“Absolutely,” I said, sitting up. “For example, I now have averyimportant question.”
He waited for my question impatiently, crossing his arms.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Marco stared at me. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Black,” he mumbled.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not even arealcolor.”
He smirked. “Sure it is.”
I gave him a look and sighed dramatically. “Fine. Favorite food?”
“Grilled cheese.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Grilled cheese?” I repeated, just to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
Marco gave a slow nod.
I stared. “You mean to tell me, out of all the things in the world—steak, lobster, somethingobnoxiouslyexpensive—your favorite food is literallybread andcheese?”
“It’s good.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” I defended.
“Are we done now?”
“Do questions exhaust you?”
“No, but you do.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to be a good wife.”
“You can try tomorrow.”
I groaned, rolling onto my stomach. “This was the worst bonding exercise ever.”
Marco smirked. “Then let’s not make it a habit. Get some sleep.”
“Fine. But if I ever find out your favorite color isactuallysomething normal, like blue, I’m going to besomad.”
And that realization was probably more dangerous than anything else. Why did I care so much about his favorite color?
Then, after a second, he said, “It’s yellow.”
CHAPTER 34
VALENTINA
Iwas elbow-deep in aJersey Shorererun, still wearing the sleep shirt I’d stolen from Marco three nights ago. I was debating whether I could justify eating Cheetos for dinner when there was a knock at the door.
