before heading to the spare room and closing the door firmly.
The spare room.
