“Right, of course,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “You had absolutely nothing to do with it.”
“As I’ve told you before, Olivia, we all have choices. But don’t let me stop you. You and that lasagna seem to be getting along really well.”
I pick up the fork like a hatchet, even though I have no real interest in continuing to eat. But I also don’t want him to think that I’m so self-conscious that I’m going to stop eating just because he walked in here. It’s a Catch-22, as always with him.
“You have maids and a personal chef,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. “Spoiled much?”
His gaze is always so much more intense when it’s quiet. “You think I have the time to cook and clean?”
“You wouldn’t do it even if you did have the time.”
“What’s it like?” I ask. “To have other people manage your life
