Bryce, who was now lounging on the couch with casual ease, smirked at me, biting his lip to hold in a laugh, fully aware that I was being petty and ‘over-the-top’ on purpose.
Adrian, on the other hand, blinked at me, his expression deadpan as he folded his arms across his chest. “And you talk aboutmebeing picky? You out here giving Michelin star requirements like we got Gordon Ramsay in the house.”
I leaned back against the couch, utterly unbothered by his jab.
“Yeah, but unlike you and yourridiculousrequest,everythingI asked for isactuallyin the kitchen,” I quipped with a smug grin, then diverted my attention to Isis, who was regarding me with a look that suggested I had just challenged her to a televised cooking duel.
“Do we even have any blueberries or strawberries?” she asked, arms crossed, glaring as if breakfast preparation was beneath her lofty spirit.
“Yup… fresh ones. They’re washed, sealed, and just waiting for you.”
“Okay, and how exactly am I supposed to make a waffle without a waffle maker?”
I tilted my head, wearing my sweetest smile. “There’s a waffle maker in there, blender, cake mix, pancake mix, muffin tins, griddle, hand mixer, cutting boards, sharp knives, and cookie sheets too—practically everything but a sous-chef. Matter of fact, there might even be an apron in there with your name stitched on it. In conclusion, every single thing you need for this meal is in that kitchen. I bought it all yesterday. So yeah, you should be good.”
Bryce grinned, shaking his head, clearly enjoying the show.
“Ain’t no getting out of this one, shawty," Adrian chimed in, never one to miss his moment to roast somebody.
Yeah, because she’s clearly trying to find a loophole in the air.
“I got one more request… and it’s a humble one,” he added, eyes locked on me, briefly, then turned to Isis. “Can you make my food withlove? Not that bougie,I-only-cook-on-holidays-for-the-gramorcooking-to-prove-a-point-to-yo-opkind of cooking. I can taste the pettiness in every over-seasoned and undercooked bite, and also when somebody’s just cooking for aesthetic.”
I could practically see the gears turning in Isis’s head as she prepared to face down the breakfast challenge ahead.
She scoffed, flipping her hair. “Icancook, okay?!” she snapped, like that made it better. “But Iwon’tbe partaking in what I prepare. I’m lactose intolerant, don’t eat pork, and I don’t consumeanythingwhite.”
Adrian reared his head back in surprise. “Not even rice?”
“Nope!”
“What about sugar?” he further pressed.
Isis’s face contorted like Adrian had just asked her to mop the whole kitchen barefoot. “Eww!Absolutely not!Sugar is the devil in a crystal gown! It causes inflammation, bloating, premature aging, dull skin, and emotional instability… andnoneof those align with my aesthetic! I have to be stunning atalltimes! Do you know how hard it is to maintain a glow that radiates through haters and bad lighting?! Of course not! But no, thank you! I’ll stick to my chlorophyll water, monthly skin peels, and marine collagen!”
Adrian leaned forward, serious now. “So you don’t eat Alfredo, mashed potatoes, or whipped cream?”
“No, but I dooat cream,” she stated proudly.
I smiled sweetly and said, “You know what, that’s fine. You don’t have to eat with us. You can eat snow with a side ofpinecones. Lucky for you, they’re all organic, vegan,andwhite-free.”
Bon appétit, Ms. Bougie.
Isis muttered something under her breath before turning around and marching off toward the kitchen, likely regretting her “I can cook” announcement.
This should be fun. Then again, she might surprise all of us—mainly me. Hell, she might just be the next Tabitha Brown. Time will tell.
Me, Bryce, and Adrian had all found our comfort zones on the couch, like we were in three different realities. I was curled up with my Kindle, knee-deep in a twisty mystery thriller that had my nerves rattled. Bryce had the TV on full-blast, hollering at a football game like he was on payroll, clapping and shouting directions like they could hear him through the screen. And Adrian? Of course, he was glued to his phone, thumbs flying like he was solving world problems… probably texting a woman.
I didn’t really care.
I just need ten minutes tomyself.
Ten minutes without Isis’s high-pitched humming or her desperate thirst that smelled like desperation and vanilla lip gloss.
Ten minutes without Bryce’s unreadable expressions, heavy and unresolved, settling in my chest like confessions I was too scared to interpret.
And ten minutes without Adrian’s try-hard jokes, his loud presence, or him asking me for some pussy every hour on the hour, acting as if my coochie operated on a happy-hour schedule.
