“Hols,” I yell, warning her just as she comes out of her bedroom in a silk pale blue pajama set that offsets her dark skin tone perfectly.
“Well, hello.” She stops short, looking Damian up and down shamelessly.
“I don’t think you two have been formally introduced. Holly, this is Damian. Damian, this is my best friend and roommate, Holly.”
“Oh, I know who you are, boss,” Holly says.
Damian shifts uncomfortably beside me, reaching out to shake Holly’s hand. “Nice to meet you… officially.”
“You, too.”
“Okay. I’m going to get out of these soggy clothes. I’ll be right back,” I say, making my way to my bedroom.
“Now, what’s this about dinner?” Damian asks Holly.
I rush back to the living room. “Oh, we can’t tonight. You’ve already got the coconut chicken curry planned.”
“I can make the chicken for you tomorrow. I deserve a night off of cooking, don’t you think?” He smiles.
Sure. But that doesn’t mean he wants what I’m going to make. Damian’s dinners are delicious, five-star meals with protein and vegetables and flavor. Cooking has never been a skill set that I developed. I can make enough to survive, but that’s about it. When I eat Damian’s food, it’s an entire experience for my taste buds.
“We’re supposed to trade off making dinners, at least occasionally, but since she hasn’t been home in weeks, she’s gotten out of it,” Holly tells him.
“I didn’t realize I was keeping her from her obligation. Consider that corrected as of tonight.”
“Don’t you want to go home to change? Your clothes are still wet from the rain.” I try to convince Damian to let me get out of this.
“I’m fine. They’ll dry.” He raises his brow at me, knowing exactly what I was trying to do.
My mood plummets. I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I hate having to plan out a meal and get all the ingredients. The whole thing puts a sour taste in my mouth.
I sulk back to my room to change, coming back a few minutes later in a pair of leggings and tank top. Damian and Holly chat while I get started on dinner. I fill a saucepan with water and set it on the stove, gathering the rest of the ingredients I need while I wait for it to boil.
Damian folds his suit jacket onto the corner of the counter and rolls his sleeves up as he comes up behind me.
“What’s that?”
“Cheese,” I tell him, opening the packet of powered, dehydrated orange stuff.
His face is horrified as he watches me dump it into the drained noodles with butter and milk.
“There isn’t a place on Earth where anyone would refer to that as cheese,” he deadpans.
I laugh. “Have you never had boxed mac and cheese before?”
“God no. And I imagine I haven’t been missing out.”
“I don’t know about that. Everyone should at least try boxed mac and cheese. It’s a delicacy.”
“And what are you doing now?” He sounds genuinely concerned. “Are those hot dogs?”
I chop the hot dog into smaller rounds, adding it to the pot of mac and cheese. “Yes.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“To add meat to it.”
He stares at me, dumbfounded, his gaze flicking to the dinner I made before bouncing back to me.
