“Is this your way of trying to woo me? Because it isn’t working.” I just don’t know why I have to look away from him when I say such a thing.
“Honestly, I came by to pick you up for our date. I knocked three times, but your TV was so loud, you must not have heard me. I’m sure I heard Kim Kardashian say, ‘Come in!’ So, I figured, why not?”
Kim Kardashian? I turn my head to look at the TV, finding the Kardashians on the screen. I return my glare to Brody and though I want to tell him he scared the shit out of me, I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“I declined your offer to take me to a bar tonight, and I don’t recall giving you my address.”
“Your sister gave it to me,” Brody says with a nonchalant shrug.
“What if I had called the police?” I press.
Brody walks over to my kitchen bar and plops down on the stool. “Well, I know every cop in this town, but he or she still would have asked you if you know this man. If you lied and said no, you’ve then lied to a cop and committed a crime.”
“I don’t know you, Brody. It’s been fifteen years since I kind of knew you.”
“We saw each other last week and this morning, didn’t we?”
The urge to pull his seat out from beneath him is strong, but I’m aware it won’t work since he’s likely twice my weight. “Great, can you leave now?”
“Is something burning?”
“My dinner that you’re ruining,” I tell him, running to the toaster oven.
“Perfect, since I’m taking you out tonight.”
“No, no, you’re not. I like burnt chicken,” I argue.
“You just said I ruined your dinner.”
“Yeah, because you’re here.”
I pull the smoking pan out of the toaster with an oven mitt and toss it down onto my cutting board, creating a loud metal clang.
“The chicken isn’t just burnt, it’s charred, carrot-top.”
I was so excited for my chicken parm and now I just want to cry because he’s irritating the shit out of me and I can’t have the dinner I wanted. “I was looking forward to my dinner,” I tell him.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I can’t tell if he’s serious about asking me if I’m serious, so I don’t respond.
Brody places his hand on his chest. “Shit, I’m sorry, Journey.” He walks over to my fridge like he’s been in my apartment before and finds the rest of the chicken patties. How did he know I didn’t make these from scratch?
He grabs a half empty bottle of bourbon from the counter and rummages through three of my cabinets before finding glasses. “Sit down,” he says.
I told him to leave.
I remain standing.
He places the glasses and bourbon down next to the cutting board, tosses the charred chicken into the trash bin behind him, rinses the pan and places four chicken patties on the tray instead just the two I had. He closes the chicken into the toaster and refills the pot of boiling water that has lost half the contents.
“I didn’t want to go out for dinner with you tonight,” I tell him.
“Okay, fine. How about we have dinner here?”
I’m staring at him with wonder. How can someone be so rude, arrogant, egotistical, and yet charming all at the same time?
“I said I didn’t want to have dinner with you tonight,” I correct my previous statement.
“I’ve been dreaming about having a night with you, so what about what I want?” he asks.
