He moves to the refrigerator and opens the door. The light flickers over a takeout container from Burger Chalet, half a lemon, and what might have once been milk.
I’ll amend my earlier statement. He needs that lecture now. “Theo. This looks like a crime scene. Why do you not have any food?”
He glances back at the open fridge. “I’m in Orlando most of the time,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And when I’m here, I usually eat out. Or at the pub.”
I close my eyes. I’ve had enough. “Give me your address.”
He returns the camera so it’s facing him. His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“So I can order some groceries for you. If you don’t have the time to go shopping, you can pay somebody else to do it for you.”
I leave out the part about what happens when the shopper can’t find an item and tries to substitute it for you. Let’s just say it leads to some interesting outcomes.
He laughs. “Absolutely not. I’ll do the shopping myself. It can be my day-off adventure.” He stands and sets down his mug. “If I text you a photo of my haul at checkout, will that satisfy you?”
“I guess,” I say, pretending to inspect him through the screen.
Theo mutters something under his breath and disappears. I hear the faint jingle of keys, a chair scraping against the floor. A moment later, his face reappears on screen. “Right, then. Give me ten minutes.”
“Setting a timer now.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles, though I catch the faintest trace of a smile.
“Only because I care.”
A brief flash of surprise flashes across his face at the wordcare.It’s so quick that I almost miss it.
“It’s all part of the upgrade to the friendship package,” I say firmly. “When you opted in, you gained the full suite of features—for better or worse. That includes the caring, the worrying, and the mandatory pep talks. Plus, the occasional right to call you out on your crap.”
His gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer before he looks away, reaching for his coat. “I’ll text you from the market,” he murmurs.
The camera wobbles as he slips the phone into hispocket. I hear the soft click of the door, then the faint sound of rain against the mic. He’s forgotten to hang up the call.
I reach for the screen, ready to disconnect, when I hear his voice—low, almost swallowed by static. “She’s too good to me.”
The words are so quiet, I almost convince myself I imagined them. But my hand hovers over the button, frozen, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. Does he see us as more than friends too?
With a small, nervous laugh that no one hears, I press “End Call.” The screen goes dark, but the echo of his voice stays.
“We agreedon one American episode and one British episode,” Theo says, leaning back in his chair with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes me want to throw popcorn at him. “Admit it. There’s really no comparison as to which one’s superior.”
“But you didn’t laugh once,” I counter, curling my legs under me on the couch. “And you spent half the UK one critiquing everything—the actors, the lighting, the camera work, the budget. Come on, Theo. Just say it. The Americans got it right.”
“I laughed . . .” He pauses. “Internally.”
I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t count.”
I honestly don’t get his hang-up. The British one is clever, sure, but it doesn’t have the same heart as the American version. There aren’t really any characters that make you want to stand up and cheer for them. It’s too... realistic.
He smirks. “I’m British, Kaori. Restraint is part of our culture.”
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll have to postpone judgment until we’ve watched at least four more episodes. From different seasons. You can’t judge a show by the pilot alone.” That ought to convince him.
“Bring it on.” He grins. “I’m sure season two will only strengthen my argument.”
“Whatever.” I stretch, arms over my head, my shoulders popping in protest. The living room is bathed in soft evening light now, the sky outside my window deepening toward dusk. “It’s five. I should probably start dinner.”
“What are you making?” he asks.
