Page 45 of The Club

He has a microwave and stove, but there are no ingredients to be seen. When he opened the fridge to get the milk, I spotted a number of boxes that suggested meal delivery.

“Ha. No. Never. Do you cook?”

I sip my espresso. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“I guess it’s just not what I imagined. Torture, murder, whip up a lasagna.” He shrugs.

I give him a pointed side eye. His lips twitch. He’s teasing me. It’s so weird to me to be teased like this. I think I like it.

“So what’s your specialty?” he asks.

“Torture.”

He laughs. “Obviously. I meant food-wise.”

“Waffles. At least, that’s what I most like making.”

He rolls his eyes. “Breakfast. Typical man.”

“You can eat waffles any time of the day.”

“I suppose. How’s your espresso?”

“Great, but it’s not food.”

“You must hungry. You’re talking about food and getting cranky.”

His insight startles me. I guess it’s small, but I’m not used to people noticing small things about me.

I don’t know what to say, so I just grunt in annoyed acknowledgment.

Rafael sighs. “Can I at least finish my cappuccino before you have me slaving away in the kitchen?”

“I’m just going to look and see what you have.”

“Hm.”

Ignoring Rafael’s indirect protest, I take my espresso and go to snoop through his kitchen. When I find eggs in the fridge, I look over my shoulder at him.

“I, too, sometimes make breakfast,” he admits.

“Typical man.”

He snorts.

I find granola and some other basics in the single, tall cupboard beside the fridge. The pasta canister sticks out like a sore thumb. There are no jars of sauce or ingredients for making sauce.

Hm. I pop the top and look inside. I fucking thought so.

Rafael hustles around the bar and snatches the canister of drugs away from me. He scowls. “It’s almost like you’ve been in here before.”

“You know I have.”

“Howdidyou get in here the other night? When you brought me back.”

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