She rolls her eyes. “Food and sex.”
“And hockey.”
“Right, and hockey.” She tugs on her T-shirt and pulls a pair of pajama bottoms from her drawer. Now how is it possible that she’s making a pair of oversized flannels sexy?
Jesus, I need to get out more often.
“Lead the way,” I say and follow her downstairs back to the kitchen. I slow my pace and admire all the artwork on the way. We reach the kitchen, and that’s when I notice all the plants under her window sill. A hiss has me turning my attention to her cat, who is lounging in some stacked plush playhouse and eyeing me suspiciously.
“You grow your own herbs?” I ask.
“I do. I like organic,” she says.
“I like it in theory, but if it means I can’t eat a Whopper Wiener, I’m out.”
She chuckles at that. “I’ve taken courses on their healing powers. I hit the market every weekend. If you’re interested, you can come if you’d like.”
“I’m away next week.” I mimic the action of shooting a puck as she pulls a block of cheese and a tub of butter from the fridge. “Big game against Vancouver. Not that you’d know, since you don’t follow hockey,” I shoot back.
“Drink?” she asks and holds up a jug of something homemade.
“What is it?”
“Kombucha.”
I hold my hands up and back away. “No frigging way, that stuff tastes like ass.”
“How do you know
what—” She holds her hand up. “Never mind.”
I laugh. “How can you drink that poison?”
“I make it, actually. Try it.” She produces two glasses and pours the purple concoction into both. “I use organic blueberries. It’s pretty good.” She hands me the glass. “And good for you.”
She takes a big drink and I examine the content. “Yeah, so is a prostate exam and you don’t see me lining up for one of those.”
She chokes, puts her hand over her nose and grabs the paper towel. “Ow, Rider!”
“What?”
“You can’t make me laugh when I have something in my mouth. That came out my nose and it hurts.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and try to stifle a chuckle.
“If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be laughing.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from grinning, and tear off a paper towel. “Really, I didn’t mean it.” I move her hands away and dab at her nose. “All better?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, sit and drink your poison.”
She mumbles something about it not being poison and hands me a pan as I pull a chair out for her. She lowers herself and I set the pan onto the stove and get to work on the sandwiches.
Jules stands and flicks on the radio, which is sitting on top of her fridge. “Did you rescue that from the twentieth century?” I ask her.
“Like I said, I enjoy restoring old things.”