Okay, so there’s a chance I might needhishelp.
Whatever.
“Didn’t you promise me pancakes?” I hedge, desperate for abreak.
“Fine. We’ll eat.” He pins me with a serious look. “But we’re not done withthisshit.”
“Honestly, I think I’d rather relive the sex tip session with my cellmate Destiny than continue this conversation,” I mutter under mybreath.
He hears me. Ofcourse.
“Tell you what,” he tosses over his shoulder as he strides toward the kitchen. “You miss your cellmate so much, I’ll make you a deal — describe, in detail, exactly what happened last night, and I’ll drive you straight back to jail afterward.Soundgood?”
I roll my eyes athisback.
Honestly, fighting with this man is a waste of breath. He hears exactly what he wants to hear and nothing more. He always gets what he wants, in the end, because he’s utterly relentless. Non-negotiable.
I should storm out of here in a huff, just to make a point. Just to show him he can’t boss me around, or intimidate me with his machoshenanigans.
I reallyshould.
Except, he did makebreakfast.So…
IsupposeI can delay storming out.Temporarily.
IsupposeI can stay and endure his interrogation for a bit longer. Because…pancakes.
Should I be concerned with the fact that breakfast takes clear priority over my sense of pride? Perhaps. But I’m too ravenous to care. It’s been upwards of twenty-four hours since I last ate; I’ve sailed pastsalad-for-dinnerhungry and gone straight today-three-of-a-juice-cleansestarving.
Following Luca across the room in only my stockings — sorry, Mom — I take a seat at the nearest barstool while he washes his hands and grabs two plates from an overhead cabinet. Sliding one in front of me, he settles his large frame on the stool directly across from mine and lifts the lid on the warming platter to reveal a giant stack of perfect, goldenpancakes.
I feel my mouth fill with saliva as I stare at them. They’re still steaming, they smell orgasmic, and they look absolutely delicious — soft and buttery, exactly the kind of food my friend Shelby, health nut and personal-trainer, would have a heart attack if she ever saw me consuming. Honestly, you’d think gluten was a biochemical weapon, the way shedescribesit.
Luca loads up our plates and I barely wait a beat before dumping a dollop of syrup on top of my stack, hacking off a huge multi-layered wedge, and shoving it into my mouth with gusto. Not my most ladylike move of all time — my cheeks puff out and my jaw threatens to unhinge as I chew themassivebite.
Luca watches me struggling to swallow andsnorts.
“Don’t worry, I know the Heimlich Maneuver ifnecessary.”
In the words of Stephanie Tanner:howrude!
As delicately as possible — which, let’s be honest, is notvery— I swallow down the rest of the bite. Just to get him back for teasing me, I drop my fork with a clatter against the marble counter and make a big show of twisting my features into a mask ofshock.
“Oh!” I gasp,eyeswide.
“What is it?” he asks, immediately on highalert.
“You didn’t…” I wheeze. “…put banana…” I lock my jaw. “…in these…” I clutch at my throat. “…didyou?”
His brows pull together. “Yeah,why?”
Fake choking like my first Academy Award for Best Actress in a Mediocre Prank depends on it, I thrash a bit on my stool and hiss, “I’m… deathly…allergic…”
“Shit!” Luca leaps to his feet, races around the counter, and grabs me by the shoulders before I can blink. In less than a second I’m off my stool, wrapped in the span of his arms, and he’s staring down at my features in blindpanic.
“Shit, Delilah, what the fuck do I do?” hebarks.
It takes him a minute to register the shaking of my shoulders is not, in fact, due to choking, but to laughter. His mouth flattens into a frown as realizationdawns.