I give the Styrofoam a shake. “Only the best crab cakes on the planet.”
For some reason, that makes her snort.
I might not be a very good cook, but I take eating food very seriously. “You don’t believe me?”
“I grew up thirty minutes from the beach,” she says, finally extricating her keys with a victorious jingle. There are so many key chains dangling from the thing, it’s a wonder she had trouble finding them in the first place. She jams the key in the lock, giving the knob a twist at the same time. “I don’t see how anywhere in Nashville can have better crab cakes than I’m used to.”
Didn’t know she was a beach baby. Although, from the tan she’s sporting, I could’ve guessed. “So you’re a seafood snob.”
“When it comes to eating seafood hundreds of miles from the sea, yeah. I guess I am.”
I’ve heard this argument plenty of times. Then I bring folks over to The Pearl and they change their tune. The crab might not have come scuttling straight out of a crab pot, but it’s still fucking delicious. “Since freezers aren’t a thing.”
“Tastes better fresh,” she insists, about to step into her apartment.
Normally, I’m against sharing food, but the chance to prove her wrong is too good to pass up. I pop open the lid and hold it out to her. She frowns down at my dinner like it’s poisoned.
“Go on. Try it. You know you want to.”
“I bet that’s your go-to pick-up line,” she says with a sassy roll of those honey-gold eyes.
This girl always says the funniest things. You never know what’s going to come out of her mouth.
Loren pinches a hunk of crab meat between her fingers and brings it to her lips to chew quietly. Then she has the audacity to scrunch her freckled nose and say, “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Now she’s definitely fucking with me. I may not be from the coast, but I know when food tastes phenomenal, and these crab cakes are mind-blowing.
“They’re average at best. Too much filler. I have a recipe that puts those to shame.” She swings the door open and tosses her bag inside with a loudthump.
What else does she have in there? The body belonging to those socks?
The way I see it, I can play this one of two ways.
I can either let her little comment slide or I can try to wrangle myself some free crab cakes.
Since crab cakes happen to be my favorite food of all time, I go with option two.
“Sure, you do,” I say with a smirk.
She whips around, her dark brown curls catching on her pink lip gloss. “I do.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I can prove it. I’ll make crab cakes this weekend and bring you some.”
Looks like Elliott is eating seafood twice this week.Score. “Looking forward to it.”
It’s been a fucking week. Between the late delivery at the bar Wednesday and pulling a double today, my body is this close to falling apart. I ease my head back against the plastic chair on my balcony, overlooking a bunch of evergreen trees doing a shitty job concealing the concrete mayhem of the highway.
My eyes fall closed as icy drops of condensation from the cold beer in my hand drip down my fingers. My arms are so sore from the gym yesterday, the thought of lifting my beer to my lips brings tears to my eyes.
Despite my exhaustion, when the door to my right creaks open, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning.
Loren’s voice comes out a little shriller than normal. “Here.”
When I open my eyes, I find my neighbor standing on her balcony in a pair of paint-splattered black leggings and a white sweater, her hair piled on top of her head, making her look like a demented poodle. A very cute demented poodle holding a chipped white plate across the gap between our balconies.
Looks like she came through on her promise to cook and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m starving.
