The whole set-up was so foreign, she had trouble trying to decide what to ask first, but then something on the stove began to sizzle and the question was out of her mouth before she’d thought it through. "So, uh, what are you making?" It was far from the first thing on her mind, but the briny smell floating all around her would not be ignored.
Garret’s brow crinkled for a minute, but then his features quickly returned to normal before he answered her—thin, straight line of a mouth, thoughtful stare and all.
"Bacon's in the oven. Scrambled eggs on the stove. Biscuits are in a basket near the sink. Oh, and I made a pot of coffee."
"I only have a single cup—"
"But I have a pot. It's under the plate cabinet."
She glanced toward the counter nearest the door, and there it was. A full pot of fresh coffee.
Things were just getting weirder and weirder by the second.
She crossed the room and pinched Garret hard on the bicep, shocked both by the lack of anything that seemed pinchable atop the hard stone of his arm, and also by the little surge of energy that rushed through her as she touched him.
"Ouch," he rubbed his arm for a minute, "what was that for?"
“I had to know if this was a dream."
"Don't people normally pinch themselves in that case?"
"What do I know? It's only..." She glanced toward the clock and took in a sharp breath. "What the hell are you doing at my house at seven in the morning on a Saturday?"
"Normally you're at work by eight thirty on Saturday so I thought I'd treat you to a little breakfast first. We need to spend the day bonding if we're going to convince your family that this is real." He pushed the eggs around with his spatula.
"You're going to lose a whole business day over this?" She shut off her mind and bit a chunk out of a nearby biscuit. In a minute, he'd probably explain that he was the king of Spain anyway, so he needed to keep a low profile at her house for a while, or something equally wacky.
The past two days had been so crazy that it was nearly impossible to believe anything anymore. No, the best thing was just to let the good times roll, and if there wasn't some horrible catastrophe at the end, then so much the better.
"This is an investment in my business. It's like any other business project. Complete and total dedication until the mission is successful." His tone was matter-of-fact, but she noticed the pointed way that he avoided her gaze as he spoke. Like he was hiding something.
"All right then, awesome. Thanks for breakfast, but, uh, where did you happen upon my hidden key?"
"You know, most people keep it under their door mats? It's not really a safe hiding place."
"I figured it would be so easy to find, burglars wouldn't bother to look there."
"Sound logic," his voice dripped with sarcasm as he slid the eggs onto a plate and moved to set them on the table.
“Listen, I’m going to ignore the blaring sound of your judgment if you’ll explain why all of your stuff is here and also,” she pointed out the window. “What teen wolf out there is doing here.”
“That’s my pug, Tesla, and all my stuff is here. Well, really, it’s only some of my stuff, but it’s all here because I’m going to live here until the wedding.”
Her mouth went dry, “You’re what now?”
6
“I did a lot of thinking, and the best option at hand is to immerse ourselves in the culture of the other person. You know, like Jane Goodall,” he said.
“Are you calling me a monkey?”
“She studied gorillas, but that aside, I’m not saying it’s the perfect metaphor. It’s simply a science project.”
Spluttering sounds gurgled from her mouth, but she had no words. Instead, she plopped into the kitchen chair directly behind her and waited for Garret to set a plate in front of her. There were no other options than to quietly accept that this chaos was her life now, even if it felt like there had to be some kind of reality TV crew hiding in her bathroom. Like she was the pilot episode for Punk’d: Nobodies Addition.
“It’s really the only way to account for mannerisms and intimacies that we otherwise wouldn’t know about each other. Things you wouldn’t think to mention to the other person that could conceivably be mentioned at such an intimate affair. Don’t you think?” He slid the bacon out of the oven, his tone too rational to acknowledge the lunacy of his words.
“Um, I guess,” she stuffed a biscuit into her mouth. So now he wanted unlimited opportunities to catch her sneaking ice cream at two AM in nothing but her unmentionables? She wasn’t trying to send out invites to that nightly shame party. No thanks.