As he stood over the stove and scrambled the eggs, Michelle came into the kitchen. “Good morning.”
He jumped and almost knocked the frying pan off the stove. “Holy crap, Michelle, you scared me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Thanks for…last night.”
“No problem.” He hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Why do you hate storms so much?”
She sat down at the table and ignored his question. “I looked in the paper yesterday and couldn’t find any apartments.”
He paused. “If you really wanted to, you could just stay here. I’m used to you now.”
“You sure you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all, as long as you pitched in for the groceries and helped clean up every once in a while.”
“That’s no problem. Thanks.”
“Want some eggs?”
“Sure.”
He put down a plate in front of her with scrambled eggs and bacon. “You never did answer my question,” he pressed.
“You’re right, I didn’t.”
“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
“Obviously not.”
“Some other day?”
“Maybe. Any good football games on TV today?” she asked.
“That’s right, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? That means Tampa Bay is playing Atlanta.”
“That’s right. Atlanta’s gonna win, you know,” she said. “They’re my favorite team.”
Nick scoffed. “You’re nuts. No way is Tampa Bay gonna lose to the Falcons.”
“We’ll see about that. What time is the game?”
“One o’clock. You watching it with me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. We have a date.”
The telephone rang, and Nick reached for it. “Hello?”
“Hey, is Michelle there?” It was Brad. For some reason, Nick felt the urge to tell him to leave her alone, but he couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t like him to be protective of even his best female friends.
Shrugging it off, he handed the phone to Michelle. “It’s Brad.”
She smiled and grabbed it. “Hey, babe, what’s up? - - - Nick and I are watching the football game. - - - Sure, I’d love that. What time? - - - Okay, I’ll be there around seven-thirty. Love you! - - - Bye.” She hung up the phone. “It appears I have dinner plans for after the game.”
“I gathered that,” Nick stated. “So after you admit to me that the Buccaneers are better…”
“Whatever. No way.”
“I say we make a bet.”
“What would that be?”
“The fan of the team that loses has to be the other’s slave for a day,” he proposed.
She shook his outstretched hand. “As long as you keep a clean mind on that, it sounds good to me.”