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“Was there…food?”

Tossing the bread on the island happens on my way to grab other ingredients. “Yes.”

“Was it edible?”

“Actually, yes.” My hand wraps around the fridge door handle yet rather than pull I meet his stare. “Minus the green onions.”

“You hate those as much as you hate chives.”

See. He knows me.

“Could you not pick around them?”

“Oh, I did.”

“And then what happened?”

“The Spanish Inquisition.”

His wince is expected.

“It started with my feelingsongreen onions and continued into my dating life, my house choices, and of course couldn’t end without discussing my physical changes. Although, she did compliment my skin as glowing right before she told me howHumpty FrumptyI look in this polka dot top.”

“Doyoulike the shirt?”

“I did until she said that.”

“Come on, Jaye. We’ve talked about this. Ifyoulike what you’re wearing, ifyoufeel comfortable or sexy in it, that’s all that fucking matters, sweetheart. Your confidence starts with you.”

It’s impossible not to let my body slump at the reminder.

“And what’s she asking about your dating life? If we’re still together?”

This isn’t about to go well, is it?

My lack of retorting causes him to fold his arms across his chest at the same time he states, “She doesn’t know we’re a couple.”

Guilt convinces me to abandon the fridge and face him.

“Does she know that I live here?”

More shame scrunches my face.

“Does she know that I exist at all?”

Remorse barely has time to drop my jaw before he’s seethingly asking, “Does your dad?”

“He definitely knows you exist!”

“That I live here?”

“I think he…suspectsthat you still live in the garage.”

“Does he know that we’re fucking dating?”

“Again…he has hissuspicions, but I have neither confirmed nor denied them.”

My word choice appears to be the wrong one by the way his eyes narrow. “You haven’tconfirmednor denied them.” He takes a long, slow agonizing lick of his lips. “Roger that.”