He took a step into the room. “Probably.”
“But you don’t know where they are?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
She stifled a curse. “I just want a simple cup of cocoa.” She opened and closed two more doors, working to control her temper and not start another fight. “And maybe an omelet.”
“If you’re hungry, we can call Cook.”
“Or I could just make myself something.” His spoiled, pampered, rich-guy attitude fed her bad mood. He didn’t live a real life. Probably never had. He wouldn’t know a genuine emotion, especially not trust, if it came up and bit his butt.
“You rich people.” She shook her head. “You’re so helpless.”
He sauntered the rest of the way into the kitchen. “Hey, I am not helpless. My dad might have been rich, but my mother wasn’t. She not only cooked, but she had a job. And she taught me to cook.” He pulled a skillet from the arrangement hanging over the prep table. “What kind of omelet would you like?”
Though all that surprised her, the last thing she wanted was for him to wait on her. She wanted to maintain her independence. She didn’t want to trust him. She certainly didn’t want to depend on him. Hell, from here on out she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be friendly with him.
“I’ll make my own omelet.”
“No. You smeared the good name of Andreas with your snotty comment that I was helpless. I have honor to defend.”
Right. Honor. A guy who used her trauma to try to get her to live with him was not a man of honor.
“Okay, how about this? I’ll hunt for everything you need and you make your own omelet?”
Unfortunately, she was so hungry that she couldn’t turn him down. “All right. Fine.”
He rubbed his hands together, as if he were enjoying this. “What should I look for first?”
His enthusiasm only grated on her nerves. “I found the refrigerator so I know where to get just about everything for the omelet. But I have no clue where to find the cocoa.”
“I’m on it.” Turning to the right, he headed off and disappeared down a short hallway. After a few seconds, he emerged with cocoa but not the mug.
She frowned at it.
He laughed. “Don’t get huffy. We eat off plates every day. Drink out of cups. They have to be around here somewhere.”
While she broke eggs into a mixing bowl, ignoring him, he glanced around again. Then he disappeared down the short hall to the left. A few seconds later he was by the prep table holding two mugs and two plates.
“Here you go.”
“Two?”
“You’re not going to share?”
With a sigh, she added an extra cup of milk to the pot on one of the sixteen burners, her ire simmering. If this weren’t his house, she’d lambaste him for thinking he could join her when he’d betrayed her trust. But it was his house. And he’d helped her find the dishes. If she refused to share, she’d look petty. Childish.
“Sure. I’ll share.”
Apparently missing the sarcasm in her voice, he smiled, and, spotting the onion and green pepper she’d laid out beside the chopping block, he ambled over to them. While she stirred her cocoa, he cut both the onion and the pepper.
She sighed. “Stop helping me.”
“I have to.” Chopping the onion and pepper and not looking at her, he added, “Not only will the cocoa get cold while we wait for you to make the omelet if I don’t get it started for you, but I have to make up for upsetting you when I suggested you live here permanently.”
“Huh!” Damn. She’d said that out loud. Sucking in a breath she turned on him. Since he’d started the conversation, they might as well have at it. “Do you really think you can make up for using what I told you against me? I trusted you. I told you something I don’t talk about with anyone else and you used it.”
“I didn’t ‘use’ it. I simply pointed out the truth. You’re having trouble and the three of us living together helps you. But there’s more to me wanting Gino here than just that. Did you miss the part of the conversation where I told you Gino loves us both? He could have us both. Every day. If you’d live here.”
“Did you miss the part where I have a life?”
“And you can keep it. You’d just live it from Montauk instead of the city.”
“I like my home.”
He stopped, caught her gaze. “Now who’s being spoiled and pampered and even a little bit prissy?”
Icy pain froze her limbs. “Prissy? “ After almost two years of caring for a baby and three years of mourning the loss of that precious child, the word prissy rumbled through her like thunder announcing an impending storm.
He winced. “Sorry. That was sort of over the top.”
Oh, he wanted her to think he was sorry, but he wasn’t. She had his number. He’d apologized only so she’d focus on what he’d called her and not on their real issue. There was no way she’d let him get away with that.
“You apologize for your words, but you skate over the actual problem.” Pain rippled through her again. Not because of her anger over being called prissy when she was anything but, but because for some reason or another she believed he should know she wasn’t prissy. And the only way to avoid dissecting that would be to force them back to their actual problem.
He dropped the knife and strode over to her. She snapped off the burner under the cocoa. If he wanted a fight, she was ready to give it to him.
“I know you love Gino. I see it in your eyes. You might have agreed to take custody only wanting to fulfill your friend’s last wishes. But you like him now.”
Once again, he was skirting the issue and she refused to let him. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t change the fact that you used something I told you against me.”
“I only pointed out the truth.” He sighed. Stepped closer. “I thought that since you trusted me enough to tell me, that I could speak honestly about it, too.”
That brought her up short and she didn’t know how to answer. Had he really only been speaking honestly? Had it been so long since she’d spoken honestly about Layla and Burn that she didn’t know what an honest conversation felt like anymore?
The truth of what he’d said rippled through her.
She did need help with Gino.
And he was Gino’s other guardian. He had a right to be concerned.
Her skin burned with shame. Especially since she didn’t want to admit any of it. He’d only been speaking the truth, but she was so out of the loop, she hadn’t realized it and had accused him of using what she’d told him. And the truth was that she still did need help.
She wanted to turn away, to run, but she couldn’t. Behind her was a sixteen-burner stove that ran almost the length of the room. In front of her was six feet of angry man.
“Maybe I’m just not ready to talk about it yet.”
He gurgled a sound of disgust. “You won’t ever be ready if you keep avoiding it in every discussion.”
His angry voice echoed through the room and she realized how upset he was. She could understand his annoyance if he were defending himself against her accusations, but he wasn’t. Not really. He was talking about her. Angry about her.
“Why are you mad?”
He