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She bristled. “Hey, I’m doing much bettertoday. I almost sat on the sofa in the den.”
Considering the position of that sofa, anL-shape with its short side feet from the glass, it was anachievement for her. “I’m impressed. And that’s not sarcasm. I’mgenuinely impressed.”
“I felt weird poking around your house.” Sheshrugged and we stepped off onto the first floor. “Intrusive, youknow?”
“I should have given you the full tour, soyou wouldn’t feel intrusive.” I guided her in the right direction.“But you’re welcome to intrude. You might live here one day.”
“Wouldn’t you love that?” she said with asnicker.
“Yes,” I stated flatly. No need to tell herthat I already counted on it happening. “Now, if you’d kept ongoing through that butler’s pantry you went into earlier, you wouldhave found the kitchen. But from outside…”
I steered her around the corner and past thedining room, to the nondescript kitchen entrance.
“I was so close!” She grimaced and pusheddown the door handle, and we stepped inside.
As I predicted, it was dark and clean anddeserted. I hadn’t remembered to ask Steven to leave dinner for us.At least, Charlotte would have a chance to write him a note abouther breakfast preferences. But in the meantime… “You don’t happento know how to cook, do you?”
“Not in this outfit,” she shot back.
“Fair enough.” I opened the brushed-steelrefrigerator and squinted at the contents. There were a lot ofingredients. Not necessarily anything ready to go.
Charlotte started opening cabinets. “Nocanned soup or anything?”
“I could probably count on one hand thenumber of times I’ve eaten out of cans in my entire life,” I said,pulling out something wrapped in white paper. “At least, in my ownhome.”
“Not even college?” She hopped up on theballs of her feet to check another cupboard. “There’s no pasta inhere, nothing.”
“I don’t eat much pasta.” I patted mymidsection. “Carbs.”
“You can buy all the pasta in the world, andyou don’t. That’s criminal.” She shook her head sadly for me.
“Hey, if I want pasta, I have a private chefthat makes it from scratch. I’m not exactly deprived.”
“No, just depraved.” She closed the door andcrossed her arms over her chest. “How about this: I get dressed,and we go out and grab something to eat.”
“I’ll call and get us a reservation.” Itwould be easy enough to get someone bumped from DANIEL or LeBernardin.
“Or, we could go to a regular restaurant,where people don’t have to make reservations.” She frowned. “Youhavedone that before, right?”
“Of course, I have. When I was in college,we got fast food all the time. I’ve even been to an Olive Garden.”Did I sound proud of that? I was a bit, but not from a “slumming”sense. I liked to think I was more normal than the rest of myfamily. More in touch with the real world.
From Charlotte’s expression, I gathered thatwasn’t the case.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to try?Getting a hot dog from a cart like they do in the movies.” Her eyesglittered with excitement.
But my stomach clenched in fear.
“A hot dog cart?” On the street? Where therewasn’t even a place for the chef to wash his hands?
“Yeah, like, the guys who stand on thestreet and they’ve got hot dogs floating in scummy water andthey’re like, ‘whaddaya want,’” she went on. “Have you…never donethat? You live in New York.”
“There are multiple New Yorks existing inthe same city. It’s like a multiverse.”
“You’re a dork,” she said flatly. “And whatyou’re describing is class separation, not a multiverse. Youclassist dork.”
Ouch.Not the dork part; I was fullyaware that she maintained a dim view of my nerdery. But it stung toknow that she considered me one of the ivory tower elites, refusingto rub shoulders with the common people.
“Fine. You want a hot dog, we’ll get a hotdog.” Were food carts even open at nine p.m.? “Go get dressed.”