"Don’t look at me like that," I told him. "You know where the kitchen is. I'm not fucking cooking for you." "I'm not used to gas." Gibsie shrugged helplessly. "We have electric at home." "Your mother is a baker," I snapped. "How do you not know how to work a bleeding stove?" "And yours is a flashy fashion designer," he shot back. "But I don't see you prancing around the place in fur coats and Prada handbags."
