“Changing supplies are on the dresser.”
“I know where they are, Princess.”
I drained the pasta and tried not to think about how domestic this had all become. Griffin upstairs changing his daughter. Me downstairs cooking dinner. Like we were some kind of functional unit instead of two people trapped in an arrangement neither of us wanted.
When he came back down fifteen minutes later, Hazel was wearing the “Future Champion” onesie. He looked unreasonably proud of himself.
“Really?” I gestured at it as he settled her in the bouncer.
“What? She likes it.”
“She can’t see it.”
“I can see it. That’s what matters.” He dropped into his chair, eyeing the pasta. “Smells good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. You’re annoyingly competent at everything.” He picked up his fork. “It’s irritating.”
“Sorry my basic life skills offend you.”
“They don’t offend me. They’re just excessive.” He gestured at the plate. “This is too much effort for a Monday night.”
“It’s pasta, Griffin. I boiled water.”
“You made sauce from scratch.”
“It takes ten minutes.”
“Most people would open a jar.”
“Most people have standards.”
He snorted. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That judgmental thing you do. Where you imply everyone else is doing life wrong.” He took another bite. “With that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m better than you’ look.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look.”
Arguing with Griffin Michaels was like arguing with a brick wall. A smug, irritating brick wall that somehow managed to eat my cooking while insulting me at the same time.
Yet I couldn’t stop.
“If I have a look, it’s because I’m stuck living with someone who thinks rinsing a plate counts as cleaning.”
“It does count.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Agree to disagree.”
