Page 67 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“No,” I deadpanned. If I wanted one that badly, I’d call up my accountant.

“Bummer. Will you do it if I’m the one who has to drive you wherever you want to go, whenever you demand it, regardless of the day or time? In the Divo, of course.”

A spark of wicked excitement sprouted in my stomach. He had my attention. “You’d really be willing to do that for a few meals?”

“Until you agree to give me her old recipe book, yes. It’s the only one she had. I asked.”

Something wasn’t adding up. Given the high likelihood that she was currently enjoying an abundance of free time in retirement, she’d probably be happy to make him a new one. Or at least jot down a few of his favorite recipes to start.

He was either omitting something really important or flat-out lying.

“I don’t want to clean toilets anymore,” I announced, studying his reaction.

He squinted at the sky, pretending to think. “Fine.”

“That’s in addition to the rides.”

“I figured.”

“Better yet, I don’t really want to clean at all, except for when I’m cooking.” I squinted, taking note of every little flicker and twitch of his expression. “If I’m not in the kitchen, I want to be in the garden. Full stop. No more bullshit tasks, needless scrubbing of already spotless surfaces, assembling furniture, or catering to your every irregulated whim.”

His jaw worked while he considered it. “I’ll meet you in the middle. We’ll scrap your current list of daily tasks, replace it with cooking and gardening, but the whims stay.”

“One whim per week.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Three. But I’ll keep them semi-reasonable.”

I quirked a brow. “No humiliation?”

“None. As long as you keep up your end of the deal.”

“Fine, but you’ll need to put on a clean shirt before we go.” Smiling, I patted his cheek. “I expect you to get out of the car and open my door when you drop me off at my date tonight. Like a good little chauffeur.”

I didn’t linger long enough to witness his reaction, but one could only imagine.

21

Okay. Here’s the situation.

Principal Jalal was really really mad about the ants thing because apparently a bunch of teachers had already talked to her about how me and Loch Ness don’t like each other and are always playing pranks and it’s distracting for the other kids. Mom got called in and everything and now for a “meditation” effort me and Loch Ness have to work on a really big project together and it’s due in two months.

RIGHT on my birthday.

And if we don’t get it done my party will be canceled.

I wore the red dress.

I wasn’t really in the mood to wear the red dress or to shave my whole body, put on a full face of makeup, and expend the arm-twisting strength and energy required for a Brazilian blowout. Nor did I have the time.

So I compromised.

I shaved up to my mid-thighs, settled for a lazy blowout that left a few damp roots behind, and opted for a lighter, more sultry look with the makeup. The red heels and gold earrings would mend any gaps, but I tossed a hairbrush and some makeup into my clutch just in case.

Which turned out to be the single best decision I could have possibly made.