He nods solemnly. “Sure, thatwasan exhaustive list, what with the cast of Hamilton and the vampire baseball.”
“Don’t forget the mafia.”
“Right, the mafia,” he muses, his eyes bright. “It’s usually just me in here. And I sit over there.” He gestures at the rectangular marble kitchen island with two stools on either side. “You good with us eating dinner there now, or should we continue to hash out how well-endowed my dining room table is?”
I ignorethatcomment, hoping the flustered feeling won’t translate into a blush. Considering my stomach and the contents of this conversation, I walk over to the island. “Iamhungry. Shockingly enough, the pint of neon orange nacho cheese I consumed at the game didn’t manage to stick to my ribs.”
“Dinner it is.” Danny claps his hands together.
He moves around the kitchen grabbing plates, cups, and napkins before opening the bags. After Danny hands me my burger, he starts picking up fries from his plate and adding them to mine.
Shaking my head, I put a few fries back on his plate. “If I wanted fries, I would’ve ordered them.”
“Stop kidding yourself, Gracie. Your subconscious and I both know you’ll be eating my fries.”
“Maybe I’ve changed,” I protest.
He stops mid-fry and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, have you?”
“Is there ketchup?”
He nods, looking exceedingly happy with himself.
I roll my eyes and daintily pop a fry in my mouth.
Chapter 9
Danny
“So, how are you?” I ask, while she stuffs her face full of my fries she didn’t want.
“How are you?” she echoes incredulously, a tiny piece of potato falling from her lips.
Bewitching, my Gracie girl. A fry predator, but bewitching nonetheless.
“How…are you?” I parrot.
She stops chewing. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry, I thought we were repeating each other for the bit you started.” I shrug and take a sip of my pop. “I’ve got to be honest, it’s not my favorite bit we’ve done.”
Gracie rolls those angelic, multicolored eyes at me and takes a sip of ginger ale. Ginger ale is her favorite pop. It’s also something I didn’t know existed outside of airplanes until I saw her chugging a can of it freshman year of high school.
“I’m simply wondering why that’s the first question you’re going with,” she explains, like an alternative is obvious.
“Which questionshouldI be going with?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe ‘why are you here after ten years?’”
I roll my shoulders back to release some tension. “I’m just happy you’re here. Does it matter why?”
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
Exhausted from the back and forth, I rub the back of my neck. It’s clear that we’re at odds with our goals. Gracie, who wants to do whatever she came to do and leave again, and me, who is desperately clinging to the hope that she might stay for more than one night.
My chest rises on a deep breath. “Honestly, Gracie, I don’t carewhyyou’re here. Just that you are.”
“Well, that’s not really?—”
