Page 17 of Ruthless Claim

“Shocking,” I say sarcastically. “Regular milk, in a refrigerator. Someone should look into that.”

She closes the fridge. “I don’t drink cow’s milk.”

Why does this not surprise me? “Of course you don’t.”

Valentina whips around toward me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I muse, picking up my coffee, “that I’m very unsurprised that Valentina Santoro requires a specific type of milk that comes from a nut.” I pause. “A very expensive nut, presumably.”

Her eyes narrow by a fraction. “It’s better for you.”

“Right.” I take a sip. “I’ll add it to the shopping list, princess. Right after the gold-plated toilet paper.”

“I don’t use—” She stops and seems to decide this particular battle isn’t worth fighting. She turns back to the espresso machine. “I’ll have it delivered.”

I bite back a laugh. “Naturally.”

She touches a button. A grinder noise starts and she blinks very quickly, before her face goes smooth again.

I say nothing.

She touches another button and the grinder stops, but a different light comes on.

There is a pause and she definitely has a what the fuck did I just do look before she tries a third button.

The machine makes a sound like it’s just as confused as she is.

I set my cup down quietly and bite my lip. If I don’t get myself together, I’m going to laugh and she’ll never forgive me for it.

She tilts her head at the machine.

The look on her face is funny, as if she can’t tell if she should be furious at the machine or herself.

She pulls out her phone, and I watch with interest as her fingers fly across the screen, typing something.

I really wish I knew what she wrote.

Is it: how to work a coffee machine? Oh, please tell me it is.

Her eyes dart across the screen as she reads the result, chewing on her bottom lip, before she puts the phone face down on the counter.

“Everything alright over there?” I ask cheerily. This is the most fun I’ve had in twenty-four hours.

“Fine,” she mumbles to the machine.

She tries whatever she just looked up. She gets further this time, then she stops. She stares at the milk compartment then at the fridge. Then back at the machine.

I’m biting my lip so hard to stop myself from laughing.

Valentina clearly wants to make some type of coffee drink with milk but since she doesn’t drink cow’s milk she’s in a dilemma. Does she drink the cow’s milk or suffer through black coffee?

She opens the fridge and picks up the milk before opening the compartment and pouring in the requisite amount of milk. Frustration is radiating off her and I know if I say anything she will attack me.

I press my lips together, then decide to have some fun.

“I thought you didn’t—” I start.

“I’m making an exception,” she says in a clipped voice, without turning around.