“Ohmuhgawd,”I say around a massive mouthful. “This is the best meal I’ve ever had.”
Conor shakes his head at me and takes another bite out of his burrito.
I slurp down a large gulp of my iced tea. “What? I mean it.”
“You eat this exact meal twice a week.”
“So?”
“So how can something you eat two times a week suddenly rank as the best meal you’ve ever had?”
“Certainly not due to the company.” I toss a chip at his head.
“Cute.”
Wadding up the empty wrapper from my quesadilla, I shift forward on my stool so I can reach the chips and salsa sitting between us on the kitchen island. “God, someone take these away from me. I could eat an entire bag of them.”
“Why do you think I got a double order?”
I sigh and pop another in my mouth, chewing absently. “I’ll pretend it’s a cheat day. Calories don’t count after FBI interrogations. Right?”
“Relax. I doubt they’ll strip you of your Health Freak status based on one day of indulgence.”
“Spoken like a man with a super fast metabolism.” I tilt my head. “I suppose you, like most cops, subsist on a diet of doughnuts and crappy coffee?”
“Not exclusively.” His lips twitch. “Though I will admit, your close proximity to Union Square Donuts has been one silver lining about this surveillance gig. They make a mean Boston Cream.”
“Mmm, I can hear your arteries clogging as we speak.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“My bad.” He swallows the last bite of his steak burrito. “I forgot how uptight you get about food.”
My mouth falls open at that statement. “I amnotuptight about food! I’m merely… health conscious.”
“You eat all organic, all the time. Never skip a day of working out, so far as I can tell. Not to mention you get all high and mighty when someone has the nerve to consume sugar around you.”
He takes a large sip of his soda, just to prove his point. I can’t quite hide my wince as I think about the amount of fructose settling in the pit of his stomach.
“See what I mean?” He shakes his head. “You can hardly watch.”
Not wanting to fuel the fire of his accusations, I bite my lip to contain the words… but they burst out anyway. “Processed sugar is a death sentence! It’s just as dangerous to your health as smoking cigarettes! Ask a doctor if you don’t believe me.”
“Why would I need a doctor when I’ve got you here to lecture me for free?”
I pause. “Are you mocking me?”
“Only a little.” His mouth tugs up at one side as he contemplates me. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re all fired up, Hunt,” he says in a voice that, compared to his regular steely tones, is remarkably warm. So warm, it makesmefeel warm too. Warm and flushed and fluttery with…
With embarrassment, I tell myself stubbornly.Nothing more.
“Perhaps you should get your head examined as well, next time you visit said doctor,” I suggest sweetly.
“I’ll do that. Soon as you getyourschecked out for being such a control freak.”
“I am not a control freak!