Portia squeals. The tomato he’d thrown splatters in her hands as she tries to catch it, covering her pristine kitchen with pulp and seeds. “Shit! I’m sorry.” He attempts to appear remorseful, but his always perfect Portia covered in tomato and mad as he’d ever seen her is beyond comical. “It’s in my hair!” She pulls bobby pins and pulp out of her hair with both hands. His smile turns into an outright laugh. “Stop it!” But he can’t stop laughing now that he’s started. He leans against the counter in her small galley kitchen. She scowls before turning her back on him and tromping to the bathroom. Alone, Jackson looks around the small apartment, still sparse despite the months she’s lived here. The kitchen is barely large enough to hold him, let alone both of them, yet she cooks for him every day. He rummages beneath the sink and pulls out some paper towels and a spray bottle of homemade cleaner.
