“The Destroyer doesn’t make you cheese.”
“The Destroyer has other qualities. You have to compensate somehow.”
I stare at the ceiling. “I’m being emotionally manipulated into making you a cheese plate so I can achieve close to comparable status with a dildo.”
When I glance back at him, Archie is watching me with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?”
The worst part is that it actually is.
“And while we’re eating it, we can start discussing the wording for all the sock-drawer notes you’re going to have to start writing.”
I stare at him. “You’re actually going to make me write sock-drawer notes?”
He grins at me. “At least once every two days. Elizabeth will expect consistency.”
“What am I supposed to write?Dear Archie, your socks are here. Regards, Leo.”
“God, no. That’s tragic.” He looks genuinely pained. “You need to be romantic.”
“I don’t do romance.”
“Then this will be an opportunity for personal growth.” He beams at me. “I believe in you, Leo. You contain multitudes.”
“I contain irritation.”
Archie hides his smirk and nudges me with his foot. “Now. Cheese. Chop chop.”
I should resist. On principle, if nothing else. But Archie is looking at me with those ridiculous hazel eyes, and his hair is sticking up in different directions, and his lips are still slightly puffy from our kissing, and apparently, I have no principles left.
I get out of bed.
“Brie if we have it,” he calls as I pull on my discarded T-shirt and pajama pants. “And crackers. The fancy ones, not the sad ones.”
“We only have one kind of crackers.”
“Then I trust you to elevate them with the presentation.”
I give him a sharp glare as I leave the bedroom. His delighted laugh follows me down the hallway.
I pad into the kitchen, navigating by the dim light from the hallway.
When I look in the fridge, I discover the cheese situation is actually decent. There’s a wedge of Brie, some aged cheddar, and something with an unpronounceable French name.
I arrange them on a cutting board with some crackers and grapes, feeling faintly ridiculous. Leo Brennan, IT strategist, midnight cheese sommelier.
But that doesn’t stop me from adding a drizzle of honey because we have it and Archie strikes me as someone who’d appreciate the extra effort.
This is what he’s reduced me to.
The alarming part is, I don’t actually mind. A month ago, if someone had told me I’d be making cheese plates at midnight for a man I was fake-dating, I would have had them committed. Now it feels almost normal.
Archie has a way of making the absurd feel inevitable.
When I return to the bedroom, he’s propped himself against the headboard, looking unreasonably pleased with himself. Like a king awaiting tribute.
“You actually did it,” he says, delighted.
“Don’t get used to it.”
