“I wasn’t hungry,” I lied.
She crossed her arms.“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I grinned.“You’re outraged.”
“I am,” she said.“That’s my favorite meal.”
“I know.”
“And you didn’t eat it.”
“I know.”
She huffed.“Unbelievable.”
“Come on,” I said, steering her gently toward the kitchen.“You want to sit at the table or the couch?”
She considered it for a moment.“Kitchen.I don’t trust myself to balance food on my lap.”
“Smart.”
I eased her into one of the chairs and made sure she was settled before turning toward the counter.I could feel her watching me as I pulled the plates Mac had made up for us out of the fridge.
When everything was ready, I carried both plates to the table and set them down before us.She took one bite and sighed.“Yep,” she said.“Still perfect.”
“I figured.”
We ate slowly, conversation drifting between nothing and everything—stories about work, about Mac’s chaos, about the ol’ ladies and the inevitable craziness of the planned girls’ night.
“Any more leads?”she asked quietly after a while.
I shook my head.“Nothing solid.”
That was true enough.
She nodded, but I could see the tension flicker behind her eyes.The fatigue was creeping back in.
“You’re fading,” I said.
She shook her head stubbornly.“Not yet.”
“Star—”
“I need to stay up a little longer,” she said.“I don’t want to just sleep through everything.”
I didn’t argue.
When we finished eating, she insisted on helping clear the table.I stayed close, ready to step in if she wobbled, but she managed fine.
Back in the living room, I flopped back onto the couch and grabbed the remote.
She eyed the screen.“What are you watching?”
“The Golden Girls.”
