Page 17 of My Rules

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm tonight,” she snaps impatiently. “What is it, Blake?”

“Lasagna, I’m hoping.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “That’s right, I invited you for dinner, didn’t I?”

“You forgot?” My mouth falls open in horror. I’ve been looking forward to this all day, and she just forgets.

“Sorry.” She sighs as she steps to the side to let me in. “I’ve had a ... day. Come in.”

I walk in through the foyer and into the living room to see the television is paused. There’s a packet of chocolate cookies and the empty wrappers of two blocks of chocolate on the coffee table in front of the couch. My eyes rise to her and notice that she has a defeated demeanor. I know this look anywhere.

She saw John today.

“So ...” I shrug. “I’m guessing there’s no lasagna.”

She shakes her head and flops onto the couch. “Sorry. I just ...”

I wait for her reply.

“I can’t seem to do anything right today.” She shrugs sadly.

“Well, that’s not true.” I sit down next to her and pull her into a hug. “You are totally nailing the cute housewife look.” I feel her smile against my shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make us dinner.”

“You will?”

“Not really.” I stand. “We’re getting takeout.” I take my phone out of my pocket. “What do you feel like?”

“Carbohydrates,” she says as she holds the remote up to the television and presses play.

“Romanes Italian?” I ask.

“I guess.”

“Well, I can’t order the lasagna because it will only highlight how bad it is in comparison to yours.” I curl my lip. “You owe me lasagna, woman.”

“Okay.” She forces a smile. “I’ll have garlic bread. A large size. Actually, make it a family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, and then I’ll have a Nutella pizza for dessert with a double serving of strawberries on the side. And I’ll have a Coca-Cola, in a glass bottle if possible.”

Eww . . .

“Sounds”—my eyebrows flick up in surprise—“healthy.”

“Don’t even . . . ,” she growls.

I hold my two hands up in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.” I dial the number of the restaurant.

“Hello, Romanes.”

“Can I order some takeout, please?” I ask.

“What will it be?” the bored receptionist asks.

“Family serving of pasta carbonara with extra cream and fresh Parmesan, spaghetti marinara with extra chili, and a Nutella pizza with extra strawberries on the side.”

“Is that it?”

“A Coke.” My eyes float over to Rebecca as she watches me. “In a glass bottle.”

I tell them the address and hang up; my eyes rise to the television. “What are you watching?”

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