“That sounds like an insult.”
“Because it is.”
Duke’s surprise is evident. I can tell he was expecting me to deny it, so when I don’t, his mouth falls open a fraction.
Pouting, he jams his fingers into the pickle jar and pulls out a handful, plopping them onto the round wooden charcuterie board. Juice rolls out from beneath them, causing him to frown.
“It’s making a mess.”
“No, you’re making a mess. If you take them out one at a time or put them in a small bowl, the juice won’t get on anything else.”
Duh.
“Where are the small bowls?”
With a loud sigh, I fetch him several small bowls. “I don’t have time to be doing this for you. I have things I’d like to go do before my friends get here. Can you handle this by yourself?”
“I’m twenty-four years old. Of course I can handle this on my own.”
Twenty-four years old! Holy shit!
I rear back as if he’s stunned me with a taser. The fact that he’s so young… wow. Was. Not. Expecting. That.
Why did I think he was older?
Because he’s so rich.
Because he’s so successful.
Because he has a housekeeper and a cook, and you’re barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck.
He’s watching me rather than filling the board with bits. “What?”
“Nothing.” I’m shaking my head. “I just…you’re twenty-four.”
“So?” He’s still looking at me oddly. “How old are you?”
I swallow. “Twenty-nine.”
Almost thirty, actually. My birthday is at the end of the month.
“Practically an old lady,” he teases, resuming his task, setting another small bowl on the board and dumping olives into it—and a shit ton of olive juice.
I try not to critique since I said he had to do it on his own, but by golly, it’s almost impossible not to.
“All right, well. If you need anything holler.” On second thought. “Maybe don’t.”
* * *
“Did you hear that?”Kate has her head cocked to the side as we sit around the dining room table, her wineglass poised for another sip.
The strange sound from the second floor halts a few of us from laughing at the joke Paul is telling.
“Hear what?” I feign ignorance, eyes darting to the ceiling. At the slightly swaying light fixture dangling precariously above the center of the table.
“That.” We listen. “There it goes again.”
Goddamn Duke.