Harlan pointed at Riley like he was presenting evidence in court.
"It's her fault," he said, sounding offended. "She insisted on coming to your house, then started complaining she was hungry. She demanded pasta and fried eggs. Since you people don't have a maid, I ended up making it myself."
Lewis and I both turned to look at the kitchen ceiling.
Greasy splatters. A few dark spots. And one tragic fried egg stuck up there like a warning sign, the yolk still sliding down in slow defeat.
Lewis's mouth twitched like he was fighting laughter and rage at the same time.
These two acted like our house was their territory. No invitation, no respect. Just walked in, started cooking, and somehow turned it into chaos.
Lewis rubbed his temples, like he could already feel the headache forming. He must've remembered he forgot to change the password this morning.
He lifted a finger and pointed at the half-cooked egg on the ceiling.
"Are you trying to make bread?" he asked flatly.
