Page 99 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Good.”

“You feeding me again?”

“Somebody’s got to.”

“That sounds boyfriend-ish.”

He goes still for half a beat.

I should stop saying things like that.

I do not.

“What?” I ask sweetly. “Did Sheriff hear a lie?”

Bitter looks toward the fortune booth, where Sheriff is asleep in his crate. “That bird’s got a death wish.”

“That bird knows things.”

“That bird is poultry.”

“He’s an oracle.”

“He’s dinner if he bites me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t test me.”

He is fighting a smile, and I feel absurdly proud of myself for putting it there.

He takes me back to his apartment.

Home, I almost think when we reach the stairs, and nearly trip over the word inside my own head.

Not home. His place. Temporary shelter. Club business.

The apartment is warm when we step inside, late-day light hitting the floor in gold strips. Bitter locks the door, sets the bar, checks the camera feed, then heads straight for the kitchen like feeding me has become part of his security plan.

“What are we having?”

“Food.”

“Specific.”

“Less burnt than breakfast.”

“Ambitious.”

He opens the fridge. “You like spaghetti?”

“I like most noodles.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m emotionally supportive of pasta in all forms.”

“Good enough.”