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Two hours after our argument, I’m heading downstairs because I’m hungry. Not to check on Isabella. Since I’m already down here, though, I decide to see what she’s doing. When I take a peek into the living room, she’s not there.
I find her in the kitchen, wearing an apron and holding some vegetables in her hand. I watch as she drops them on the counter. I lean against the doorway and cross my arms over my chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She jumps, clutching her chest. “For the love of God, Graham!” she snaps.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to cook,” I state.
“I wasn’t going to,” she mutters. “But I’m bored.”
Like I predicted, the storm took out the cellphone towers about an hour ago. Which is a big inconvenience. I’m just hoping it passes quickly.
Isabella points the knife in her hand at me. “Don’t think I’m cooking for you, though. You can starve for all I care.”
“Ouch,” I say placing a hand on my chest. “Do you really have to be so mean?”
“Go away, Graham,” she snaps, chopping up a zucchini.
Instead of doing that, I move to take a seat on one of the elevated stools, watching her for a couple of seconds. Her blue eyes are bright, focused only on the chopping board.
“I would apologize, but you kind of provoked me, Isabella,” I point out.
She stops chopping abruptly, looking up at me. “I didn’t provoke you. You told me something and I gave you my honest opinion.”
“Really? So you think you did nothing wrong?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. I could have tried to be nicer about it when I said you were a conceited jackass who only cares about himself.”
My lips twitch. “There’s room for improvement with that apology.”
“I’m not apologizing. You said my life was miserable.”
“No, I asked if your life was miserable. I don’t know anything about your life, Isabella.”
“Big difference,” she mutters. “And you also kicked me out.”
Now that, I feel bad about.
“I shouldn’t have done that, darling. I’m sorry.”
She watches me for a couple of seconds before huffing out a breath.
“I shouldn’t have called you a coward or said all those things.”
I shrug. “You’re right. But it’s water under the bridge. Now, what’s for lunch?” I ask, rubbing my hands together excitedly.
Her eyes narrow. “You only apologized so I’d give you food, didn’t you?”
“That’s not something you can prove.” I grin.
She shakes her head. “You’re only getting food if you help out. Come on.” She gestures for me to walk around and join her. I do so, standing right by her side in front of the chopping block. “Have you ever diced onions?”
I snort. “Do I look like the sort of man that’s ever done something like that?”
Isabella rubs her forehead. “How have you survived this long without picking up a basic important life skill like cooking? You’ve never lived alone? What about in college?”
“There’s always been a private chef around for most of my life. And in college, I went to Oxford and one of my dorm mates was a really good cook. Plus I could have ordered take out whenever I wanted.”
