Mr. Wrong Number(19)
I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him, walking over to the stove. “The people who make idiotic corkscrews like that. And the pretentious boobs who buy them.”
That made him laugh and he followed me into the kitchen. “Did you just call me a pretentious boob?”
I gave him a duh look over my shoulder. “Look around you, oh pretentious one. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the chicks dig it. This is a nice-ass bachelor pad; I’d lose my shit if I came home with you and got to hop around on your pillow-soft million-dollar bed. But I just can’t imagine spending so much money on stuff.”
Shit, shit, shit. Yes, I’d really just mentioned hopping around on his bed.
His face didn’t change, thank God, and he stuck his hands in his pockets and said, “You don’t know how much I’ve spent. Maybe I got it all for free.”
I ignored that and said, “Your colander is sterling silver.”
“So I like nice things—sue me.” He tilted his head, and his eyes dropped to my back as he mused, “If I can afford quality, why would I buy garbage?”
“A plastic colander isn’t necessarily garbage. Who says silver is better?”
“Is that why you dented it?” He walked over to the cupboard on my right and took out three wineglasses. “Because it’s too pretentious for you?”
My head rolled back on my shoulders of its own accord and I stirred the sauce with a big spoon. “Of course you noticed the dent.”
But when I looked over at him, his eyes were on my back again. What the hell—did I have back-fat jiggle action going on or something? They stayed there as he said, “Of course I noticed, because I fucking have eyes, Liv. The dented colander was on the floor of the entryway when I got home.”
“I’ll buy you a new plastic one, which I guarantee will last longer than this thing.” I turned to face him, strangely desperate to hide my back as I said, “But forget the colander, because I have amazing news that will actually make you happier than everyone else in the world. I mean, other than me.”
His eyes were now focused on my face as he waited for the news, and I got stuck in a pause. He must’ve sensed my Colin-is-so-hot-I’m-rendered-mute condition, because one side of his mouth went up and he asked, quietly, “First tell me what your tattoo says.”
Oh. The tattoo. It was silly, but I was unbelievably relieved there wasn’t some unsightly and disgusting blob on my back that’d attracted his attention. The tattoo was a quote from Pride and Prejudice that stretched down my spine in loose cursive, so Colin would never get close enough to read the whole thing.
“What are you, a cop?” I said it just as quietly, and I wondered if it was my dinner pregaming that made the air suddenly crackle. I said around a smile, “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Don’t make me—”
“Wine me, bro.” Jack ran across the living room floor in socks and slid into the kitchen, stopping right between us and releasing all of the air’s electricity. He was holding out his hand, waiting for a glass, and I had to laugh because he was such a moron.
Still smirking at me, Colin poured him a glass and put it in Jack’s extended hand as my brother said, “What is this amazing news, Livvie? You’ve been found not guilty on all counts of arson?”
“Nope. They still think I burned down the building on purpose.”
Jack’s eyes darted over like he thought I was serious, which made me shake my head and mutter, “You’re such a gullible idiot.”
I’d actually gotten an email from the fire marshal that morning with great news on the investigation. As it turned out, my apartment had been the only occupied unit in the building because renovations were underway; mine had been next in line. Apparently the construction company had left some hazardous materials in the stairwell that hadn’t been stored properly, which was why the whole building went up into a fast blaze instead of my love letters being pretty much the sole cause of the fire.
Bottom line: I no longer had to worry about being liable for the entire building burning down, thank the sweet heavens.
I turned back to the stove, shut off the burner, and grabbed the handles on the huge pot of boiling pasta.
Colin said, “Hold up, Liv.”
I gave him side-eye as he shouldered in and took the handles from me. “Let me guess, sexist, you don’t think I’m strong enough to drain a pot of noodles.”
Jack groaned and walked over to the beer fridge. “Here we go with the ballbusting.”
But Colin lifted the pot, carried it to the sink, and started pouring the water into the colander. “Wrong. You’re strong enough, but I’m afraid your Liv luck will kick in and you’ll do something like sneeze and throw a pot of scalding water at my face.”
“That’s fair, actually.” I followed him and grabbed the bottle of olive oil from the counter. “Do you think that after you drain the spaghetti, Mr. Saving the World from My Wrath, you can pour me some wine so I don’t spill it all over your fancy wood floors?”
“Consider it done.” He took the oil from my hand and started drizzling it on the pasta while watching me. “As soon as you tell me your news.”
“I could tell you now,” I said, turning away from him and walking toward the table, “but where’s the fun in that?”