“Fuck off,” I grumble. “Bring me some feta and fresh bread.” “Now I’m doing your grocery shopping?” “Unless you want to lose your job, you are.” Again Andreas chuckles. “Only if I can stay for lunch. It’s not every day I’ll get to see you in the kitchen.” “Do you want to die?” I ask, and letting out a huff, I shut the fridge’s door. “No, but food poisoning is worth the risk.” The fucker ends the call before I can say another word.
