I’m sure I should be worried about him having the code, but I’m not. If Bam wanted to hurt me, he’s had that chance.
“Told you. I’m here to keep you safe.”
“Then I need to eat. You hungry?”
“I could eat.” Bam’s eyes flick up and down me.
“Are you being dirty and flirting with me?”
“Are you good with that?”
“I’m not opposed to you having a crush on me, but remember,” I point at him, “no falling in love with me.”
“But what if I’m already there?” He smirks. I think he’s teasing me. Is he, though? More importantly, do I want him to be?
“Do you like pasta? I have leftover spaghetti with meat sauce.” I totally change the subject as I head toward the kitchen. I don’t need to turn around to know Bam is on my heels. I can feel him. “The noodles are whole grain, but I think the sauce covers up the taste that some find odd.”
“I’m good with anything.” His eyes flick around the kitchen.
“It’s kinda old school, I know. I can’t bring myself to take down some of the weird things my grams hung around here.”
“The giant fork and spoon are very retro.”
“They’re almost as tall as me,” I joke. “I bet if we removed them from their wall, there’d be an outline.” I snort a laugh.
My phone starts to chime, my alert going off.
“You need to get that?” Bam asks when I glance at it but put it back down on the counter.
“I’m getting it.” I walk over to the fridge, opening it to pull out the leftover pasta and one of my insulin pens. “I think she’s mad I had the chocolate cake.”
Bam takes the Tupperware container from me, setting it down on the counter before reaching for the injector in my hand.
“What is this?” He turns it over. “Insulin? You’re diabetic?”
“Yeah.” I take it back from him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His expression morphs to anger. “You let me get you chocolate cake.”
“I did.” I pop the cap and lift my shirt to inject it into my stomach.
“Josie—”
“See, this is why I don’t tell people. I’m back to Josie. What about rebel?” I don’t want people treating me differently. Assoon as someone finds out, that’s exactly what they tend to do. They start handling me with kid gloves or telling me I can’t or shouldn’t do certain things.
“Not going to treat you differently.” Bam runs his fingers through his hair, making it messier, which only makes it hotter. How does he do that? “I’m your assistant. I should know these things.” He pulls out his phone.
“Are you googling diabetes?”
“Maybe.”
“Really?” I study him. He really is worried. Maybe it’s not the worst to be treated differently if it’s in a caring way.
“Yeah, I am.” The determination in his tone has me letting it go. It’s hard to be irritated with someone when all they are doing is trying to look out for you.
“Okay fine, but sit.” I point to one of the chairs at the small table pushed against the wall in the kitchen. Bam does as I order, dropping down in the chair. I don’t fight the smile that takes over my face while I fix us both a plate and grab him a soda and myself a water.
I drop down across from him with a few of my notebooks, flipping them open while answering a few of Bam’s questions about diabetes.
