Joey gaped at me. “You think I’m going to cook for you?” “For us,” I corrected, giving him my sweetest smile. “Don’t do that,” he warned. “Do what?” “Give me that butter wouldn’t melt smile,” he growled, pointing a finger at me. “It won’t work on me, Molloy. I’m immune.” Of course it was going to work. “I love steak.” “Steak?”
