Page 15 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
He wasn’t going to make me dress up as a Mario Brother while I unclogged whatever pipe he’d managed to stuff a small turkey carcass into (hilarious as that would be).
This was more calculating.
He was going to make me scrub his toilets in a full suit of armor, because he knew how difficult it would make it for me to bend or crouch when needed, how annoying it would be to have no peripheral vision while dressed head to toe in heavy, clanking metal, unable to maintain a grip on a toilet brush or be allotted enough dexterity to work a spray bottle.
He’d make me dust the tip-top of his shelves in a giant T-rex costume with miniature arms and tend to his garden in a black latex Catwoman suit, cooking alive in the thick heat of late August while he watched from his cozy spot in the shade, sipping on an icy piña colada.
The humiliation bit was only an added bonus. The sweet, juicy cherry perched on top of his towering cake.
Like I said, I was choosing my battles, and this one was worth fighting tooth and nail for. The tactical advantage it gave him was simply too big. I’d never be able to recover.
I shut the binder. “You said you wanted tit for tat, and this isn’t.”
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t immediately hit me with a “If you don’t like it, then quit” line. Instead, he pressed his lips together, considering me.
“How about a uniform instead?” I suggested. “She technically did have one, like you said, and you can still choose something that you think will humiliate me. But no costumes, and nothing that would hinder my ability to perform my assigned duties, because we never did that with her. Unless, that is, you’re scared you can’t win without an active debuff.”
Something familiar flashed across his expression, and I smiled.
“Then again, you were always one to look up cheat codes before a game was even out of the box. Never could beat me without them, could you?”
His eyes narrowed.
Bullseye.
“You know what? Fine,” he conceded. “But the uniform will be mandatory. Refusing to wear it counts as forfeiture.”
That was easy.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” he repeated, incapable of letting someone else have the last word.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary, the golden hues of his irises gleaming under the warm beam of sunlight cutting over his face.
He had his dad’s eyes, apparently. That’s what Rosie had told me.
She’d always said that in the two thousand, two hundred and sixty-two days she’d spent with her late husband, he’d given her two thousand, two hundred and sixty-two reasons to fall in love with him.
But his eyes were the first.
I looked away, adjusting the thick strap of my shoulder bag. I needed to put the shrimp I’d brought with me into the freezer before I forgot about it.
“If we’re all done here, I’m going to get started on the chores,” I said. “Where’s the kitchen? That way?”
I was walking before he’d answered, headed for the archway I remembered him going through to make coffee yesterday. The smell of garlic grew more vivid.
I scrunched my nose.Waymore vivid.
What the hell is…
I almost dropped my bag.
The chef’s kitchen was just as unfathomably gorgeous as the rest of the house, if not more. It was deliciously spacious, lined with hand-crafted white cabinetry, polished marble countertops, textured backsplash tiles boasting intricate detailing, and a breathtaking collection of high-end steel appliances. A total dream.
And every last inch of it was covered in broken eggs, cooked pasta, rogue fruits, torn vegetables, meatballs, shattered taco shells, and what had to be an entire grocery-store aisle worth of cooking sauces.
It was like a food truck convention had spontaneously combusted in here.
