I’m surprised he’s even talking to me, but considering my parents pay him, he doesn’t have a choice.
“Would you like parmesan?”
“Sure, thanks.” I pull out a chair and sit, in the mood for some comfort carbs.
The sun is setting, reflecting a gorgeous hue over the water, and I wish I could go out there and relax.
“Garlic bread?”
“Just one.”
Moments later, Tristan brings over a plateful. “Thank you.”
“Hope it’s edible and to your liking.”
There’s his condescending attitude.
“It’s pretty hard to screw up spaghetti but I guess if anyone could, it’d be you,” I sing-song.
“You know how to cook?” he challenges, arching a brow as he walks back to the kitchen.
“I can manage the basics,” I reply.
He returns to the table with his own plate and sits across from me. “Like what? Maybe I’ll ad
