"Get out," she says through gritted teeth. "Get out of my apartment."
"Oh, but I haven’t even told you the real reason for my visit."
"I don’t want to know."
"Oh, but you should." I fold my arms across my chest. "In fact, I think it’s in your best interest to listen to what I have to say. It might go a long way toward alleviating many of your problems."
"I don’t want anything to do with you," she snarls.
I allow my lips to curl in a smirk. "Afraid you may not have much of a choice in this, Princess."
"Don’t call me that."
"You prefer Frozen?"
She squeezes the bridge of her nose. "Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be—" She waves a hand in the air. "Taking care of whatever needs to be done after what happened yesterday?"
"If you mean, shouldn’t I be mourning my grandmother, I am. In fact, that’s why I’m here."
She looks at me suspiciously. "I don’t follow."
"Before Nonna died, she asked me to get married."
She frowns.
"Within the next month."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"It has everything to do with you." I grin.
"It’s a little too early for riddles." She rubs her temple.
"How’s the head?" I jerk my chin in the direction of her still-bandaged wound.
"It’s sore," she admits, turning toward her baby to make sure she’s okay, I guess, before she glances back at me. "You were saying?"
"That I have a proposition for you."
"Oh?" She folds her arms around her waist. "I’m really not interested in anything, especially if it has to do with you."
"Don’t be too hasty." I glance around the room. "Have you eaten breakfast? Babies are not the only ones who gethangry,you know?"
I circle the table, then begin pulling open the doors to cabinets.
Something hits me in the back. I turn to find Avery waving her hand in the air. She laughs at me, then goes back to playing with her food.
"See? Even my daughter knows you’re not welcome here."
"On the contrary, I would argue she’s quite enjoying my company."
Avery grabs a grape and flings it on the floor, then smiles at me again.
"See? She definitely wants me here."
"Well, I don’t," Elsa huffs.
"Definitelyhangry," I conclude, then turn and pull out a skillet. I place it on the stovetop, then walk over to the refrigerator and pull the door open. There’re jars of baby food, two eggs, some butter, one head of lettuce, and one tomato. Does she not like to stock her refrigerator? Or does she simply prefer not to eat, or—