“I have a salad in the fridge.”
I can almost taste his amusement as soon as the word salad slips past my lips. Like I just lost a bet I knew nothing about.
“Is that a problem?” I add, popping my hip out.
With his hands raised in surrender, he steps back and braces himself for another attack. “Not at all. I was just craving a burger.”
“That’s nice.”
“When was the last time you had a burger, Bianca?”
“I don’t like burgers.”
“Everyone likes a good burger.”
I quirk my brow. “Well, I don’t.”
“Really? You’re not a fan of the toasted buns, juicy meat, crisp lettuce, fresh tomatoes, tangy pickles, maybe some melted cheese, and bacon on top?”
My mouth waters, but I swallow it back. “Last time I checked, McDonalds doesn’t toast their buns or add bacon.”
He laughs. It’s low and masculine with a grittiness that causes tingles to race up and down my spine. “McDonalds doesn’t count. I was meaning like…a legit burger. Not the fast food shit.”
“It’s still a no,” I tell him, though I can feel myself wavering.
Bacon? I mean, who doesn’t love bacon?
“So, you don’t want me to get you one?” he prods. “Even if it’s from a good place?”
“Nope.”
“Okay…,” he drags out. “Maybe some fries? Or a diet coke?”
“No, thank you,” I repeat. “I’ll stick with my salad.”
“When was the last time you had carbs, Bianca?” he challenges, clearly more amused by this conversation than I am.
“Before I picked you up,” I quip.
Unconvinced, he challenges, “Oh really? What kind of carb?”
“The complex kind.”
Another deep rumble reverberates through his toned chest. “Such as?”
“Some carrots.”
“Carrots?” His brow arches toward the ceiling.
The bastard doesn’t even bother to hide his giant grin. He’s finding this way too entertaining for a guy who’s been incarcerated for the past two weeks.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Was it with dip?”
I purse my lips. “Are you finished?”
His mouth curves toward the ceiling on one side as he steps closer, crowding me against the doorjamb, but I stand my ground. “What’s your guilty pleasure, Bianca?”