Dark brown eyes.
Frowning mouth.
“Did you make me a pizza?”
Posey scoffs, turning her back to me so she can remove the pizza from the oven and set it on the counter using two giant oven mitts that look like bear paws.
“No, I didn’t make you a pizza. I mademea pizza.” She finally turns back around, removing the mitts one at a time. “You have ‘no refined carbs’ on your dietary needs, and this qualifies as a refined carb, so… Sorry.”
Her nose goes in the air.
“I can still eat it.”
When I made that stupid list, I was being difficult, testing not only Eli to deliver it to my temporary roommate but testing her as well. Only one of them passed the test, and it wasn’t her.
“Mmm, I don’t think so. I don’t need you clogging up the toilet pipes because the carbs make you sick. If you know what I mean.”
Is she implying that I’ll get the shits for eating carbs? ’Cause I won’t. I eat them plenty. In fact, just this morning at the airport, I ate a bagel and a piece of banana bread.
I press my mouth together while my stomach rumbles.
“I’m willing to take the chance,” I allow, trying to make her gimme that pizza. It has sausage and tons of cheese, steam rising from the center.
“I’m not. I have no desire to plunge the toilet after you’ve done your business.”
This conversation is ridiculous.
No woman has ever accused me of purposely trying to clog a toilet by taking a giant dump, least of all one this cute and pretty. With that being said, I’ve definitely dumped in a few toilets and backed them up. Even flooded my mama’s powder room one too many times growing up and got a whooping for it.
“I promise you I’m not gonna crap in the bathroom and make it your problem if the pizza does me dirty.” Besides, it’s a huge pizza. No way is she planning on eating the whole thing herself.
Maybe she’ll eat two pieces—maybe.
She’s just being stubborn.
“I’ll just eat it after you leave the room anyway,” I inform her.
“Not if I hide it.”
“Where are you going to hide pizza?”
She shrugs. “As if I’d tell you.” Posey tilts her head to study me. “Do you even like pineapple on your pizza?”
Is she implying she put pineapple on that pie?
I keep my face passive. “Never had pineapple on a pizza.”
“What about black olives?”
“Love.” I could eat an entire can as a snack. “Please. Feed me, I’m begging you.”
The plea works like I knew it would. Posey spins around and goes up on her tiptoes to open a cabinet and pull out two plates. She sets them on the counter before retrieving a round pizza cutter and getting to work cutting it into pie slices.
It’s steamier than cattle shit on a hot summer day, but it tastes damn delicious.
Scalding hot but fan-fucking-tastic.
“This doesn’t have pineapple on it,” I accuse her through narrowed eyes after a quick perusal.