Page 33 of Wild Love
“I love it.”
“Caviar?”
“Your rich kid is showing.”
Fuck me, that was funny. I wipe a hand across my mouth to hide my smirk.
“Hot dogs?”
She gives me a confused look. “You know, that’s actually the most offensive food on that list. Do you have any idea what’s in them?”
I reach into the fridge and inspect the package. “Meat trimmings.”
Cora just nods. But she’s finally not ignoring me for whatever Stephen King horror shit she’s reading in an attempt to be as anti-stereotypical as possible.
“Are they less offensive if we roast them over a fire?”
For a moment, her eyes light up before she goes back to trying to look cool and unaffected. “Do you have stuff for s’mores?”
I’m a thirty-two-year-old bachelor workaholic. Of course I don’t have stuff for s’mores. But I only say, “I don’t.”
She probably thinks she’s unreadable, but I don’t miss the way her shoulders fall.
“I can go grab the ingredients.”
“No. It’s fine. Hot dogs on a fire sound great. I’ll go grab a sweater.”
After she stomps up the stairs, I get to problem-solving. Because if that girl wants s’mores, she’s going to have them.
A quick swipe across my phone’s screen pulls up Rosie’s contact information, and I hit call.
“I knew you were stalking me,” she answers.
I roll my eyes, standing in my big, empty kitchen, and cut to the chase. “Do you have the stuff to make s’mores?”
“Dude. Have you seen the bunkhouse? I have a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a kettle in the corner. I’m living on the wrong brand of sour cream and onion chips because the grocery store here doesn’t stock Old Dutch.”
“Okay, never mind?—”
“Of courseI have the ingredients for s’mores.”
“You’re a hot mess, Rosalie.”
“All I heard was that you think I’m hot.”
I say nothing to that. There’s no safe answer. Especially not when my neck gets all red at the mere mention.
“Can I swing by and grab the ingredients?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why would I share them with you? You’re a bajillionaire.”
“That’s not an actual term.”
“I know, but it has a more satisfying and ridiculous ring to it.”
