“No.”
Excuse me? “I told you not to feed my son. I’m his parent. What I say goes.”
“You aren’t my parent. Which means you have no right to tell me what to do. I will cook for whomever I want. I will talk to whomever I want. And I will do what I want when I want. If you don’t want your son eating my food, tell him to stop coming to take it. I don’t force-feed the child. All I do is simply offer him a hot meal. That’s it. I also smile and wave to him and, upon occasion, make polite conversation. Something you don’t seem to understand.”
“I asked you not to feed my son.”
“No, you told me. Had you spoken politely to me and asked me to refrain from doing something, I might have considered it. But you didn’t, so this is where we are.”
She told me no. The hot neighbor told me no.
“If there isn’t anything else you wish to rant about, you may go. I’m making Creed an eggs Benedict sandwich on a fresh biscuit this morning. And I need to make sure the hollandaise sets properly.”
“You’re insane.”
She shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You’re really making the kid eggs Benedict. Because he’s currently having some fake quiche at home since he liked yours so much.”
“That’s so sweet. There’s a trick to making the dough. I’ll have to tell him about it so that his pastry comes out light and flaky every time.”
“Woman, don’t you hear me? Creed is probably eating breakfast as we speak. You don’t need to cook for him.”
She shrugs.
It’s like talking to a wall. A beautifully sexy wall, but still an infuriating wall. I turn and stalk out the door and back into my house as Creed slides a pan into the oven.
“So how did that go?”
“She’s making you eggs Benedict for breakfast.”
“Cool. I wonder if it’s better than quiche?”
“A thousand times if her hollandaise doesn’t break.” Why did I just say that? That woman is going to drive me out of my mind.
“Want me to see if she’ll make you one?”
“No.” Just no. “I’m going to go take a shower.” And pretend this morning never happened.
Little Thumb
Greer
I just wasted my one cup of coffee on that man. What is his problem? Seriously. Do I know him from somewhere else that he reacts so adamantly to seemingly nothing?
Whisking hollandaise works well at relieving some of the stress from my early morning visitor.
How did such a polite boy come from such a deranged man? I don’t need to be thinking about him today. Today is all about the baby growing in my belly. I have an appointment in Urbium with my family doctor. I get to see him again.
Five months is the official date they remove me from high risk if everything goes well.
That is what I should be focusing on. Not the man who was just in my kitchen wearing his pajamas and yelling at me. I shouldn’t have found him at all funny and just a little bit sexy.
Darrel always wore silk pajamas because they’re good for your skin, which is the reason I do as well. But there was something about the way my neighbor looked in a pair of flannel pants and a fitted t-shirt. That shirt was built to show all his muscles and tattoos.
Tattoos shouldn’t be sexy. How many times have I listened to my mother talk about how unflattering tattoos look on a person? How cheap and tawdry they make a woman look? That only lowlifes and people who will amount to nothing ever get tattoos.
Now, if she had said they make a man look sexy as sin, that would have made sense, staring at my neighbor’s muscular arms.
