Page 9 of The Bartender's Baby

Nate

You need to eat.

I do eat. I’m eating. I had an apple.

Nate

A fucking apple?!?!?!

Nate

An apple? Tabitha. A goddamn apple is not dinner.

Please stop texting me. I’m tired and want to go to sleep.

Nate

Not until after you have some real food.

Nate

Your dinner will be arriving in 25 minutes. I want proof it arrived and that you ate it, or I’ll be knocking on your door later tonight.

I tossed my phone down with a huff. He was so fucking hardheaded. Stubborn and annoying as hell when he wanted something.

I’d hate it if I didn’t respect it so much. As he’d said, the doorbell rang twenty-five minutes later with a delivery from my favorite Italian place containing my usual order—chicken parm with baked ziti, and oil and vinegar for the side salad. He even got me mozzarella sticks.

How irritating.

I sat on my bed with it all and snapped a picture to send to Nate.

I won’t be able to eat all this.

Nate

I don’t care. Eat as much as you can and then save the rest for tomorrow. Send me a picture of how much is left.

You are out of your mind if you think I’m documenting what I eat.

Nate

I know you, and I know you scrimp and save and would eat peanut butter sandwiches every day if you had to. So, no, I’m not out of my mind to make sure you’re eating dinner.

Nate

You need food. Good food.

Nate

Eat it and say thank you.

I couldn’t argue with him about being a pain in the ass because it all smelled so good, and I was pretty hungry now that I had time to relax. I ate the salad, about half of the chicken and ziti, and all but two of the mozzarella sticks. I sent him a picture of my leftovers, along with my middle finger.

His reply?

Nate

The nerve.

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