“CIA?” I shake my head, moving to the next cabinet with an irritated huff. “You are secretive and covered in bruises. Porn doesn’t make sense anymore. And I’m tired of asking, so whatever. You go ahead and keep your weird secrets. Anyway”—I forge ahead, barely pausing to breathe—“men can’t just go out into the world as lazy slobs who don’t know how to cook anything. If he’s going to be a good partner one day, he should at least have some domestic capabilities. And I don’t know what your place is like, so if you don’t keep it clean, you better fucking star—” “I’ll marry you, Tabitha.”
