I didn’t bother to look down. I knew what I was wearing, just as I knew he would never approve.

“I’m comfy. It’s Sunday morning.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t wear exactly that on weekdays when you’re leaving the house. I know you do.”

He made a beeline for the kitchen. Just like he always did. He’d check the fridge, the pantry, the overall cleanliness. I winced. None of the above would meet his exacting standards.

As if on cue, he opened the fridge, wrinkling his nose. “When was the last time you did a grocery shop?”

I sidled into the kitchen, sneakily depositing the wine glass in the sink. “It’s on my list today,” I lied. My Sunday list had been wiped completely clean the moment I fell into a literal Hellhole.

I pressed my mouth shut so tight my gums ached. The thought of confiding in Joe about Satan Junior and the little piece of my soul he’d sucked into that coin …

He’d have me committed to an insane asylum. I was sure he’d been looking for an excuse to do just that since …

But I wasn’t going to think about that.

“Are you even making enough money to feed yourself with your little market folly?” he closed the fridge, then opened it again, checking the seals.

“I sell on Etsy, too!” I argued. Which reminded me, I needed to go through my orders—people often browsed at the markets and then went online to order pieces or the patterns and yarn kits for them that I designed and sold.

I sighed. So much adulting to do, and how was I supposed to get any of it done with the Prince of Hell stalking me?

Joe ignored me, scanning our pantry shelves. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and started tapping away.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, stepping closer, peering over his arm at the screen. “Uber Eats?”

“I’m placing an order for some essentials and a few of those microwave meals, since I know you’re barely capable of navigating an oven.”

I gaped up at him. “Are you serious right now? I cooked dinner every single night during high school to help out because you were working two jobs!” I snapped, smacking his arm.

He narrowed his eyes. “I remember eating a lot of sloppy mac and cheese.” He turned back to the pantry.

I winced guiltily. Overcooked pasta was somehow my specialty, and when you added in the fact that it was gluten-free, which struggled to hold its form at the best of times, it always ended up being a gluggy mush.

“Well, that was because I was trying to study while cooking!” I snapped defensively. “You know, because me getting into university was your number one dream!”