“Does he do all the cooking?” she asked as she finished her dinner.
“I do,” he said. “Vanessa doesn’t cook. If it wasn’t for
Gus, they would never eat anything but takeout. I’ve been volunteered to be the
cook now.”
“His food is better,” I whispered to her. “He makes all
kinds of things.”
“If I ask him to make me a pie, do you think he would?”
she whispered back.
“Maybe if you ask very nicely.”
“Nicholai,” she said, leaning forward and pouting. “Would
you maybe make me a blackberry pie?”
A slight grin tugged at her lips. Nic scoffed, and I knew
without looking he had rolled his eyes.
“It’s a little late for that isn’t it?” he asked.
“Pretty please,” she said softly.
Her eyes were sparkling. I couldn’t contain the laugh as
he sighed and reached for our plates. He wouldn’t be able to say no to her. He
knocked his shoulder into mine before he got up and walked to the stairs,
grumbling.
“Is he really going to make me a pie?” she asked as he
disappeared down the stairs.
“I think he is,” I said. “He isn’t going to let you get
away with that forever.”