P. Bowie @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } Chapter Eight It was dark outside, and I was hungry—for food this time. There was so much more I wanted to hear, but I didn't want my rumbling stomach to distract us, so I asked if he'd like me to fix us something to eat. "I have a couple of steaks in the fridge. Would that do?" I figured he might like his rare. "And I have some wine. Not the vintage you provide, but it's not bad." He smiled and nodded. He was really turning out to be the easiest-to-please boyfriend I'd ever had. While the steaks were grilling, I poured some cabernet into my best glasses— I'm enough of a queen to have had some good crystal on hand—and he pretended it was just to his liking. After a minute or two, I pulled the steaks from under the grill. They were rare all right and suddenly looked extremely appetising to me. Me, who preferred everything well done. "Look okay?" I asked him. "Excellent," he said, licking his lips in mock anticipation.
